Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson

Raucous rock musical Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson celebrates the controversial seventh US president in entertaining style, and in very contemporary vernacular. The raw modern language and driving rock music give the renegade populist politician of 200 years ago a voice of today.

An off-Broadway success in 2009, the show had a short-lived Broadway transfer.

A quick Google and you see that while the events and facts have been drastically compressed, reordered and reshaped, re-incarnating Jackson (also known by his soldiers as Old Hickory for his toughness) as grungy wild west punk rock star, this colourful vaudeville / revue style musical is rooted in fact.

The basic venue, more a rock room than a theatre, feels ideal. Backstage, yet visible placement of the band, enhances the apt, raw hybrid theatre / rock gig feel of Craig Stewart’s driven ensemble production, tightly conceived, yet sustaining a rough and ready feel.

Peter Meredith’s brooding, intense bad-boy Andrew Jackson is mesmerising. Along one side of the room except when they take to the stage, the strong ensemble cast makes a virtue from the vice of Factory Floor’s primitive facilities. Bringing a sense of constant presence, eleven performers encapsulate multiple facets of early 1800s American society, with injections of contemporary media to boot. Engaging little cameos spring up throughout the 90-minute musical, with most performers creating multiple storytelling vignette roles. On a small stage, the choreography is confined but raw and energetic.

Without singling out too many performers, as Jackson’s wife, Louise Kelly’s Rachel is moving, superbly sung and an engaging counterbalance to Meredith’s Andrew, Monique Sallé charms as Jackson’s adopted Indian child and Jay James-Moody capably holds the political threads together as Martin Van Buren. For most of the show, though, it isn’t about characterization but just how cleverly cast members land their moments of storytelling. Frankly, the reduction of key figures in American history to unsatisfying clowns and broad comic turns makes the job of some players unenviable, while the school-marm narrator never jells for me; a bit too kitsch, she just doesn’t rock along with the rest of the show.

Still it’s an intriguing little show, not unlike the irreverent political satire our own The Legend of King O’Malley, as a fellow-audience member reminded me as I left the theatre. The local predecessor, though, probably packed even more of a punch all those decades ago.

Long may independent musical theatre company Squabbalogic continue to bravely treat Sydney audiences to off-the-radar musical theatre treats.

Neil Litchfield