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Somewhere in London’s theatre district – I can’t quite put my finger on it – there’s a nondescript office block with a neon sign in the lobby that reads, in blue cursive, “You Me Bum Bum Train.” The flickering sign, and the small group of excited-looking people who gather outside four nights a week, are the only clues that something unusual is going on here. The Bum Bum Train, as it’s called, is an immersive theatre experience that invites audiences into its surreal world one person at a time. For those who enjoy that sort of thing, it’s one of the most coveted tickets in London. What happens during the hour-long show is a closely guarded secret: attendees must sign a non-disclosure agreement, and the website reveals virtually nothing. “To get the most out of the show, the less you know, the better,” it says. “If you’re looking for tickets, don’t look for you me bum bum train.”
Okay, that’s great for tall extroverts, veteran clowns, and front-row comedy audiences, but what about the rest of us? If you’re not used to blindly following new experiences—maybe, like me, you were that person who wanted to understand where mushrooms come from—you can do a little research. I did, and it got me thinking. Bam Bam Train turns theatrical approaches on their head. Instead of having many people watching a smaller number of performers, a troupe of hundreds interacts with an audience of just one. (About seventy-five people watch the show on any given night, one at a time.) Participants, called “passengers,” navigate a series of real-life scenes—like a doctor’s waiting room or a crowded train car—where they must quickly process and respond to what’s happening. To make the venture even more risky, the cast is made up entirely of volunteers who can leave the stage at any time.
The first thing that came to mind was to run! It was like the nightmare of showing up to class unprepared and inexplicably naked, but it kept happening. Still, “Bum Bum Train” has generated rave reviews and a rush to get tickets. (Tickets were offered via lottery, but are now sold out.) “I learned more about myself in 60 minutes than I did in months of therapy,” wrote a Metro reviewer. One volunteer said that taking part in the show helped him cope with depression. The reactions tend to be “a little like when people take ayahuasca,” Morgan Lloyd, one of the show’s creators, told me. Celebrities have also weighed in; Neil Patrick Harris called it “one of the greatest experiences you’ll ever have in your life” in a recent Instagram video. What’s never revealed in these accounts is what actually happens during the show. (Critics, like passengers, must sign nondisclosure agreements.) When the 2015 version of the show aired, one reviewer wrote cryptically that the ideal passenger would be a “physically fit, average-sized egotist” familiar with improv and karaoke. Another early reviewer noted that contestants “must have a head for heights, a heart for adventure, and a penchant for performing,” adding, “This is certainly the only show I’ve ever been on where I was worried about the actors dropping me.”
“I think it’s quite an anarchist model,” Kate Bond, who co-created the show with Lloyd, told me. They were sitting together on a striped sofa in the bar of a Soho hotel. The decor was as bright as it could be, with eccentric aunty touches: pink floral wallpaper, orange lampshades. We were sitting at a table made from a repurposed pinball machine. Bond is blonde, has big blue eyes, and wears a velvet sweatshirt; Lloyd is wearing a Frank Bruno T-shirt. The duo met at art school in Brighton in the early 2000s, where they bonded over their shared absurdist sense of humour. (Once, Lloyd recalled, he told Bond he was thinking of getting a haircut: “She said, ‘Oh, your mum’s going to do that for you? She’s going to use her boobs? Snip-snip.’ I thought, ‘Is she nuts?’) They’re not a couple, but they often look like one. When it came time to order, they each chose a Caesar salad and a soda. When the food arrived, Lloyd, who is a pescatarian, peeled the bacon off his and handed it to Bond. ‘I’m the family dog,’ she said pleasantly.
We met the day after I went on the show. I didn't sign a non-disclosure agreement, but I agreed not to reveal what happens in his scenes. Instead, in the spirit of O.J. Simpson's failed “If I Did It” hypothetical confessional, I'll tell you what might have happened. I might have arrived at a regular office building at my appointed time. I might have been escorted upstairs by a volunteer, and then sat awkwardly in
Sourse: newyorker.com
