Piling onto a train at Cardiff Central in a true Jim E Brown Style, late, tipsy and slightly flustered, an upbeat group of friends make their way east to Le Pub in Newport. The city greets us with the familiarity and charm of most British high streets; hardly classy, slightly desolate but comforting. Not in the polished sense, but in the nostalgic. This feeling that would resurface throughout the night.
The sensation washes over the room as Jim E. Brown stammers onto the stage. With a pint naturally in hand and a great mop of dull greasy hair glued to his forehead, he appears exhausted. It is as though he is carrying the significant weight of despair, pain and monumental hangover. Words spill from his mouth like drool as he announces with theatrical exhaustion, “My name is Jim E. Brown!”
What comes next is a carefully constructed (and mythical) backstory. According to him, he is a 19-year-old pop sensation born in Didsbury, Manchester on the 10th of September 2001 (just one day before 9/11). He continues: “I am an obese alcoholic who suffers from various degenerate conditions, and I weigh 16 stone 11”. This statement, the crowd greets with cheers, ready and strapped in for a performance of exaggerated self-loathing.
So naturally, he kicks off with a cult favourite, I’m an Obese Alcoholic, a perfect introduction to his self-derogatory, tongue in cheek brand of musical comedy. Following this Jim E. Brown classic, a string of favourites such as The Queue at Greggs and I’m Quitting Prozac to Continue Drinking, songs that draw heavily into the mundanity and experiences of British humour alcoholism.
Yet nothing was met with more adoration than Rat in Bin.
After an initial play and a round of applause, Brown doesn’t wait long to announce, “I’d like to do Rat in Bin again”. The synthy guitar riff starts back up and the crowd cheers with jovial approval. When the song ends once more, it’s inevitably requested again. And so, absurd and beloved, Rat in Bin returns. The reputation feels less like laziness and more like mutual understanding of the bit, where irony becomes genuine joy.
A Jim E. Brown gig is never just a musical performance. It’s comedy, storytelling and persistent self-flagellated remarks. Between songs he tells wacky anecdotes of being stuck in a cage by a man named Greg and recites poems about hearing mice having sex through the walls, which he delivers with deadpan misery. A truly absurd experience.
He tells the turbulent tale of losing his mythical son, Tanner, in a custody battle, revealing that he began dating the judge presiding over the case.
“But several months after she and I started dating” he pauses “Judge Miranda died…”
The entire room sighs and moans, deeply yet jokingly sympathetic.
“…of Syphilis!”
Gasps echo Le Pub.
“…But then she came back to life!”
Cheers erupt.
“But then she died again!”
Screams grow louder
“…of botulism!”
Extended versions of these ridiculous, grimly comedic anecdotes can be found in his many autobiographical books, of which he did not fail to promote throughout the set.
Satire, mythology and nonsense are inherent to Jim E. Brown’s act.
As the set drew to a close, Jim E. Brown steps down from the stage, parting the crowd in a manner not unlike Moses at the Red Sea. Everyone is ecstatic to brush shoulders with the self-proclaimed teenage prodigy.
After a swift picture, I noticed a conspicuous jar of pickled onions on the table nearby. Piquing my curiosity, I inquired if the jar was his. With an altogether disdainful, disgusted and deadpan expression, he slurs, “Yeah, you can have them if you like, whatever”.
To my self-reproach, I lost Jim E. Brown’s pickled onions in the depths of Newport City Centre. However, it didn’t seem to matter as the jar became a true symbol of his own brand of chaos.
Despite rumours of Jim E. Brown being a secret American (of which he profusely denies), Jim E. Brown touches the very heart of quintessentially British pessimism. Just like the streets of Newport, a Jim E. Brown gig is affectionately bad and anti-perfection. There is comfort in his refusal to polish himself, embracing failure, misery and shame.
Yes, the night was a real laugh. But beyond that is the strange beauty in taking the piss out of your own mundane or bleak experiences. A talent that we brits have seemed to master beautifully.
So, as we make our way back to Cardiff, fresh Jim E Brown tees reading “I’m not worthy of love and happiness” worn over our clothes, we stomp through the Maccies doors in true Jim E. Brown style.
Words by Emma Howe
