REVIEW: Empty Chair - Your Man Alex Smith and Phoenix Ensemble

Written by Your Man Alex Smith and presented by Phoenix Ensemble, Empty Chair fuses rock, musical theatre, and soul-baring storytelling into a genre-defying performance—think Bo Burnham, but with more theatrics. Serving as both an album launch and an intimate dive into Alex’s experiences with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), the show is equal parts wit, gut-punch emotion, and a fearless sense of self-exploration; with direction by Tammy Sarah Linde, musical direction by Emma Erdis, and choreography by Sabella Segal.

Before the performance, Alex offered a disclaimer: just because you might see yourself in some of the material doesn’t necessarily mean you have BPD... but it might be worth a chat with your mental health professional! It was a moment of care wrapped in wry humour, the perfect primer for what followed: an introspective journey through Alex’s mind, where self-awareness, self-destruction, and self-acceptance tangled together in a gloriously theatrical mess. His story wasn’t a universal blueprint for BPD—it was his own, and he made sure the audience knew that. For those unfamiliar, Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) is a mental health condition characterised by intense emotional instability, impulsivity, and a distorted sense of self. It often manifests in extreme emotions, self-destructive tendencies, and an overwhelming fear of abandonment.

Your Man Alex Smith has released multiple albums—Crazy Days, Guilty, Slow Burn and Empty Chair—each showcasing his evolving musical talent. The musicality of Empty Chair grabbed hold from the first note and refused to let go. Howl opened the show like an invocation, with Alex’s echoing vocals cutting through the air as swirling lights hypnotised us and the cast desperately reached out to him from afar, making the stage feel both infinite and confining.

The ensemble—Micheal Enright, Sam McLaughlin, Doug Berry, Geena Schwartz, Rae Rose, and Kristina Redwood—wasn’t just there to support in the background; they were living, breathing extensions of Alex’s mind, shifting between roles, moods, and moments. Whether narrating the nine traits of BPD or manifesting as the ghosts of relationships past, they were integral to shaping the narrative. Doug effortlessly balanced intensity and comedic timing. My eyes were constantly drawn to him. Rae, Sam, and Micheal formed a terrific trio of talent, appearing in multiple scenes and songs to constantly captivate the audience.

And while the live cast delivered powerhouse vocals, the pre-recorded backing—featuring a 30-strong choir of Brisbane theatre names—added a depth so rich it bordered on the cinematic. Alex’s ability to fuse rock with theatrical storytelling is a wonderful gift, and his knack for pairing catchy hooks with profound lyrics made for an unforgettable listening experience. If you haven’t listened to the album yet, I implore you to do so immediately.

Throughout the show, Kristina Redwood brought a calming, grounding presence as Alex’s psychologist, appearing between numbers to guide both Alex and the audience through his diagnosis and treatment sessions. Her portrayal exuded warmth, strength, and genuine compassion—everything you would hope for in a mental health professional. On the opposite end of the emotional spectrum, Geena Schwartz portrayed Julia, an ex-girlfriend who embodied Alex’s internalised self-criticism. Geena’s performance was chilling (and often darkly funny), as she unleashed a torrent of self-doubt and inner turmoil with a villainous intensity. Her presence was constant, haunting, and compelling, perfectly embodying the toxic thoughts that relentlessly plagued him. The dynamic between Alex and Geena was electric—each confrontation charged with raw emotion.

From the moment Grognax (Devourer of Worlds) began, it was clear that Alex wasn’t shying away from sharing the turbulent emotions that come with BPD. He took the stage as a horned creature—an embodiment of how he perceived himself when first diagnosed (and after Googling the disorder online despite being advised against it). The lyrics were piercing: "My needs are unsustainable. My love is unobtainable. I will never be enough. And I can't stand it." Each line felt like a stab to the heart, exposing the self-destructive thoughts that often accompany the disorder. The choreography was just as impactful, with frantic, erratic movements mirroring the turmoil of the mind.

Splitting the Sky illustrated the concept of 'splitting'—alternating between extreme self-perceptions—rapping about being a self-proclaimed “God of rock,” then descended into self-loathing, declaring, “This sucks, that’s why nobody’s clapping.” The song’s emotional swings were mirrored in the use of split staging, physically dividing these two opposing sides of Alex’s psyche with Doug Berry. Alex’s ability to balance such heavy subject matter with humour was one of the show’s strongest elements. A prime example was his rapid-fire monologue advocating for The Goofy Movie as the greatest Disney film—a rant so compelling that I left convinced I needed to watch it immediately. These moments made the show feel authentic, as though we were seeing not just Alex’s struggles, but also the vivacity that are part of his reality, keeping the show from ever becoming too overwhelming.

