Brett Goldstein Grew Up In A Strip Club

By the age of 21, Brett Goldstein had run a strip club and dealt with an Armenian assassin. It's fair to say he's got an interesting story to tell. He's not the most natural performer, and readily admits to nervousness and the tendency to stutter when faced with a breast. But he does succeed in building and, for the most part, maintaining interest through knowing exactly what we're interested in (the girls, the drugs and why they have to wipe the poles) while throwing in some hyperbole for comic effect. This sometimes works, but sometimes compromises the reality of the story.

Occasional exaggerated moments jar with an otherwise enjoyable hour, but his hit-and-miss delivery actually works in his favour; he has an endearing quality bizarrely at odds with the subject matter. He is certainly not the sort of person you'd imagine in a strip joint, let alone running one. That said, Goldstein focuses too hard on constructing clever callbacks when it really is a case of less is more; a running gag about the idiosyncratic greeting of his colleague is unnecessary and overdone. Cutting out the weaker among these would strengthen the few that are left as, when unexpected, they catch the audience off guard nicely.

Goldstein does, however, avoid straying into flippancy, which would endanger the nice-guy-surrounded-by-breasts concept he works so well. Though a mixed bag, his set does make for an entertaining, often poignant hour and, though inconsistent, it has a pertinent message to convey about the industry, leaving the audience with something more than comedy to consider.