Chelsea Birkby is an eccentric but controlled performer who wears her obvious intelligence lightly and with disarming self-deprecation.
She mixes pop culture silliness and smut with philosophy, in this case, mind / body dualism. You might call her a Cartesian comic. Early in the show, she reveals a bipolar disorder diagnosis, which she says she prefers to call a desire disorder rather than a mood disorder.
This leads to a very silly and ultimately serious exploration of desire, sex and objectification (plus the Cheeky Girls, the corny Europop duo she leans on in moments of mental health crisis, as well as the Vengaboys, whose music her boyfriend apparently dreads because it typically foreshadows a crisis). We also take detours to Brazilian butt lifts, a surprisingly risqué grandmother, Camus and D H Lawrence. Those heavier subjects never feel like awkward transplants but are skillfully woven into the show.
Discussions of mental health and therapy are ubiquitous at the Fringe, but we get some very funny gags about her relationship with her therapist, who at one point wishes to "open up" their relationship to involve other shrinks. And the show builds nicely to an emotionally engaging climax in which (through an equine encounter) she reconciles herself to the contradictions of the flesh.
I had the impression she would have engaged at length with audience members, given the chance. There is something discursive and academic about the material, even if it is highly personal.