An essential love letter
I Saw Satan at the 7-Eleven is probably one of the most beautifully written monologue plays I’ve seen in the past few years, if not the best. Written and performed by Christopher Brett Bailey, pretty much as the title indicates, Bailey meets Satan at a 7-Eleven, where the Devil is trying to refuel his car. They talk. Bailey realises that Satan is a heavy-metal headbanger who at times helps the good guys, and also a believer in a whole spectrum of outdated and trendy conspiracy theories. There are definitely political reflections, but probably in nature it’s just an once-in-a-life-time encounter.
What makes the performance extraordinary is how precisely its approach sits right with the text. It is not theatrically striking: Bailey sits at a desk, unmoved for 70 minutes, with only minimal lighting changes (Alex Fernandes). Initially, I was wondering whether the piece might benefit from more theatricality: maybe an ensemble, elaborate props, live video and projections, and a heavier, perhaps more “European” directorial hand. I quickly rehearsed that stage in my mind, releasing it doesn’t gonna work. Overwhelming visual can be detrimental to the writing, because it needs the vision in your mind. It needs imagination.
Then came a second thought. Why shall I sit in a theatre watching the writer read his story, when I could just as easily listen to it on the radio or, more contemporarily, via a livestream? Again that didn’t hold either, as I suspect I would have drifted away from it in those formats. In fact, only the current way Bailey performing works. It has to be a virtuoso storyteller, presented live, to the audience. I Saw Satan at the 7-Eleven quietly proves how live storytelling lasts, in its own way, indispensable and irreplaceable in the whole territory within contemporary theatre and performance art.
Bailey’s voice is the perfect vehicle for this satanic road-side fable. His delivery is unhurried and intimate, allowing the story to unfold as if of its own accord. His tone is low and warm, but reminds you of a cool summer night after sex, perhaps with a devil, I reckon. From time to time, a note of helpless self-mockery flickers through, drawing you into his desperate gentleness. At the same time, Bailey shows a deft responsiveness to the audience, whether it was an accidentally ringing alarm, or an audience member pitied Satan when he’s rejected for sex.
I left with unrequited desire, a desire to perform I Saw Satan at the 7-Eleven to someone I love, looking into her eyes, and telling her, that the world is nothing, and that I am home.









