Edinburgh Fringe 2026
Acid’s Reign
Relish Theatre
Genre: Musical Theatre, Queer Theatre, Theatre
Venue: Forth at Pleasance Courtyard
Festival: Edinburgh Fringe
Low Down
In 2019, a drag supergroup burst onto the scene apparently intent on challenging climate change. In the years that follow, public interest begins to fade, funding dwindles and commercial opportunities knock. What initially appears to be a story about environmental activism soon reveals itself to be something more nuanced. Acid’s Reign becomes an exploration of visibility, recognition and the fear of becoming irrelevant within artistic, activist, and human spaces.
Review
A live band opens the show, and we hear accomplished four-part harmonies with a megaphone signalling who has the voice.
Fehilly’s writing is at its strongest when it resists easy answers. Whilst climate activism provides the framework of the narrative, the characters are never reduced to mouthpieces for a cause. Instead, we are invited into a company of performers, each wrestling with their own ambitions, insecurities and desires to be heard. Director Luke Howarth evidently trusts audiences to arrive at the production’s conclusions themselves. The show’s most significant observations are held back until surprisingly late in the narrative, allowing us to invest in the characters before their wider human implications emerge.
One of the most effective devices in the musical is My Turn Now, performed simultaneously menacingly and vulnerably by Scarlett Harlett’s Dina Mite. Having previously been discarded by a confident and successful Alex Acid, Dina’s eventual moment of vindication is deliciously realised. Harlett’s understated aside of “mmmhmm” when Acid returns seeking help lands with remarkable precision. Could it be that Harry Mulvany’s lessons from growing up in London’s East End, provided him with more than enough evidence to support quiet observation from the wings before playing our cards our way at the right moment? Yet the insightful quality of Fehilly and Chernick’s song lies in its development beyond a simple revenge number. As the motif reappears throughout the show, My Turn Now becomes the emotional heartbeat of the piece. Each character believes that recognition, validation or redemption has finally arrived. The song evolves into a reflection on performers whose identities become intertwined with waiting for their moment.
That theme emerges perhaps most clearly through Ash Weir’s Olive Branch. Introduced as an enthusiastic devotee who is inexplicably (and riskily) absorbed into the group, Olive frequently occupies the margins of conversations whilst remaining a crutch for others’ emotional lives. Other characters confide in her, reveal vulnerabilities to her and rely upon her unwavering support, yet rarely stop to hear what she herself might need. Fehilly’s lyrics for I Quit! are among the sharpest in the production. Delivered at a breathtaking pace by Weir, the song captures mounting frustration and hurt whilst simultaneously operating as an ominous piece of foreshadowing. The speed occasionally risks obscuring some particularly deft lyrical writing, but that feels a consequence of the character’s emotional overflow rather than a flaw of the song itself.
Victoria Scone gave us sultry, growly vocals from the outset, which she valiantly maintained for most of her numbers. She commanded her scenes and ploughed ahead despite apparent vocal fatigue. It’s clear this powerhouse performer can sing, and she demonstrated professionalism by using a more recitative style in some of her later numbers.
Musically, Gabriel Chernick’s score demonstrates impressive range, though one number stands apart. Last Minute King, performed by Sé Carr as Micky Steele, is a masterclass in musical storytelling. The song moves through a distinctive jazzy and unexpectedly reflective soundscape, allowing Carr to showcase a richly expressive vocal tone and crystal-clear enunciation, especially of the delicious line “You came to see your TV queen, but stayed for your king”. Seated comfortably upon his throne, Micky appears entirely at home in his own narrative. Carr commands the space with admirable assurance and charisma. Intriguingly, Micky appears less comfortable navigating some of the collective moments elsewhere in the production. Whether this should be attributed to characterisation, performance choice, or audience interpretation is inconclusive, but it creates an interesting contrast. Micky seems entirely secure when occupying his own spotlight, yet less certain when required to negotiate space within the group itself. The distinction aligns closely with the character’s arc, and its endearing nature contributes to one of the piece’s most memorable performances. Carr’s Walthamstow influences and a subtle Irish lilt shine through his delivery. There is a moment in which Micky painfully remembers being asked “…What exactly is he?” whereupon a tap break provides the answer: he is talent on two legs.
Gigi Zahir provides the emotional centre of the production as Ria Listic. When I’m Not Here in a Hundred Years is a haunting and quietly devastating piece of writing from Fehilly and Chernick, threaded with reflections upon absence, legacy and what remains after we are gone, most importantly “…what will they think of me?” Zahir performs it with remarkable restraint, allowing the ideas to resonate without sentimentality.
Later, during a voicemail-style soliloquy reflecting upon Ria, Alex Acid (Victoria Scone) appears to be grappling with the possibility that some opportunities for reconnection cannot simply be reclaimed when convenient. The sequence is deeply affecting precisely because audiences may suspect that the reflection-inducing realisation has arrived too late.
Luke Howarth’s direction keeps the show’s substantial themes balanced with humour and theatricality. The comedy is frequently subtle rather than broad, or slapstick, often emerging through carefully observed reactions, visual gags and character interplay. The Smug Song gives us some accurate observational comedy through its tongue-in-cheek lyrics.
David Allwood’s choreography contributes significantly to the momentum of ensemble sequences, whilst maintaining the individuality of the performers. These same steps are performed with either excited ingénue enthusiasm or exhausted apathy (a recognisable journey for many Fringe performers at the end of a full run? Perhaps in their minds they are reciting the lyrics “we’re barely making living wage, but at least we’re making art”)
Throughout, the cast functions as a cohesive unit rather than a collection of drag turns.
The production values remain consistently strong. Good Teeth’s (love this name, my Nan used to say it to me as we watched the death-defying trapeze artists of Billy Smart’s Circus on TV on Saturdays) set design provides an effective environment that supports rather than competes with the storytelling. Alex Maynard’s musical direction ensures that the live band, harmonies and solos remain central to the theatrical experience. Acoustic vocal passages build naturally into powerful ensemble climaxes, demonstrating both the strength of the musical material and the confidence of the company performing it. These are not drag ditties; this is musical theatre, darlings.
What lingers after the last number is not simply the climate message, but the production’s interrogation of visibility itself. Every character is searching for recognition. Every character wishes to matter. Whether artist, activist, friend or founder, each is convinced that this might finally be their turn.
By rooting its message firmly within human relationships, Evie Fehilly’s writing avoids the pitfalls of more didactic contemporary climate theatre. Under Luke Howarth’s assured direction, Acid’s Reign becomes funny, poignant and unexpectedly reflective. It is a musical interested not merely in saving the world, but in understanding the people who believe they can, and those who don’t give it a second thought.
