Review by Dominic Corr

There’s something remarkably special occurring – while at the same time, something horrific. In the wake of the rolling back of rights, the threat of not just re0emerging barriers, but new ones for Queer communities – art often flourishes as one of the view autonomous spaces left.

Some shows arrive with a quiet whisper, but Bedrock at Assembly Roxy strides in with a grin, a glitter‑flecked bruise and a determination to celebrate queer resilience with both tenderness and teeth. Created by a collective of young LGBTQIA+ artists, the production is a devised piece that honours queer elders while confronting the political chill of the political climate in Scotland, the UK, Europe, the world. It is a work that understands the value of joy as resistance and memory as survival.

The story is less a linear narrative and more a tapestry of lived experience from LGBTQIA+ elders and inter-generationality in the queer community with the purpose to weave multiple threads of spoken word, music, song, and performance based devised theatre piece to seek to honour. Built from interviews, personal testimonies and shared histories, Bedrock explores what it means to inherit a queer lineage in a country where many never lived long enough to become elders. The six performers weave monologues, movement and spoken word into a portrait of intergenerational connection, asking who gets to guide the next generation when so many were lost to violence, illness and erasure. The production moves between moments of exuberant celebration and stark honesty, acknowledging the weight of transphobia, the fight for gender‑affirming care and the loneliness that comes with being othered, while still insisting on the power of chosen family.

The staging sets the tone immediately. A colour‑washed stage scattered with instruments, flags and soft pools of light creates a space that feels both communal and ceremonial. Interview audio drifts through the room as the performers enter, greeting one another with the casual intimacy of people who have built trust through shared vulnerability. The design choices, from the warm lighting shifts to the pulsing soundtrack, support the show’s blend of documentary realism and theatrical expression.

What truly anchors the production is the ensemble. There is a palpable sense of unity among Az Palta, Cameron Kelsey, Izzie Atkinson, Rosie Phillips, Elsa Kerscher and Rae Webb, who co‑create the piece and perform it with a generosity that invites the audience into their circle. Their movement sequences, shaped with precision and emotional clarity, become some of the evening’s most striking moments. A rave‑like section, awash in blue and red light, pulses with the ecstatic release of a queer nightclub, while quieter passages allow individual voices to rise and settle back into the collective. Each performer brings a distinct presence, yet the magic lies in how seamlessly they support one another, shifting between personal testimony and shared choreography with instinctive ease.

The spoken word sections offer some of the production’s sharpest writing, blending humour with political urgency. Stories of prejudice and bureaucratic cruelty sit alongside memories of mentors, drag parents and the elders who taught survival through laughter, defiance and tenderness. The balance between pain and joy is handled with care, though there are moments when the thematic breadth stretches the structure, leaving a few transitions feeling slightly abrupt. Still, the emotional truth of the material carries the audience through these uneven patches.

The direction by Elsa Kerscher and Rae Webb keeps the focus on connection rather than spectacle. Their approach allows the performers’ lived experiences to guide the rhythm of the piece, creating a sense of authenticity that resonates long after the final blackout. The show’s imperfections feel almost intentional, mirroring the messy, beautiful reality of queer community building.

In a world in which the rights fought for, died for, are threatened – before we even look towards claiming the fundamental ones still denied, Bedrock has offered Edinburgh a celebration of queer endurance that is as heartfelt as it is politically charged. At Assembly Roxy, the production becomes a reminder that history is not something stored in archives but carried in bodies, voices and dance floors. It is a show that honours those who came before by lifting up those who are here now, and in doing so, it shines with the kind of hope that feels hard‑won and utterly necessary as the future arrives; no longer silently, but chaotic, dreamlike, and now.

---