One of my first concerns while sitting in the audience is that of safety. I imagine that other shows of this nature could easily lend themselves to being overtly feminist with the need to show solidarity and strength in both performers and female audience. And yet not once did I feel in the minority. Sure we blokes nodded and grinned at each other in the men’s loo at interval to show support, but apart from that we were with the girls all the way.

The age and attitude of the performers also helped. Slightly younger, maybe more image conscious and sexy, and we would have felt like peeping toms; too hard and defensive when it came to the male jokes and I’m sure we would have felt picked upon.

From the opening number that leads directly to the big revelation, there are no illusions held here that this show is going to be anything but rude, loud, blatant, lewd, downright dirty and bloody funny. If you’re not up for it then leave right now and pity the poor man or woman who does (as two latecomers found out at their expense). And credit to the cast that after ten minutes of their boobs swinging around for all to see, they became merely props; props that have been at the fingertips of women (and men) for thousands of years.

In front of tacky pink curtains, Bev Killock and new cast member Katie Houghton quickly slip into tried and trusted territory of a classic double act with Houghton acting as straight woman trying her utmost to perform whilst Killock, egged on silently by us all, does her best to upstage, misbehave and interrupt. Both have class and finesse as they ‘woman’ handle their props through the first act, consisting of shadow puppetry, song and boob impersonations.

Killock though steals the laugh every time with finely tuned comic timing: a master class in how to say something risqué and get away with it through timing and rapport. Her 20-minute stand up in the second act is brilliance, and no surer proof needed that fart jokes are funny. I have not heard solid belly laughs like that for years.

Maybe being on the outside edge for the more subtle innuendo made me think that the interval was too long in coming and possibly the thought that ‘once you’ve seen one, or two, or four boobs for half an hour, you’ve seen enough’? With the second act over an hour later (due to the audience, casino and hotel guests being evacuated for a reason that was not fully explained – thanks SkyCity), it did cross my mind that it may have been better to go home. Others certainly had the same thought and followed through.

However, once allowed back in, not only were we treated to Killock’s stand-up, but also audience participation of a kind that may have one or two female audience members blushing in the morning, and thankful that cameras are not allowed in live shows.

The second act starts well with a gospel number and works itself steadily through skits and songs, with less boobs and more emphasis on comedy around the subject. Despite having to work an audience that had been standing on Hobson Street for an hour, the girls proved their mettle and didn’t need to push the comedy or subject too hard to get us going again.

So, having spent a Friday evening with a couple of hundred women, laughing at boobs, mammograms, men, and learning one or two new tricks with a bottle of Johnnie Walker, I could sit through it again. There were a few drawn-out moments that may be improved by cutting 15 minutes off the entire show, but on the whole, classic comedy technique shines through regardless of subject.

It’s refreshing to witness such timing and pace from two ladies in an age where the true art of live comedy often seems to be sacrificed for shock value and a desire to be different for the sake of it.
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Deft act sheds clothes in search of funny bone while displaying feminist heart on its sleeve

I would have liked to say this is not my cup of tea but such a disclaimer probably sounds disingenuous – besides which a cup of tea suggests something far too genteel for a show that is more like a swig of home brewed fire-water.

The aroma of this no-holds-barred comedy may lack subtlety but the humour certainly packs a punch. In the tradition of Puppetry of the Penis, the show exemplifies a peculiarly Australian approach to comedy in which the driving impulse is an absolute refusal to let anything get in the way of a good laugh. [More]
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Busting Out! at Skycity has an even ratio of women and men in attendance tonight. The house is near full capacity, evident in the queues lining from the foyer up through to the theatre doors – all out in equal appreciation (or curiosity) to heckle, clap, sing and laugh in the name of Mammaries.

High Priestesses of all things ‘boobilicious’, Emma Powell (creator of Busting Out!) and Bev Killick, are set to flap, swing, squeeze, contort and warble their breasts through their hilarious two hour set of skits, song and shadow play. 

"What the heck…?" is all I can manage once they start; their ‘quads’ as I’ll call them are generous in proportion and can achieve the most aerobic of feats. Coupled with their singing, which both Powell and Killick do so brilliantly, my senses are assaulted by their off-beat, onstage antics.

They employ all the breast colloquialisms in their clever boob-foolery, while a simple stage cam magnifies their ‘assests’, projected in full Technicolor glory. I have never had the odd pleasure(?) of being so intimate with another woman’s nipples (that sounds dodgy, I know, but you will just have to see the show to get a grip on what I mean …).

Costumes (designed by Robert Hansford) run rampant in style and, ah, ‘cut’. Quirky and creative, they give Powell’s and Killick’s ‘characters’ a definable ‘identity’. One can only surmise it really is not an easy task to outfit a ‘character’ based on the manipulation of a breast, or pair thereof.

