There is a risk that any advance information about this show will either produce an entirely offputting effect or that it may result in great doubt about its plausibility as a piece of theatre.

Suffice it to say that, being a parody of the genre, this is probably the ultimate fringe show - the kind which this festival exists to celebrate. The set, consisting of a sofa, a TV and a drum kit and peopled by three individuals visibly high on some sort of a narcotic, is immediately reminiscent of a most commonly witnessed opening to a show created by a group of twentysomethings.

Only, the moment these individuals open their mouths (if they do at all), we know we are in a different territory. More ridiculous, less quazi-philosophical, definitely more daring than your average graduation piece - Adam Rapp’s offering makes no secrets of its desire to be a music gig instead. And in the hands of this Obie-award winning playwright-director, a successful music gig it becomes.

The transformation is phenomenally effective, and despite gratuitous nudity, vomit and urination, the result of this attempt at a bad play is so reassuringly good, it is virtually examplary.