Sam Halmarack and the Miserablites

The show begins with an apology, as Halmarack—silver jacket and headband belied by his forlorn expression and diminutive figure—tells us that his band, the Miserablites, haven't shown up. There's no way the show can go ahead without them. He stands there among all the the kit like a child who has been told Christmas has been cancelled. For want of anything better to do, he starts telling us about himself and his band, diffidently at first but with rising confidence as he talks passionately about his music. Soon he's at the keyboard, singing songs in a frail, ghostly falsetto with a simple backing track playing through his laptop. The tunes—straightforward, heartfelt synth-pop with uplifting lyrics about never giving up—are good enough on their own, but what makes the show is the sneaky way Halmarack incorporates the audience into proceedings. He has a DVD with all the lyrics and dance-moves (his nerdy alter-ego made it for Miserablists fans, more in hope than expectation), and such is the endearing vulnerability of his character that we have no choice but to play along. Soon every audience member is singing, except the few he has roped in to play xylophone, tom-toms and cowbell. 

In the wrong hands, this set-up could easily seem gimmicky, and the pathos of the central character could come across as sentimental. But something about Halmarack's conviction makes this is a uplifting experience in a way that goes beyond the genuine pleasure to be had from the music. Halmarack has come up with a way to strip an audience of all its coolness and posturing: when he demands that the crowd comes closer, we step closer; we sing when he asks us to sing, and we do the dance moves even though they're silly. For all its cleverness, you won't find a more sincere show, or one that you are more likely to walk out of smiling.