Bo Wonder

“Is this, like, the centre of the Fringe?” Bo Burnham asks as he drinks in the view from the corner of the Royal Mile and George IV Bridge. At that very instant, a woman approaches him, hands him a flyer and asks if he’s interested in going to a poetry recital. 

Despite the fact that we're standing on the most crowded square yard in Edinburgh, most of the general public don't seem to be aware they're in the presence of soon-to-be-comedy-mega-stardom. Indeed, Burnham’s gangly, 6ft 5in frame is being met with what can only be described as indifference. You almost want to grab every man, woman and child by the lapels and screech: “That’s GREATNESS you’re snubbing, you cultureless cretin! The Guardian, The Independent, The List and Time Out said so!” But it wouldn’t make that much difference. And we are, after all, standing outside a law court. Nobody, it seems, recognises Bo Burnham.

Hell, you probably didn’t even recognise him. You probably saw his face peeking out from the cover of your free magazine and thought: “What’s Justin Bieber doing at the Fringe?” Burnham’s only one of 18,000 performers beaming at you from posters and asking for your money. There’s no real reason why you should be able to identify him on demand. One day, though, everyone will.

Nobody at all had heard of Bo Burnham in 2006, when a song he posted on YouTube brought him overnight cyber-fame. In an instant, the 16 year-old was dragged out of his Massachusetts bedroom and on to the road. He came to the attention of director Judd Apatow, who cast him in his film Funny People. In addition, he’s filmed his own one-hour TV special and become the youngest comedian ever to feature on Comedy Central.

That more or less brings you up to speed on things until the start of August. Since arriving in Edinburgh, Burnham’s fairly unheralded show has sold out night after night; the pile of newspapers he petulantly rips up and flings to the ground at the start of his show is stuffed with five-star reviews.

None of this, however, is immediately evident when you meet him. What greets you is no Hollywood starlet or brash, precocious VIP, but a kid. An exhausted kid, after three years of almost relentless touring. A slightly bewildered kid, if truth be told. “I've been wandering around, not really understanding what's happening,” he says. “If I ever did, I'd probably get the fuck out of here.” Because – and this is important – Burnham is only 19.

In the flesh, he bears little relation to his on-stage guise, a cocky, strutting young Narcissus who describes himself as a “prodigy”; indeed, he often refers to his persona in the third person. “I don't think I'm a dick,” he says. “The guy on stage is not self-aware. I'm not going to say I'm not arrogant or egotistical at times, but I am very aware of that. I'm not as sophisticated or pretentious, either. I don't really use big words or elevated speech in real life.”

His act, by contrast, is all bluster and conceit. “I always want people to be confused and trying to catch up. I'm constantly looking for different ways to misdirect people. And the easiest medium for that is stone-cold confidence and logic.”

It’s that aloofness, that apparent condescension, ironic or not, that is one of the major criticisms of his act. But Burnham argues that what he is doing is merely tearing down the facade – that veneer of congeniality that so many comedians hide behind. “I'd much rather be in my own little world. I'm fine doing that and failing. That's where people have a problem with the act – that it's too self-absorbed. But of course it is. The nice 'people's people' comic who gets up and smiles at everyone – do you think he likes you? He doesn't like you any more than I do. It's all posturing. That smile is just as fake as my frown is.”

The suspicion remains, however, that Burnham is merely using his antagonism in the same way that others use their cordiality – as a form of protection. His attitude to the audience would suggest as much: “I try and ignore them as much as possible. It's better to try and create a magnetic performance that's going to bring people to you.” 

But why? What does Burnham think people will find if they get to know him? The answer, of course, is a shy, insecure teenager. Like all teenagers, he has neuroses, inhibitions, fears. Unlike them, though, he also has the desolation of being alone in a wide world. “I'm all by myself on the road,” he says. “All my friends are at college. It's so notoriously lonely. I did this college thing last year where I had five flights a week. I didn't see anybody for about three months.”

In many ways, then, Burnham is a performer in the truest sense: someone willing to suffer for their art. He’s considering dropping his beloved electric piano from his act, and vows that he won’t return to Edinburgh again until he has “an awesome show”. Given the speed of his ascent, the next time he’s over here, he could be playing an arena rather than a small room in the rafters of the Pleasance Dome. And if he ever decides to set up his guitar and start singing on the Royal Mile, rest assured, nobody will be trying to hand him a flyer.