Guy Pratt: My Bass And Other Animals, King's Head Theatre, London <!-- none onestar twostar threestar fourstar fivestar -->

Two decades of playing bass guitar as a respected but obscure session man with some of the world's most famous musicians has not dampened Guy Pratt's enthusiasm for stardom. He now comes out of the shadows to take centre stage as a comedian.

Sharing the spotlight with Betsy, a 1964 Fender Jazz Bass guitar, our chain-smoking entertainer parodies Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd riffs. He may mock, but he knows he's good. His gig is at once self-deprecating and, quite deservedly, self-aggrandising.

His star-studded reminiscences could seem like bragging, but Pratt deflates any self-importance with humorous accounts of his foolish adventures and missed opportunities. Hisanecdotes are drawn from his experiences backstage with the likes of Robert Palmer, David Bowie and Crosby, Stills & Nash - all inevitably ending in chaos and acrimony. His photo opportunities include being dragged by Bowie into the paparazzi flashes wearing only a kimono, or arriving at a George Michael concert arm in arm with Madonna, typically the one time there's not a pap in sight.

Tales of run-ins with drunk, angry Australian fans and servile German hoteliers are told with as much flair as his conversations with an indignant David Coverdale (the Yorkshire rocker of Whitesnake and Deep Purple fame) or a laddish Martin Kemp. Accounts of working with Madonna (who introduced herself with the words: "Time is money and the money is mine," and demanded: "I hear you're funny. Now make me laugh") make for humorous and engaging trivia.

Nonchalant and self-effacing, Pratt recollects the crews, the drugs, the backstage girls and the thrill of a dressing-room complete with gas hob.

He role-plays the neurosis of a session musician, wanting but not wanting to be watched, inanely running on the spot as instructed, scrutinised by fans in the front row. His rock'n'roll inclination to smash a guitar on stage is thwarted by the instrument's sturdy "through-body" neck - the ensuing crazed murder scene demonstrating the guitar's bloody-minded resilience.

Perhaps such re-enactment is therapy for a man who has to endure the stupidity of audiences who shout idiotically all the way through David Gilmour's sets for Pink Floyd, or patiently suffer banal praise from other musicians, such as: "Man, you really know how to play this shit." To which he responds, rather Englishly, "Thanks awfully."

Although careful not to over-offend, Pratt doesn't shy away from making mildly acerbic digs at his A-list colleagues. Whether he's conjuring up an image of Michael Jackson hiding behind the mixing desk or opining that Eighties videos were "the greatest repository of arse known to mankind," he says nothing that he might regret later.

With a book due to come out next year, and a name perfect for comedy, Pratt is finally emerging from session-musician obscurity. Expect to see more of this cheeky chap.