Rochester Fringe Festival, Day 10. A night of things large and small. Large, as in a visit to “Craig Walsh, Monoliths,” projected into the trees at East Avenue and Meigs Street. Small, as in about 50 people squeezed into The Spirit Room, the festival’s home base of consistently odd shows, for the eclectic duo Charming Disaster.
“Monoliths,” a free outdoor art experience, runs from 8 to 10 p.m., with three huge images projected onto towering trees. They are the faces of your fellow Rochesterians. On the left, Ann Culbreth, a volunteer community gardener. In the middle, Bruce Schaubroeck, co-owner of the House of Guitars, who quietly involves himself in community work throughout the city. On the right, Kristin “Kat” Sweeney, a radio host involved in the LGBTQ+ community.
Walsh is an Australian, and his projections were at the Fringe last year as well. The initial thought is these giant faces are frightening. But no, they are oddly soothing. And startling, when they unexpectedly blink, and their eyes move. These are not projections of still photos, but very subtle moving images.
There is nothing subtle about Charming Disaster at The Spirit Room, 139 State St. It is a match made in Hell. The room’s tangle of skulls, religious curios and occult brick-a-brack (church and Satan work together very well) look on as the Brooklyn duo of Ellia Bisker and Jeff Morris weave their goth magic.
(I suppose it was merely an accident that the room’s first two rows of old wood church pews were filled entirely with people wearing black clothing. I did not get the memo.)
“Charming Disaster’s Musical Underworld Tour,” returning with two more shows Friday evening, set the mood with an opening of chirping crickets. “Great news, we’re lost, and surrounded by wolves,” they tell us. “Ever since you’ve found me, I’m afraid that I might die.” Then they are lost in the bottom of a well. A portal to the underworld. Opening with a song about obsessive love, Morris explains, “It’s so important to establish dominance.” Charming Disaster urges the audience to howl, and we obey.
Bisker and Morris accompany themselves with guitar, ukulele and foot percussion. Their harmonies revolve around each other, like incantations. “Something wicked this way comes,” Morris warns, drawing on the title of Ray Bradbury’s darkest of novels.
Their stage presence re-enforces the dark humor. Bisker in particular, with her black lipstick and eye shadow, and black hair that looks like a raven in landing. Bisker walked into the audience, and tossed a piece of candy to Morris, which he caught in his mouth. Then, venturing deeper into the room, she pulled a piece of white ribbon from her mouth, unraveling it the entire length of the room as she walked back to the stage.
Oral hijinks combined with tarot cards. Ancient Egyptians and resurrection. Charming Disaster sings of poisonous plants. “It’s never too late to find out that you’re doomed,” Morris explains.