Andrew McClelland explicitly states that he has personally selected the seven music tracks that punctuate his show, "to make you like me".  His premise is to explore the science and intention (mostly romantic) of making musical mixes for other people.  And like a good mix tape, it bears an earnest charm, as if toiled over in secret for nights upon end.

McClelland’s boyish enthusiasm is exhibited from the very start, as he prances onstage to the Jackson 5’s ‘Want You Back’ and performs a very bouncy dance number, beaming away like a gigantic, tipsy guinea pig.  His joyful appreciation of music permeates the show and keeps us onside throughout.  However, at times he takes his naïve exuberance too far and enters into an affected, mincing, whining routine that elicits more of a wince than a laugh.

The show is structurally very sound, each new track evoking a new feel and a new set of ruminations on themes of love and social status.  It allows McClelland to exercise his verbose, cerebral wit without becoming dull, and to create variety and originality within otherwise fairly well-worn territory.  He breaks up the talking with dance and song, and uses the theatre space well, crossing the floor to hug my companion in the front row whose interjection destroyed one of his punchlines.

Like any mix tape, it doesn’t all work.  There’s always one track that betrays the author’s good taste and causes us to reach for the fast-forward button.  McClelland’s gags about Hip-Hop, for example, are not funny enough to save him from simply appearing snobbish about the genre, and his punchlines are often flat and wordy.  Occasionally also he is guilty of trying to milk gags that didn’t work the first time.

Discussing Metal – from Hair to Death – McClelland is on much safer ground, as he is when covering Morrissey and the Smiths (perhaps in more depth than he needs to).  With these sequences his obvious love for the music shines through and carries the material to more interesting heights.  The highlight is a wildly rambling diatribe in honour of his ex-girlfriend, performed to a minimalist techno instrumental track that reaches an audacious climax.

Mix Tape is an ambitious venture, a risky ploy for our affection.  There are moments of absurdity (‘Barrister on Ice’?), moments of hilarity (a roam through some crappy LP covers a la Dave Letterman), and moments of weakness, but when creating a mix it’s the thought put into it that counts, and this show has a solid integrity throughout.  In the end, McClelland’s infectious warmth won the audience over to such a degree that he was able to enlist our help in a final sing-a-long – no mean feat for a Wellington crowd.

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