Le Gateau Chocolat

A single cello plays, and from the back of the room a statuesque man in a blonde bob wig and a kimono starts to sing. A mournful number builds to a heart-rending crescendo, and then disappears into a sultry “Hello, Edinburgh". This is Le Gateau Chocolat's entrance, and the last time the audience's eyes are anywhere but on the consummate entertainer before them.

Le Gateau's most remarkable talent is immediately apparent, in the form of a voice so enormous and so versatile as to turn whatever he sings into a quasi-operatic epic. In his rendition, Streisand's 'Don't Rain on My Parade' finds a soul it never knew it possessed, while Radiohead's 'Creep' becomes a sublime moment of touching introspection.

As much of the magic is found between songs as during them: Le Gateau is a hilarious, larger-than-life presence, a master of flirtatiously witty asides with an uncanny ability to let his flamboyant body language finish a joke. But at times his exposition can also be intensely sad.

Physically and thematically, he flits across the line between onstage and off – from outrageously camp cabaret dilettante to a lonely figure seemingly wracked by doubt. He talks of the Nigerian mother who doesn't know that he's gay or a performer, and of parrots. 

He moves among the crowd, drawing even the most reluctant participant into the heart of his performance. He makes them dance, and forces some into lycra bodysuits. But however silly he makes the audience look or feel, they seem only to adore him all the more.