What Was That? I Can't Sing! The X-Factor Musical

By Emily Hardy

I remember exactly where I was when I first heard about the forthcoming X-Factor musical. I shrugged my shoulders, rolled my eyes and uttered something cynical and snobby about 'the state of musical theatre.' Fears of another Viva Forever - about which I had recently scrawled a piece entitled "all of the money, all of the power, none of the artistic integrity" - crept in to take another bite out of my hope for a meritocratic theatre, where only the best material got to be showcased in the West End. Imagine that!

One thing appeased me though; this six million pound production wasn't going to be a juke-box musical consisting of winner’s singles, or anything dreadful like that. There was the promise of an original score by Steve Brown. Good news, but not sufficient to convince me that a show based on a reality television talent contest (that the public were rapidly losing interest in) was a good idea.

I still don't think that it is, but do you know what? My lack of faith, my ill-conceived preconceptions are all irrelevant, and it's me that looks like a tit now for judging the book by its cover because, actually, I kind of loved I Can't Sing.

The show can't be described as a stroke of genius. Nor can it be said to be important or moving or cathartic. It's none of these things. So, what is it? Not a clue. Anyone got any ideas? The opening number, If That's Not Entertainment gives us a clue but the notes I took during the show consisted predominantly of "what the F**K?!" scrawled lovingly in large letters across a page.

On the morning I was due to see the show, Janet Street Porter said on Loose Women (don’t judge me) that "If you like Harry Hill, you'll like the show." Exhaling any remaining molecules of faith, I thought back to Sunday afternoons in the early noughties when, being the youngest sibling, I was subjected to back-to-back episodes of TV Burp orYou've Been Framed. To be fair, Harry Hill is well liked and respected with a career that speaks for itself. He certainly used to make my sister laugh, but not me. (I don't like Jim Carrey either so maybe I'm crazy and humourless.) I just remember feeling strong urges to strangle the comedian as his made his silly interjections and opting to help Nan with the crumpets and washing-up instead.

However, it's safe to say that Harry Hill has masterminded nothing like I've ever seen in the West End, or anywhere, before. And the best thing about it, and the reason for which I found myself loving it, is that it doesn't try to be anything it's not. It takes every liberty, luxuriating in and delighted by its own audacity and wealth. It never takes itself too seriously either, doing whatever the hell it likes. Unpredictable cameos and vibrant songs of little narrative significance position the ‘musical’ outside the boundaries of definition, beyond any of our conventional expectations. I Can't Sing isn't comparable so might be judged entirely on its own terms and on its own bonkers merits, of which it is obnoxiously proud. It screams, from giant inflatable lips, "Go on! What do you dare me to do next?!"

We meet Chenice, an orphan played by Cynthia Erivo who, unlike the majority of X-Factor hopefuls (complete with backstory and an inflated perception of their ability), is unaware that she can even sing. She has other ambitions and lives happily in a caravan on Waistband Way with her dog and Grandfather - who has an iron lung powered by the only working plug socket. Like Hairspray's Tracy Turnblad, Chenice merrily chimes about her day to day life with insipid positivity until Max, I Can't Sing's answer to Galileo played by Alan Morrissey, haphazardly stumbles through her front door.

I was overjoyed when it was announced that Erivo had been cast in the lead, bringing to the show, in my opinion, the promise of accreditation and legitimacy. It was a relief (and a surprise) that I Can't Sing wasn't going to follow suit by casting a host of reality TV or soap stars in order to 'boost ticket sales' and had chosen instead a leading lady with more talent in her baby toenail than anyone who has ever previously won The X-Factor.

Events spiral from the daffy to the preposterous as we encounter the loveable auditionees who, between them, represent the majority of the insanity spectrum. Just when you are beginning to fathom the extraordinary unfolding events a giant fly appears, or the wind is personified (literally), or a rapping hunchback takes the stage, leaving you, once more, in blissful throes of bewilderment and hilarity. Abandoning the first rule of musical theatre - the subtle segue from dialogue to song - Brown's catchy, memorable musical numbers pop up without warning and often just for the sheer fun of it.

Unfortunately, the show goes a little astray in the second act when it loyally serves up the stodgy casserole that it originally promised - a timid parody of the television show itself, complete with all the jokes that have been circulating since The X-Factor started in 2004. Hill's resistance to spend too much time here is the show's saving grace because the potential for humour has already been exhausted effusively by the media, or by your drunken Uncle John at cousin Talula's wedding.

The overtly sexual Jordy played by Victoria Elliott is, like Cheryl Cole, from Newcastle and besotted with a certain footballer. Louis played by Ashley Knight is elderly and favours the Irish contestants. Simon, played by Nigel Harman (who I think probably had the hardest job) loves money, wears high-wasted trousers and has an irrational hatred of the Ukulele. He sings (somewhat aptly), "The hell with integrity. Go for the money!" Job done. What other material is there? The actors do brilliantly well to realise the well-known characters but space for imagination is limited.

However, Hill reintroduces his own characteristic eccentricity in the nick of time. He cleverly breaks up the otherwise laborious main course with some self-flagellation provided by Simon Lipkin as the family dog - Barlow, who has a firm grasp of reality and a crush on Simon. Like Harry Hill's television voiceovers, the dog's apologetic comments bring awareness to the show's flaws before any critic has a chance to. As I said before, the show itself is brilliantly self-aware, even if the audience are utterly confounded.

So, what is I Can't Sing? Don't expect escapism - the story is too thin to realistically lose yourself in and it risks becoming rapidly outdated unless it is regularly re-written. But it is riotously funny. Unabashedly desultory. It pokes as much fun out of itself as it does out of musical theatre, British society and of the TV show. Think of it, not as The X-Factor Musical, but as a bonkers new show and an evening of pure unadulterated entertainment. You may not be drunk, but you'll think you are, and who am I to quibble with the value of that? We've all got our own slightly disgusting guilty pleasures, like eating lemon curd straight from the jar, Escape To The Country or Michael Bolton, and I'm proud to add Harry Hill’s I Can't Sing to that esteemed list.

P.S. I stand corrected for my unfair pre-conception of this show and ashamed of my ill judgement, but don't blame me for it. It's alarmingly easy to get mad at the man with the money when so many creatives have to scrapple about with coins they found down the back of the sofa to get their genial, moving, important pieces of work put on in a back room that seats only seven.

@Emily_L_Hardy

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