STEVEN ANDREW is moved beyond words by a historical account of mining in Britain made from the words of the miners themselves

Wasted
Southwark Playhouse, London
WORKING on the premise that the Bronte family of Charlotte, Emily, Branwell and Anne was like a rock band — creatively inspired and tightly arraigned against the outside world, yet inwardly riven with infighting and even a bit of drug-induced dysfunctionality — Wasted chronicles their tribulations through the medium of rock music, with the actors centre stage and a four-piece electric band backing their anguished, dark singing.
It's a defendable and imaginative idea but whether the emphasis on a rock style adds anything to the storytelling is another matter. Possibly it would do so if the plethora of songs by Christopher Ash and Carl Miller were stronger melodically and lyrically — and it would also help if there were a more consistent thread to the music, which spans a confusingly wide spectrum of styles from the Arctic Monkeys to elements of Kate Bush, hip hop and funk.
The rock aesthetic does, at least, impart an extra edginess to the often tense and angry proceedings, which nonetheless are sprinkled with nice points of humour. In the end, the show lives or dies by the quality of its songs rather than the style in which they are delivered, especially as there is little or no music-free dialogue.

PETER MASON is enthralled by an assembly of objects, ancient and modern, that have lain in the mud of London’s river






