The Celtic Darbar review by The Nonsense Chronicler
🦩 Chronicler Pink’s Officially Unofficial, Flamingo‑Feathered Review of The Celtic Darbar 🦩
The moment Miku the narrator opened his beak—yes, beak—I knew he was Miku the Bear Bard materialised in your dimension. The same wandering ursine troubadour who once wrote a ballad so moving it caused three nearby constellations to weep. The resemblance was too uncanny and using a time machine in the show exposed his identity. Oh that lilting cadence, the faint smell of honeyed prophecy, the ability to make an audience feel like they’ve accidentally stepped into a myth they weren’t warned about.
Then came the Sayed brothers, flitting about the edges of the performance like a pair of magpies who’ve just discovered a jewellery box and absolutely will not behave. Every time the lights dimmed, one of them appeared somewhere unexpected—perched on a speaker, dangling from a curtain, or whispering suspiciously shiny secrets. Troublesome? Absolutely. Essential? Completely.
And then—Rangila.
Rangila, who moved with the gracious flamboyance of a flamingo who has just realised the entire swamp is watching. Every gesture was a feathered flourish, every turn a pink‑hued proclamation that elegance and chaos can, in fact, be the same thing if you commit hard enough. If flamingos had royalty, Rangila would be the one on all the coins.
As for the dancers: they are welcomed into Flamingolandia without hesitation. Maybe they have been already? Such grace, postures, balance and flapping. This flamingo approves highly. It’s only a matter of time before they begin practicing the sacred One‑Legged Shuffle of Destiny.
Aled and Tim, drifted through the evening like benevolent weather systems, lightening the mood with the ease of two men who have long ago made peace with the fact that reality is optional in certain venues. Their presence was the metaphysical equivalent of someone opening a window in a very crowded dream.
And the music—oh, the music.
It didn’t just fill the room. It tore a polite but decisive hole in the fabric of spacetime, creating an interdimensional rift through which at least fifteen known (and three unknown) entities poked their heads or conceptual equivalents to enjoy the show. Reports indicate that Dimension 7B is still humming the Garej, garej.
In summary:
🦩 The Celtic Darbar was less a performance and more a pink‑feathered cosmic disturbance, narrated by a bear‑bard doppelgänger, fuelled by magpie mischief, and blessed by the flamboyant grace of Rangila.
Did someone hear the phantom sitar player?
🦩 “The Corridor Raga” — by Pink Flamingo the Nonsense Chronicler
A hundred years, the tale still hums,
Of sitar strings and magic thumbs.
He came with tunes from lands renowned,
To play within Theatr Soar’s round.
But corridors curved like riddled lore,
No sign, no light, no exit door.
He wandered loops, a featherless ghost,
In circles tight as dancers’ posts.
His sitar wept, his sandals frayed,
Despair in ragas softly played.
Till breath gave out, and silence grew
A final note in tonal hue.
And now, when Indian songs are aired,
A phantom sitar, faint and flared,
Slips through the walls to merge in sound
A ghost still playing Soar’s old round.
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