Who are you?

‘I’m Adam Buxton.’

What do you do?

‘I am a ludicrous ponce professionally, and I spend a great deal of time wandering around confused, and occasionally I make my own little stupid videos, and I host a radio show, and it has been said that I conduct my career in reverse, ie. started by making a TV show and am now becoming progressively more obscure by choice. And it’s nice.’

Who do you do?

‘Who do I do? I do quite a good Robert De Niro, but it’s a visual thing… That’s about it really. Apart from my lovely wife, that’s all I do.’

Faves?

‘Music videos, my lovely children, my lovely wife, being alive… I mean, what a wonderful time to be alive, in some ways, and what a tragic time to be alive in other ways. That’s a very profound thing I just said.’

Worsties?

‘Crap, cynical blockbuster films, all too numerous to mention. 90% of films, really… This is a controversial thing to say, because Joe [Cornish], my best friend and partner is involved in the world of superhero movies by proxy, but I’m pretty sick of superhero movies. I could really live without another superhero movie for quite a long time.’

Jedward?

‘They’re fantastic.’

As lines of questioning go, this isn’t quite David Frost. In fact, it’s not even Larry King, let alone Piers Morgan. But these questions – along with the answers – come courtesy of Adam Buxton, the shorter, hairier half of the comic duo Adam and Joe. He has offered this challenging sextet of questions to all of his guests on his short-lived ‘Big Mixtape’ show on BBC 6 Music, and they have all reacted surprisingly well. Then again, his is a recognisable face, having first gurned its way through four series of The Adam and Joe Show to great, if cult, acclaim, before appearing in other TV projects and even several films, including Hot Fuzz and Stardust.

When we meet, he has just bounded offstage from an energetic evening at the BFI Southbank presenting BUG, a bimonthly show that exhibits the best of new music videos. His performance was witty and confident, and it ensures that the 2 hour show never drags, yet his energy is clearly a little depleted as we shake hands. His wry and occasionally bombastic demeanour has changed to one that, while extremely friendly, appears rather more shy. He suggests that we ascend to the roof for a breath of fresh air, and it is only as we sit in the London evening light, staring out over the Thames, that he begins to relax. In fairness, he has a lot to be relaxed about. Since 2007, he and Joe have presented a weekly radio show for BBC 6 Music, and in the face of Mark Thompson’s bid this year to see the station closed, Adam has campaigned tirelessly to save it, even appearing on Channel 4 News to confront the Director General directly. On that particular occasion, he jokingly challenged Thompson to a fist-fight, and now proclaims that his boss ‘was frightened of getting a good stuffing from Dr Buckles. Quite right.’ Ironically, it seems that the station’s imminent closure gave it the boost of publicity it needed, and in July Thompson’s suggestions were overturned by the BBC Trust. It’s not known whether Adam’s physical threats had any bearing on the decision, but nonetheless the station’s unexpected survival is the first subject that comes up as we sit down to talk, and he doesn’t try to conceal his joy.

‘I was personally delighted, obviously, because doing this show on 6 Music with Joe has been my favourite thing that we’ve ever done together, and I was gutted when they said they were going to close it, as was everyone else at 6 Music. But you know, I’m more of a part-timer than a lot of people there, so I had less invested I suppose. There’s always other bits and pieces I can be getting on with if I’m not doing the radio. But I thought it was a fait accompli when they announced that they were going to close it, and I couldn’t imagine that they were going to change their minds. Because it would make them look weak, and that’s the last thing they want to do.’

It’s clear that this is a subject close to his heart, and it is immediately striking how unexpectedly serious his manner becomes. I am about to suggest this to him when he completes his diatribe with an enormous belch, loud enough to turn the head of a passer-by.

‘Excuse me. A little bit of punctuation there for you.’

Moments such as this are typical of Buxton. Much of the time, he behaves as the bizarre combination of an irritable old curmudgeon raging at the small injustices of the world and an excitable and infectiously immature boy. When we approach the topic of films, this schizophrenic tendency towards simultaneous pessimism and optimism becomes fully exposed. He grumpily exasperates over cinema’s current obsession with superhero films, yet when I mention Avatar, the childlike half of him eagerly takes over.

