Sam Simmons: A-K (MICF)

The comedy stylings of Sam Simmons toe a fine line between being a controlled roller coaster thrill ride and a hair-raising runaway train, and it's precisely this white-knuckle yin and yang that makes him one of the most thoroughly entertaining and unique talents in Australian stand-up. 

With spring-loaded agility, Simmons' comedic purview pans between endearing self-deprecation and raw, raving angst, absurdist fantasising and everyday observation. This kooky crucible of bizarre non-sequitur twists, hop-scotching topics and radio jingles is held together solely by Simmons' strength of purpose. Seemingly, there is never a doubt in his mind that his choices are anything but flawless, even if he feels the need to repeatedly remind his audience of that fact.

There's no question that the mechanics of Simmons' comedy is a well-oiled machine, thus there's an unspoken understanding that the aggressively odd persona we see on stage is a carefully constructed character; the man beneath the madness surely wouldn't be so volatile? Punters leaving Friday evening's performance of Simmons' latest show, A-K, may well be questioning that wisdom after an ill-timed but fairly standard bit of heckling managed to push Simmons completely off the rails.

This ignominious end certainly robbed this show of the fanfare it deserves. All the brilliantly bizarre wit and unpredictability that earned Simmons both the Barry and Edinburgh Comedy Awards in 2015 is on full display. In fact, this show often hinges on the adulation that Simmons' has earned since his watershed year; as a comedian described by one critic as being able to make reading the phonebook funny, that's exactly what he does.

Well, sort of. Of course, there's a little more to this show than recited digits. Arriving on stage dressed as an altar boy, serenading the audience with some angelic, ecclesiastical strains, Simmons launches into a screech-voiced yarn about a clumsy mishap at a Hungry Jacks, which despite its Bogan tilt manages to effortlessly segue into an existential paradox as Simmons talks to himself on the phone.

It's stand-up that's as beautiful as it is bonkers, but despite undisciplined appearances, there is, in fact, a truly impressive amount of consideration given to the structure and pace of this hour of comedy. Seemingly inconsequential throwaway quips are later revealed as having the utmost significance, and yet there's enough off-the-cuff banter to disguise the level of architectural forethought with a smokescreen of unruly japes. When Simmons pulls back from the more theatrical sequences to sling a few zingers at his audience, the punchlines are almost always accompanied by his trademark grumpiness, chiding his punters for not fully committing to the pant-wetting hysterics he insists his jokes deserve.

Indeed, Simmons' favourite pastime is a good ol' zero-fucks-given rant, and he's not remotely shy about giving his adversaries a liberal hosing-down with ire (The Herald Sun's comedy writer Mikey Cahill has the dubious honour of being Simmons' greatest nemesis, so it seems). This is perhaps the most iconic aspect of Simmons' shtick, and yet there are moments when the mood stumbles from simulated rage into a genuinely acrimonious atmosphere. Simmons questions why the audience aren't vibing with his funnies, while boasting about his profile overseas. Laughs ensue, but clearly not enough to sate this comedian. The most perplexing thing about this odd hostility is that this show is genuinely superb - there are moments when I was crying with laugher - but it becomes overshadowed by an overload (or at least a miscalculated affectation) of frustration and insecurity.

It's worth noting that weekend late night comedy audiences are not the most attentive, and Simmons definitely drew a short straw with some of the grogged-up plebs who shuffled into the Forum Theatre to see him on this particular occasion. However, it seems a crushing shame that he should take the throwaway flippancy of a few disrespectful punters so much to heart. Heckling is an unavoidable professional hazard, even for comedians of Simmons' stature, so you might be forgiven for assuming such an experienced comic would be better equipped to deal with it, rather than allowing it to unhinge a whole show. I can imagine an unblemished performance of A-K would be an unconditional triumph, but given the relatively minor schism that impacted so conspicuously on this account, it is disappointing to see such a well-constructed production tumble like a house of cards.

Sam Simmons presents A-K till 23 Apr at the Forum Theatre Upstairs, part of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival.