The Furies @ Summerhall

Agamemnon has been at it again, pissing off his wife, and KILN’s The Furies are, well, furious. Vocally, they clearly know what they’re doing when they screech, sing and shout, but they fail to communicate what it is to the other people in the room. KILN’s cyber goth singers and glam rock musicians bring a immersive experience of disorientation and menace to this year’s Fringe but do not develop that experience into a full-blown story.

The singers only snap out of their metal induced haze to gauge the potential deliciousness of men in the audience, and the show immediately becomes more engaging. Because this happens only once, however, it is an aberrant episode in an otherwise purely experience based piece rather than a scene in an unfolding play.

One particularly coked-out punter advised women in the audience to hold on to their men, as the Furies come in from all sides, at all times, always ready to fling a nipple taped boob into one’s face. Taped, because a mammary gland in its full, areola domed glory might cause offence. That’s the rub with the Furies: they’re provocative, erotic and disturbing, but not to an extent that supports a show in its own right. The piece is too respectful of established codes and morals to be pure performance art but otherwise lacks a narrative. Select spectators seemed to be in the know as to what the performance was about, but those outside the circle of the initiated were left standing around Summerhall’s Dissection Room feeling puzzled.