‘I loved it, I thought it was wicked,’ he proclaims, without a hint of shame or irony. He laughs at my incredulous expression, before defending his reaction. ‘It was really good, I was in exactly the right frame of mind and it pressed all the right buttons. I love Jim Cameron, he’s amazing. Jim. I call him Jim. We’re buddies.’

I ask his position on 3D, and the wide-eyed enthusiasm disappears as quickly as it emerged, replaced once more by his comically grumpy tone.

‘That’s just a completely bogus piece of technology as far as I’m concerned. Everyone else disagrees with me. It’s stupid.’ Yet his eyes widen once again when he recalls one aspect of the experience he enjoyed: ‘The best thing about 3D movies is when subtitles come up, like in Avatar when the subtitles come up, because of the Eewar people, or whatever they were called. I thought, ‘Wow! Look at that! They’re sticking out of the screen!’ And then I carried on watching the film.’

Although these two modes of thought seem rather incongruous, he accompanies them both with his often unflinching honesty. As a result, his simultaneously grumpy and eager persona seems less odd than charming, although Adam is quick to deny that it is a persona at all.

‘It’s unfortunately real,’ he sighs, before chuckling to himself. ‘I’m not very good at mediating myself and my wife sometimes gets a little upset when I say too much, and reveal too many cringe-worthy aspects of our domestic life. It’s all very much real… It’s when I get in an unfamiliar situation and I feel as if I ought to behave a certain way and I forget to be myself – that’s when things go wrong.’

On the topic of things going wrong, I feel obliged, though a little reluctant, to bring up the topic of The Persuasionists, a BBC 2 sitcom in which Adam played Greg, a naïve employee of an advertising agency. It first appeared in January to almost universally derisive reviews, and the BBC itself swiftly moved the show to the graveyard slot of 11.20pm. At its very mention, Adam can’t help laughing out loud, but he is also keen to absolve himself of guilt.

‘I auditioned for it three or four years ago, when not much was happening in my life, and it was maybe the second or third audition I’ve ever done in my life where I’ve actually got the part. So I was really excited. And we made two pilots for it, both of which were very enjoyable to make, but they weren’t very good… And [the BBC] said, ‘We’re not going to go ahead with this.’ I wasn’t entirely surprised. But then suddenly it came back and they said, ‘Yeah, we’ve commissioned a series,’ and I thought, ‘Jesus Christ!’ And it was really fun, I had such a good time, it was one of the most enjoyable jobs that I’ve done.’

So what is his art?

‘Well, it seems a little tedious just to focus on one thing. Plus I really don’t feel – and this isn’t false modesty – but I really don’t feel I’m necessarily a genius at any one thing, or sufficiently good at any one thing so that that’s what I should do.’ Bearing in mind that he’s a regular composer of jingles and songs for his radio show, I suggest that perhaps music could be a new career, but this is met with a wistful sigh. ‘I love music and I wish I was a rock star, like a lot of comedians… People like Thom Yorke, they’re unbothered by the naysayers and the people who are going to pick apart his lyrics and call him miserable. He doesn’t worry about things like that, he goes ahead and writes whatever is in his heart. And that’s something I would love to be able to do and envy, but would never be able to do it, certainly. I’ve tried, as well, I’ve sat down and tried to write a sincere song that isn’t funny, just a good song, but it’s not in me.’

The sun has long since set when we prepare to part ways, and as gradually we descend from the roof, I can’t conceive what his next project might be. Apart from the radio show with Joe – which, he assures me, is ‘coming back in November. I think…’ – I ask him whether he has any upcoming projects, but it seems that his career is too unplanned for him to know what’s next.

‘I’ve done so many things that have come to nothing that I’m not going to hold my breath. I mean, there’s always irons in the fire, but you’re lucky if 5% of the things you’re working on actually come to anything. And then of that 5%, maybe a tiny fraction will actually be any good.’ His older, pessimistically world-weary side has reared its head, I note, but he simply shrugs. ‘In my experience, it’s a punishing ratio of quality to bollocks.’

I do a lot of strange things, but this must rank among the strangest.

It is a glorious evening on Port Meadow: a hundred thousand miles’ width of cobalt sky, bisected by the bright white scar of a double jet trail. I switch off my iPod as I approach the gate.

