The stage is bare, except for a semi-circle of chairs and, tucked to one side, a small outcrop of musical instruments. In the course of an hour, the same space will become Lear's court, rife with gossip and anxious concerns, and the battlefield where hopes of power are lost, but a father finds his loving child again.

These, and other landscapes at the heart of Shakespeare's King Lear, take on colour, character and immediacy through the medium of song, and through the extraordinary vocal powers of Poland's Song of the Goat Theatre. An occasional speech from the play filters into the song cycle, but more for its cadences than for any narrative purpose: what we are offered is more of a universal emotional subtext to Lear's tragedy and though there are no props, no set, there is wonderfully gripping drama in the way this company feelingly inhabit the music they make. Rich, sonorous harmonies flood in from other cultures. The mourning grief of another age rises in a visceral, gutteral scale that is timeless. If this review was a song, it would be a hallelujah of gratitude.

Until August 25

THE dust from 9/11 will never truly settle. Not just because artists and performers continue to respond to the events of that day, but because – as the voice-overs in Smallpetitklein's six-part collage of live dance works, film, installation and soundscape make harrowingly clear – the powdery fallout from the debris is still causing ill health today.

The images that inspired choreographer Thomas Small were, however, the photographs of so-called 'jumpers'. Falling Man, the solo that ends Within This Dust, references the outlines those bodies etched upon the air: but if Tom Pritchard's eloquent limbs bring those shapes alive, the intensity of his demeanour and of the words that ripple out like a stream of consciousness, compel us to address the full horror of the situation, and ponder what we would do if...

Before this, flurries of white paper have suggested the shockwaves of crumpling concrete, the snowstorm of documents spiralling from blasted offices. S/He has tenderly explored the burden of grief and loss through the patternings of a male/female duet where the mirroring of moves, the counterbalances, the high lifts, all speak of a rapport that will, like those others who perished, fall victim on 9/11.

Until August 19

TWO guys – Tom, a bit overbearing, a bit workaholic and Broderick, who is neither of these – share an office. So what?

Ah, but this day there's only one chair. It's quite a slight premise to build a whole show on, but The Dangerologists (who are Broderick Chow and Tom Wells) are willing to throw themselves bodily into this increasingly fierce eruption of one-up-man-ship rivalry and inner frustrations. So it's jackets off, and wham! bam!, they are wrestling. Falls, headlocks, body slams. The stuff of body-drenching sweat and winded lungs, it's alarmingly well sustained. Equally unexpected is the dialogue that cleverly edges from Tom's taunting jibes to Broderick's knock-out revelations. Office politics and macho power-plays are well-worn topics, but this slyly humorous and physically gung-ho two-hander punches well above its weight in that class.

Until August 26

TECHNO-THIS, mixed-media that – sometimes the rarest, most absorbing performances on the Fringe come down to one man telling a story with such perceptive skill that time flies by and you wander out thinking 'everybody should see this show'.

And that is why Guilherme Leme's solo rendering of The Stranger – Camus's L'etranger, in an English tradition that really captures the character of the original – is such a well-spent morning hour. If you don't already know the book – go, and be sucked into the absurdity that engulfs Mersault. And if you do know the book, go and re-acquaint yourself with its brilliance, courtesy of Leme's wonderful rapport with the text.

Until August 25

AS AN installation, this cluttered, shabby three-roomed abode really fires up the imagination. Who has filled all these jars and glasses with curled up photographs and scribbled notes?

Sadly it's when we find out, that the piece lurches into less than interesting territory. The arrival of three women (who are given to varying shades of histrionic behaviour) introduces cross-over back stories of a kind that are familiar from soap operas even if they're not part of our own experiences.

It could be that the written memories they read out have been contributed by us, but that's not enough to forge the kind of connection the trio intend as they shift us from front room to bedroom, and from squabbling outburst to private confidences.

Are we guests? Are they ghosts? Do we care? It might actually be better if we were left to rummage among the hoard of clues ourselves, letting our curiosity create intriguing stories with less predictable scripts.

Until August 26