Velvet Scratch

A crackling gramophone record plays a haunting ‘20s ballad as the audience take their seats in front of a stage. The setting is so grotesquely beautiful that it seems almost a shame to disturb the peace as characters take to the stage, beginning to move collectively like a broken automaton. As the four immensely talented performers begin their tale of love and death, pieces of the scenery seamlessly become props and actors become scenery. Velvet Scratch is a rare treat: a piece of wildly experimental theatre that remains accessible and spellbinding to the last second.

Narrated by a ghost and accompanied by some mesmerising acoustic guitar, this tale of murder, suicide and a doomed wedding could easily have slipped into melancholy, but an extremely quirky sense of fun is cultivated throughout. The actors revel in their multiple roles, flitting between characters simply by pinning a new section onto their costume. What results is a stunningly visual story that has all the qualities of a dream: so free-flowing and unremitting that it all appears effortless.

While the tale itself is not particularly emotionally stimulating, the sheer eeriness of the play reverberates around one’s spine long after it has ended. The dark and often obscure sense of humour will not appeal to all by any means, but those expecting a straight play obviously didn’t read the programme. For those of us with an open mind and a desire to see something a little out of the ordinary, the most significant error of judgement in this weird little gem is to limit it to just seven performances.