STORY-telling is an art form and should remain that way. That is not to say that writer J. Fergus Evans does not have an interesting story to tell in Rove, but the delivery of his family anecdote was lost through the show’s format.

He is an engaging storyteller, but at times roved too far away from the central story of how he was given his name, which all began with his grandparents meeting in Chicago in the last century.

These moments were beautifully delivered and Fergus transported us to a fluid and bustling city with poetry rolling off his tongue, the intimate setting of the Burton Taylor Studio perfect for us to get as close as possible to the story.

The violin accompaniment by Rhiannon Armstrong made his delivery almost dream-like, and her talent for creating music by playing one of the biggest brandy glasses I have ever seen, put Sandra Bullock’s efforts in Miss Congeniality to shame.

But that dream was rudely awakened when Fergus then diverted from his story by directly addressing the audience and chatting to us as if we were down the pub about music theory and Sam Lee. I was also puzzled by the need for Rhiannon to ask the audience to borrow a pair of very specific size eight brogues so she could tap out a rhythm that the pair could sing to.

Fortunately someone in the audience fitted the bill and I can only hope they will be sitting in for the remainder of the show’s run. But the failed attempts to make music and song something more than an accompaniment to the storytelling made more sense when Rhiannon admitted, later on, that she wasn’t the music specialist Fergus thought she was. It got stranger still after this revelation when we watched the pair stand in silence and stare at one another.

I could happily have listened to Fergus’ story about his grandfather, Rover Joe, without all these unnecessary interruptions, as the movement of the monologue was enough to carry the performance. Sometimes the best stories are the simplest.

GEORGINA CAMPBELL 2/5