And there, Silence is waiting. Or, as he would have it, s1l3nc3. The internet tells me s1l3nc3 is a magician and mind reader from Oxford, who picked up a small sackful of critical awards at Edinburgh this summer. The twist – the twist that has me chewing my lip and looking about me as watchfully as a dope fiend – is that he performs in total silence.

Silence is dressed in careful black, with a scarlet scarf and scarlet laces in his black Allstars. We shake hands. He points towards the Thames. We walk. He moves as noiselessly as a thief. I’m limping a little. Shin splints. In an attempt to seize control of this interview, I pull out my pad and write.

‘3 rules. 1 – no speech. 2 – max. 5 words per question. 3 – there are no other rules.’

He nods. We walk. Over the first bridge, onto the gravel, over the second bridge.

I think I handle silence fairly well. I travel and run a lot, and some of the best moments in my life have been spent alone. No, not like that. OK, maybe sometimes like that. But this silence shared with a stranger is – well, to be honest, it’s a little like a first date. You feel the same jitteriness, the same stabbing awareness of personal space. I am suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to talk about something, anything, just to open my mouth and drown everything in meaningless noise.

But I say nothing. We walk. The sun slips silently below the horizon. Then the doubts begin. What if Silence is psychotic? The Edinburgh reviews were full of hushed whispers of teeth-clenching self-harm. What if he chloroforms me? What if he kills me, and dumps my body in the Isis?

I shoot Silence a sidelong glance. He looks perfectly calm. This is his natural habitat. It’s all in your own head, I tell myself, get a grip. Then, in the last dying light of the day, we reach the ruins of Godstow Nunnery. Through the entrance, and into the blasted shell of a side-chapel. The half-moon through the south window is the only light. And it begins.

Ordinarily I would tell contributors never ever to write up interviews as a transcript, but what happened under that silent moon was so strange that there is a kind of objective comfort in those written words. We are what happened, they say, everything else is in your head.

Q1. ‘Reality abuse?’

Half a minute’s pause. Then he writes. ‘People no longer experience silence… It is the most concise way to describe what is done.’
I think a while, then underline the word ‘abuse’ twice and hand over the pad of paper. Wrong question. Silence holds up a finger. He opens his bag, takes out a three-inch nail, and wipes it carefully with a cotton pad. He indicates that I should test it. It’s real. Then he takes out a hammer. I test it. It’s real. Then he gazes at a point about two feet to the left of my face, and inserts the nail up his left nostril at an angle of about 30 degrees below the horizontal. Tap. Tap. Tap. He sniffs, blinks. Tap. Tap.

Q2. Is that what silence is?

‘Silence is a medium that helps you appreciate.’

Q3. How many get it?

‘It is not discrete. Everyone understands differently.’

Q4. Are people afraid of silence/s1l3nc3?

He just looks at me. I cross out people and write ‘you.’ He flips the pad over, and points to rule 2. ‘Max. 5 words per question.’ OK, fine.

Q5. You read minds?

‘I listen in the silence.’ Pause. ‘Book.’

He asked me to bring a book. I take Aldous Huxley’s ‘Crome Yellow’ out of my bag. Silence produces a copy of this week’s Cherwell, and opens it to page 3, where he has written in thick black marker, ‘As a journalist, it is your job to choose your words carefully.’ Page 5. ‘But how random are these words?’ He asks me to initial a card, then writes on it and puts it on the ground. ‘(For later)’.

Page 9 asks me to memorise the first word of page 66 of my book. ‘Lady.’ Then he makes me choose a three digit number at random, and to memorise the first word of that page from his book. Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Page 352. ‘Today.’ Finally, I am asked to pick a random and unconnected third word. For no good reason, the word ‘German’ pops into my head.

Silence gestures that I should pick up the card from the ground. It reads, ‘German.’ Next, he studies me carefully, and writes on a second card. Lady. Third, and finally, he indicates that I should turn to page 29 of Cherwell. In my own article – my own damn article! – he had already ringed the word ‘today.’ What an utter bastard. Finally, on page 31, one last word: ‘RANDOM?’

He’s winning this. Get your own back.

Q6. Does that always work?

‘No.’

Great. More predictable than most.

One last question. Who owns s1l3nc3?

He thinks for the better part of a minute.

‘It is a part of every human mind.

‘And always will be.’

I feel stupid and banal, like a child. All along, I’d been fighting for control of silence, while Silence himself was just standing there and listening. I have a sudden vision of myself from the outside: pushing, shouldering, vying, always pushing to win everything. It passes in a flash. Is this what silence is?

