The Real Kyle McCarren musical review – grief and music help form a community

 Self-described as a cross between Jonathan Larson’s tick, tick… Boom! and the self-referential angst of Bo Burnham, The Real Kyle McCarron sets its sights on lofty comparisons. While it doesn’t quite reach those dizzying heights, this ambitious six-performer musical possesses a beating heart that is hard to resist – excellent Fringe fare for anyone looking for a pioneering new musical.

Written as a cathartic tribute, the show follows narrator Andy Roninson (who co-created the show with performer Sean McVerry) as he attempts to reconstruct the memory of his late school friend and former bandmate, Kyle (a pseudonym), who died in a freak hurricane accident. We know of Kyle’s tragic death almost immediately; the 80-minute runtime is not about the loss itself, but the lingering aftermath, and the reconstruction of memory. Through a mix of revived teenage compositions and dramatic re-enactments, Andy summons the key figures of Kyle’s world back to the stage – from his university mate Liam (Vincent Jamal Hooper), and ex-girlfriend Justine (Sarah Coffey) to his rueful, melancholy Irish granddad (a cameo from bassist Jamie Mohamdein) and, most importantly, his foul-mouthed mother Siobhan (Jaygee Macapugay). All are naturally note-perfect – especially during a heartfelt a cappella number towards the show’s climax. 

In Lonny Price and Matt Cowart’s confessional, gig-theatre esque staging, what emerges is a intriguing duel between artifice and authenticity. Does performing a person’s memory bring us closer to their essence, or merely build a curated, flattened version? The show grapples with this idea of a “fake truth” without perhaps fully committing to the dark side of the implication: you rarely get as much shade as you do light, but perhaps that is only natural.

The key strength of the musical is that the score is stacked with absolute bangers. Standout number “Live Forever” is a soaring, irresistible tune that grounds the emotional weight of the piece as Andy is cajoled into chatting to everyone in the room at a NY party (he is hopping up and down the aisles, attempting this with the audience). The songs propel the narrative with genuine momentum, serving as a testament to how music can dismantle boundaries, foster community, and offer a lasting legacy when words fail.

Crucially, the show evolves into something broader than a simple eulogy. It becomes Andy’s own journey toward self-confidence, peppered with sharp comic lines: including a throwaway line recalling Kyle dismissing Hamlet as a “whiny b**ch” at school, and Andy dryly noting that Kyle was “my rock, in a Sisyphus way.”

It is warm, deeply moving, and undeniably heartfelt. Precisely the kind of generous, risk-taking new musical theatre the Fringe exists to nurture.

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