Phil Wang: Philth

"I bet I've got the weirdest surname in the room," proclaims Phil Wang to open his set. It's a fittingly reserved assertion on which to begin, given the sedate nature of his standup. An unusual name is just about the closest he comes to bragging in a sweet, placid hour that explores anxiety and identity.

He's fully aware of the monotonous murmur that defines his delivery, cleverly stretching out the sentence, "My critics say it's just a way of covering my lack of material", for about three minutes. His act is dotted with other, unintentional pauses though and occasionally he becomes a victim of his own USP; the hesitant gaps in his speech can undermine the fluency of his jokes.

He mentions that he's experimenting with meditation, and has purchased an app accordingly. This leads to recurrent interludes in which an extreme lighting cue illuminates him in the darkness, and a pre-recorded voiceover bellows derisory quips at him. It does consolidate the self-deprecating tone he's trying to permeate around his show, but generally they're stilted and add little to his routine. He's at his best when he's levying his wry perspective against common perceptions, such as fears surrounding Google's invasions of privacy ("I don't care if they know where I am, they're the ones who told me how to get here").

He captures the essence of deadpan humour, but the cynical, caustic gibes usually attached to it are conspicuous by their absence, and in their place is a pleasantly impassive outlook on relationships, self-worth and – staying true to the title – genitalia.