Paul F Taylor is a man who likes to sweat for his audience. Never mind his sanity, it’s the physical exertion that’s sometimes concerning to behold, so manic is his performance. It’s all cleverly juxtaposed with a sly beginning, where Taylor is dressed in a suit and tie, expounding the benefits of a made-up drug that removes all desire to be funny, so you can live a pure and deeply serious life instead. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for us, he has ran out of the somber pill, and the real Taylor is revealed.
What follows is an act where there can either be twelve jokes in a minute, or where one joke can go on to incomprehensible length. Taylor himself doesn’t seem to know when they will end. Contained therein are beautifully silly and odd gags, told with frenetic energy that’s sometimes hard to keep up with. His approach is reminiscent of Harry Hill or Steve Martin in his funny years, although Taylor exceeds them both in frenzied delivery. His whoops and screams will appeal more to fans of alt. comedy stylings, although he still has plenty of gags to make just about anyone laugh. He’s a bit weird, yes, but he has a warmth to him too. Totally absurd, but lots of fun.