We shake hands, and walk off into the night.

S1l3nc3 will be performing on Thursday of 2nd week at the Keble O’Reilly, 7.30pm

As far as album titles go, Self Preserved While The Bodies Float Up is as puzzling as the band’s new musical direction. At its core, the album elaborates on the band’s characteristic mean streak, on their tense heavy riffs and painstakingly complex drumming. The result is dark and brooding. It is more reminiscent of Homage To A Shame than of Saturday Morning Breakfast Show; more of the hardcore, less of serene post-rock soundscapes. Sure, it’s crafted with trademark Oceansize quality, but it lacks that certain poise and unfortunately poses as their second unmemorable release in recent memory (along with last year’s Home And Minor EP).

Despite personal preferences, one really cannot fault their live show. The two hundred-odd lucky people at the O2 Academy earlier this month were treated to a beautifully worked set; a collage of their louder tracks that spanned prog, metal, and their own distinct sound. The sound they achieved on stage was rather impressive; it was dominating and crisp. Simply put, they had it down to a tee. It was if they’d been practising that set for years.

Oceansize opened in a typically vivacious manner with two songs from the new album: ‘Part Cardiac’ and ‘Build Us A Rocket…’. This was followed by more familiar songs from yesteryears, the most notable of which was the fans’ favourite ‘Music For A Nurse’. The sweet tones and slow graceful crescendos of the latter provided such a delicate contrast to what preceded. Its low, peaceful drones and earnest vocals rightfully had the audience under a spell.

Oceansize then returned to Self Preserved… with ‘Silent/Transparent’, the first really energizing song of the evening. The rest of Oceansize’s set consisted exclusively of tracks from their last two albums, including a rare performance of the menacing ‘Paper Champion’. ‘Ornament/Last Wrongs’ – ten minutes of their warmest, most soulful output – put the icing on the cake to finish the evening. The song is a full-bodied opus, grand in every way.

In the five years that I’ve been a fan, Oceansize are yet to let me down in the live arena. Although Self Preserved… wasn’t entirely to my taste, the gig certainly helped me to appreciate it. This heavier album seems like something they wanted to get out of their system, and I’ll always maintain that the calmer, more affecting post-rock of the early albums is their forte. But personal preferences aside, it is safe to say the Mancunians know what they’re doing when playing live.

Opening a play in first week is a formidable task, but it is one that the team of The Lesson seem to pull off. The play centres on a Pupil and a Professor, in a one-act that amuses, excites and confuses the audience as we try to figure out what is actually going on. The Professor becomes increasingly frustrated with the Pupil’s failure to comprehend basic arithmetic and her inability to ‘reason it out’. She can only recite and remember, she cannot understand the ‘whys’ or the ‘hows’.

This should not be interesting but, somehow, it is. And this is due predominantly to a superb performance by Olivia Madin. Her childlike innocence is utterly beguiling and her fixed smile disguises the mind the audience longs to read. Stock phrases like ‘very good Sir, thank you Sir’ and ‘Oh Sir’ in Madin’s mouth become completely bewildering and captivating.

Max Fletcher’s performance as the Professor, although less immediately convincing, will surely develop over the next week. Though the characterisation may need more work, there are touches of brilliance here. Fletcher’s strongest moments are in an emotive speech where he discusses the constructs of the world, his voice powerfully cracking on the term ‘civilization’: a nice touch by the director, Sam Bell, on the futility of existence and society.
Staging is often a challenge in a play with such a small cast (the Professor’s Maid is later introduced as the third and final character but had not yet been blocked into the action at the time of press preview), as it is sometimes difficult to maintain audience interest with repetitive movement. However, I found the use of the table (the one landmark on the otherwise stark set), quite powerful. It becomes a barrier between the two characters with Madin’s seated constancy contrasting nicely with Fletcher’s incessant pacing. When he breaks this barrier, leans over the table, and touches her hand, the palpably erotic and oddly aggressive effect is well structured.

I would like to have seen more effective use of the pauses so integral to Ionesco’s script but this should come as confidence develops over the next week. In summary, this is a well considered, carefully constructed and powerful piece that should kick off our theatrical season in style. Madin herself is certainly one to watch over the next year.