There are nights out, and then there are nights that feel like a rite of passage. One such evening found artist Piluca and myself stepping through the doors of the legendary Royal Vauxhall Tavern, to witness the singular brilliance of David Hoyle—a figure who exists somewhere between performer, prophet, poet, and living artwork.
I once described Hoyle as the love child of Kate Bush and Lindsay Kemp, and I stand by it. He is not merely an accomplished performer—with a career spanning television, film, and theatre—but an artist who uses his entire being as medium and message. Last year alone he appeared on stage in an adaptation of Hedda Gabler, proving once again that he is as comfortable in classical reinterpretation as he is in anarchic cabaret.
Hoyle is, quite simply, a walking piece of art. He cuts a vein—metaphorical, emotional, spiritual—and allows the audience to witness everything that spills out: his fears, his hopes, his contradictions. There is no armour, no polite distance. When I interviewed him previously for FLUX magazine, it was immediately clear that what you see on stage is not an act but an extension of the man himself. His work screams originality. It declares, unapologetically: This is me. This is David.
The Royal Vauxhall Tavern functions as his church, and Hoyle its high priest. From the roof—sometimes literally—he preaches love, acceptance, beauty, and defiance. His congregation is as eclectic as it is devoted. On any given night you might find Princess Julia rubbing shoulders with City bankers, artists, drag legends, first-timers, and the gloriously undefinable. It would not be absurd to compare the atmosphere to Warhols Factory in its heyday: a collision of art, celebrity, and counterculture, bound together by a shared understanding that something special is happening in the room.
What is striking is the complete absence of age anxiety. Hoyle himself dismisses it with a wave of the hand: “Everyone is beautiful in the room.” And they are. Young and old gather as equals at the metaphorical fountain, drinking in his wisdom, his wit, and his generosity of spirit. The atmosphere is electric yet oddly intimate, like a secret shared by hundreds.
This is not to say the evening is solemn. Far from it. Hoyle’s humour is razor-sharp, his observations hilariously precise—particularly when directed at the audience. Sit front and centre and expect to become fodder. But crucially, he is never cruel. There is warmth beneath the provocation, and affection behind the mischief.
The man seated next to me informed me—without a hint of irony—that this was his 135th time seeing Hoyle perform. A true disciple. By contrast, my gorgeous friend Piluca—Spanish-born artist and creative force—was a virgin to the experience. I could think of no one better to introduce to what I consider a kindred artistic spirit.
She was utterly blown away. The evening began with a film tribute to our shared hero, David Bowie, and Piluca leaned over to whisper, “It’s like being dipped in everything I love.” She could not wait to come back, already plotting a return before the night had even ended.
Adding to the richness of the evening, Pam—taking a brief pause from her charity work—took to the stage to read poetry. We were promised one poem and given two, a small but perfect act of generosity that felt entirely in keeping with the spirit of the night.
The show concluded with Hoyle playing cupid, creating a live portrait of two handsome men from the audience—art, flirtation, and theatre merging in real time. To be part of such an evening is to leave not only entertained, but altered. You walk out thinking differently, feeling differently, slightly braver perhaps.
This is not just a show. It is an experience—unique, communal, and deeply worthwhile. In a world increasingly starved of authenticity, David Hoyle remains gloriously, defiantly real.
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2Shades Magazine 