It begins with a woman humming. She stands defiantly at the edge of the stage, arms crossed, looking out into the packed auditorium (still ringing with chatter, house lights up) and sings wordlessly – a low, circling tune just loud enough to be picked up by her body mic. By the time she opens her mouth to add words – “It’s been a long time and we are still not free” – to the same melodic riff, the silence in Home’s Theatre 1 is absolute.
It is the first of several moments of stripped-back beauty in a show that somehow manages to be both grittily DIY and sensuously extravagant. The stage is a black box, with wooden chairs and musical instruments strewn around its edges, like a village hall before a rehearsal. A single small bell hangs down on one side. It is rung periodically to mark what might, in a different sort of piece, be called scene changes. Placards are also occasionally used as low-tech intertitles, displaying important names and places – though who could possibly forget “Warren-and-his-Fuckpole”, despotic ruler of “Ramrod”?