Powell’s theatre pedigree shines through in her flawless showmanship and energy; her rendition of ‘Mammaries’ is beautiful. Yes, the lyrics are altered to the breast theme, but her vocal power and range is amazing. It is a pleasure to hear her sing, no matter the content.

Bev Killick is instantly likeable with a voice like a shot of neat whisky. The onstage mischief-maker of the two, Killick’s deranged accompanying CATS dance to Powell’s heartfelt ‘Mammaries’ showcases her background in clowning and comedy.

Busting Out! has been assaulting audience eyes across Australia to rave reviews. Now the Double D Divas have brought their ‘cup delux’ brand of humour to Aotearoa. Universal in its message, Busting Out! is sure to appeal to all ages.

I saw a classic example of the power and magic of laughter tonight; the enlivening and mesmerising power of comedy never ceases to amaze me. I sincerely encourage you to see Busting Out! while it is on our shores. Guaranteed, you’ll laugh your tits off.

Busting Out! is on a nine-centre tour of NZ. See www.busting-out.com for venue and ticket details.
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Busting Out! was created by Emma Powell, evolving from a one woman show she wrote for the Melbourne Comedy Festival in 2006. Performed with Bev Killick (the blonde one), it is a mixture of stand up, skits, music and even a bit of dance.

The third presence on stage is the BreastCam operator whose job is to film the things that then appear on the big screen upstage. Before the show began she turned the camera on the audience much to their delighted discomfiture. Andy Warhol was right: we do love our few minutes of fame.

Seriously folks, this show is hilarious. You can’t help but laugh even if you are shocked. Bev Killick opens with about 30 minutes of stand up comedy. She covers life with a teenager and a toddler, growing up in Townsville where the men outnumber the women 10 to one, the advantages of big pants over g-strings and how Tina Turner could advertise tinned tuna.

She does all this at the top of her lungs in an accent that could remove rust at 100 metres, and a ribaldness of terminology that only a fair dinkum Aussie would dare to use. But bless her, she goes right to the heart of the matter. Especially about the undies!

The second part of the show is Busting Out! Emma and Bev do things with their boobs that make women wince and men gasp. My personal favourite is Emma’s heartfelt rendition of a song called "Mammaries" that doesn’t sound even remotely like a certain hit song from Cats (yeah right!) during which Bev appears in a cat suit and provides a counterpoint of genuine cat behaviour; the kind T S Eliot chose to ignore.

Powell is a talented singer and has been in several musicals, and my friend commented that she would have enjoyed a whole concert of just listening to her fabulous voice!

The other comic highlight for me was the shadow puppetry. Projected onto the back screen were depictions of things it’s nearly impossible to imagine started out as two women and four breasts!

This show is not for the prudish. It’s not the bare breastedness of it, it’s the unabashed Aussiness of the humour that reached into my Presbyterian Scottish ancestry and pulled out a disapproving, "What do you expect from convict stock!" It is this element that will barely pass or totally fail some Kiwi’s tastefulness test.

But I confess I was a little ashamed of my inner Scot, especially when a Scottish primary school friend of mine was spotted on stage at one point demonstrating how fast she could remove her bra without taking her top off. (But she did come from Glasgow, from mammary, oops memory.)

Which reminds me, there is audience participation but it is quite safe and no-one has to bare anything they don’t want to, not even their soul!

The nearly full house thoroughly enjoyed themselves and there was plenty of laughter throughout.

This is a clever, funny piece of theatre with a popular appeal that goes far beyond the usual theatre going audiences. So tuck your colonial forebears in with a cup of cocoa and head to it without them, they won’t miss it but you probably shouldn’t.
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If you haven’t already guessed Busting Out! is about, in the immortal words of Pete and Dud, busty substances. That’s all the show’s about except for Bev Killick’s 20 minute stand-up routine which starts the show and in which she gives more details about her love life than we really need to know. Then there’s a fifteen minute interval, which is an odd time for an interval but Bev Killick has done her job in revving up the audience for more laughter to come.

The second half, if that’s an accurate description, is much longer and is made up of revue sketches in which Bev Killick is joined by Emma Powell, and between them they use every known joke, pun, and synonym known in the western world about busty substances. Not only do they tell jokes but they also sing songs, take off (amongst others) Barbra Streisand who is hilariously upstaged by a dancing, bare breasted pussy from Cats.

They also turn their busty substances into Muppet-like figures as well as using them in an unusual display of shadow puppetry. They perform in more traditional revue sketches about housework, shopping, and, rather oddly, military discipline in which a General Hung Low takes the audience through a Lactation Parade. 

Like all shows devoted to just one subject – even a humorous and liberating one for women – I found the finale was a long time in coming. However, the audience seemed to love every minute of it and gave the comedic talents of Emma Powell and Bev Killick a rousing reception, even though the audiences’ ears were painfully assaulted for the entire show by the performers’ microphones being turned up as if they were performing in somewhere as large as the Cake Tin and not in an acoustically friendly place as The Opera House.
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