WAKE
Bold Dance of Grief and Revelry
WAKE
by Jennifer Jennings and Phillip McMahon
Thisispopbaby at the Peacock Theatre, Holborn until 5th April, then at Factory International’s Aviva Studios, Manchester until 21st April
Review by Susan Furnell
WAKE hits the Peacock Theatre with raw Irish energy where mourning and celebration clash, and unseen people are seen and unvoiced emotions are released. A black woman poet opens the show, and on the stage below her, is a funeral scene — mourners gathered with umbrellas, a man singing he’s stretched out on a grave — while a singer’s wail sets the tone. This isn’t your typical wake; it’s a vibrant explosion of life that unfolds under sharp lighting and large sun which slowly changes magnificent colours from sunset to sunrise to mark the march of time of the all-night wake.
The stage hosts a series of vignettes. A gay man in his late forties channels Noël Coward in a camp striptease — tassels glittering on his backside, reminiscent of Madame JoJo’s wild nights. Trapeze artists glide on a simple rope, while a pole dancer moves with fish-like agility, blending strength and daring. Irish dancing gets weird: performers in yellow spotty suits and tight onesies (one sinks waist-deep into a pink sphere but keeps jigging) make my friends laugh at something vaguely phallic. It’s clever, fresh, and fun and the freedom to move between traditional Irish music and club music is refreshing and works.
The fourteen person cast, including musicians, drive the show with energy. At one point, the stage glows with fiery red light against a textured backdrop. Beneath it, musicians take command: a fiddler plays with soul, a drummer pounds rhythms, and a keyboardist adds depth, grounding the chaos. The music catches the physical feelings of grief with the high notes and of lament, choking a tight throat and chest, while the bass electronic notes physically drop into the despair of a sinking stomach.
The lighting shifts from orange dusk to morning light, with disco flashes sparking cheers for a Riverdance style performer in glittering briefs — athletic, magnetic, born to please crowds and with the stage presence to egg on the crowd to applaud. A moustachioed performer gets us waving our arms, and soon we’re clapping along, caught up in the party.
WAKE has depth too. A spoken-word piece (slam poetry?) breaks the revelry with a preposterous butterfly effect explaining how the poet taking a sickie off work brought down the government. Soon after a singer offers: “We don’t know what you’re grieving for—we don’t ask you to lose sadness, you can’t, just loosen its grip.” The opening’s funeral tones give way to club-night energy where flirtation flows freely. Grief here is raw and real, present in every beat.
The cast—stocky rather than gorgeous —feels authentic. A person in red makes a bold exposure (causing some discomfort), while a naked man carries quiet sadness. Strong women flank a DJ —f irst thought to be male but revealed as female — who interviews a striking audience member headed for stardom, ostensibly there with the person she’s hoping will offer a job, and her confident charming answers are a highlight (and she gets the job!) Was it a plant? Probably, but perhaps not. Lisette Krol stuns on the pole, with the strength of a gymnast though its uncomfortable to watch as well, but everyone shines: men in sporty gear, wild costumes everywhere, and a singer with perhaps too much glittery eye make-up, or maybe that’s the point as make-up is apparently part of the Queer Club scene that this has been likened to.
This is Irishness boiled down and blown up—dance, rhythm, fiddle (the fiddle solo is beautiful), and heart wrapped in colour and light. The glowing circle (the sun) above the musicians against that red backdrop becomes the show’s symbol: a place for grieving, partying, and being seen. WAKE is a beautiful contradiction—a funeral where the living dance hardest, and we leave grateful to have joined the wild ride.
Susan Furnell, April 2025
Photography by Ruth Medjber and Allen Kieley
Mark Aspen 