Walsh Brothers
A matter-of-fact closing anecdote about stumbling upon a masturbating businessman is by no means the blistering finale the crowd were hoping for
The Bostonian accent is marvellous. The Walsh Brothers drawl like Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting, or how one imagines Samuel Adams might have delivered his commanding sermon at the First Continental Congress in 1774.
Their show, however, is just pretty good. It begins with some faux-magic, all slapstick muddled cards and wrestling, then progresses to two man stand-up. The style – a single narrative, told by the brothers together with interjections and improvised overlaps – works well. Generally the subject matter is standard neighbourhood stuff: tales of scamming kids on PCP or notes on their Irish-Catholic upbringing. Whilst they do attempt a section on George Dubya Bush, it is hurried and possibly the improvisational failing of a single evening.
It must be noted that a tendency towards the prosaic dogs the material – lengthy spells of straight-faced setups rarely pay off as they should, and a matter-of-fact closing anecdote about stumbling upon a masturbating businessman is by no means the blistering finale the crowd were hoping for. Too often the audience is left feeling like the scrawny, clueless toddler of the family who suspects that his older brothers aren’t giving him all of the hilarious details.