One song that made a huge impression on me is Nothing Changed—a scathing reflection on performative morality—specifically, a girl who thought going to therapy made her better than everyone else without ever actually changing her behaviour. The lyrics brutally critique the notion that attending therapy (or church) automatically makes someone a good person: "None of these ignorant heathens deserve my time in the least 'cause every Sunday I go to church and I confess my sins to the priest." The choral backing in this number is breathtaking (seriously, go listen to it now!).

A stark contrast to the other songs was When It Rains, It Snows, a powerful ballad exploring the intense fear of abandonment associated with BPD. The emotional gravity of the song was amplified by a beautiful dance solo from Sabella Segal, whose contemporary choreography spoke volumes without a single word. Even though I am not versed in dance, her emotional expression conveyed every ounce of fear, longing, and vulnerability. That’s the beauty of great storytelling—it doesn’t always need to be explained; it just needs to be felt.

The title song, Empty Chair, served as an exhilarating group anthem, even with its heartbreaking theme of recurring relationship failures. Alex's vocals were outstanding, particularly during the song's bridge where his powerful belt shone. Act One ended with Just Put Me Down, a heavy rock number tackling suicidal ideation. The statistic—one in ten people with BPD will die by suicide—hung in the air as Alex stripped himself raw, belting out, “Why would I claw myself back from the brink of oblivion so I can fight every day just to function?” It was a harrowing yet necessary moment, handled with brutal honesty. As a vocal coach, I must highlight that Alex's voice was exceptional throughout the performance. He remains on stage the entire time, never faltering, never cracking, while courageously offering us this intimate glimpse into this private story.

Act Two burst to life with Raccoon Party, a riotous spectacle depicting Alex’s 30th birthday as a madhouse of fair-weather friends (except for the legend Micheal). The ensemble, decked out as mischievous raccoons with exaggerated Brooklyn accents, were utterly hysterical. The number’s banjo-driven chaos, paired with chaotic staging, made for a deliriously fun contrast to the heavier moments of the show. And Kristina Redwood’s deadpan delivery of, “Sorry I’m late, I had diarrhoea!” completely wrecked me.

One of my personal favourites was This Cool to Ride, a duet with Rae Rose that tackled unhealthy relationship dynamics. On the surface, it was an upbeat, ridiculously catchy number, but beneath the infectious groove lay lyrics that cut deep—“Any second now I’ll grow a backbone, any second now I’m gonna walk.” Rae's harmony was awesome, layering tension and desperation over a driving beat that made me want to hit repeat the second it ended.

One of the most honest moments of the show came when Alex exploded at his therapist over the cost of getting help. “I don’t want to do the work and spend the money just to become ‘normal’!” That moment was painfully, infuriatingly real. And then there’s the way that Alex encapsulated a feeling I’ve never been able to put into words: “I never liked birthdays because they feel like an audit on how well you are liked.” Hearing that sentiment expressed so plainly was both validating and devastating. But Alex takes it a step further—“I would move heaven and hell so my friends don’t feel the way I do each year”.

The (not) final number, Get Better, had Alex joined by an ensemble of cheerleaders while he offered words of wisdom to his younger self (played by Micheal). The lyric “So just put on this song when you're fighting with your brain” is a lifeline—a reminder that healing isn’t linear, but it is possible. The actual final number, Working on Myself, didn’t offer a neat, happy ending—because life isn’t that simple. It acknowledged that recovery is ongoing, that self-improvement is a journey rather than a destination.

This show gave me emotional whiplash in the best way possible. One moment, I was howling with laughter (the hilariously self-aware lyric: “I'm an ace, borderline musician, and a Scorpio” destroyed me); the next, I was crying—or, if I could cry, I would have. Instead, I settled for dancing in my seat and nodding along to lyrics that felt like they’d been pulled directly from my own brain. Alex Smith has done something extraordinary with Empty Chair. It reaches into your soul, pulls out the things you didn’t know how to say, and sings them back to you. He took his own deeply personal experiences and transformed them into a show that was equally hilarious, heartbreaking, and hopeful. But more than that, it was the courageous, unflinching honesty that made this show unforgettable.

Devastatingly, its run was cut short due to complications from the cyclone, making its impact feel even more fleeting—like something rare and precious that disappeared too soon. Thankfully, the album exists, and I played it on repeat the entire drive home. I can only hope Empty Chair finds another life on stage. It deserves it. And when it does return, I’ll be first in line to see it again.

Photographs by Jess Asher