This is a ferocious play by Harold Pinter currently being divinely revived on Broadway. It's going to be running for a few more weeks so you don't have much more time to see it. After CJ, it stars my other favorite Broadway musical star, Raul Esparza who was in last year's brilliant revival of the Stephen Sondheim classic, Company.
Olivia Newton-John was probably my number one favorite recording artist when I was growing up. Starting with "If You Love Me Let Me Know" and "I Honestly Love You" which sported lyrics by Peter Allen and won the Grammy Award for Record of the Year. The left speaker icon will play IYLMLMK and the right icon will play IHLY. I saw Grease about ten times the summer it came out and drove 45 minutes to see Xanadu when it was released on a limited number of screens. I'm sad to say, it was terrible.
Now some twenty years later there is an incredibly funny musical production of the movie which is delighting audiences and providing approximately 6'4" of eye candy in the form of Cheyenne Jackson who has his own incredible Broadway story leading to his star turn in short shorts and a rave review of his thighs in the New York Times.
The humor is certainly not high-browed. It's fairly sophomoric but it doesn't ever get that bad because it's so witty. I still crack up at "Have You Never Been Mellow" when a single, ocular centaur sings, "Never had time to lay back. Kick your shoes off. Close your eye (singular.) I was like you." And there's another line about having one's head up in the clouds and sure enough they're singing on top of Mount Olympus and the clouds roll by.
Here's a pic of Cheyenne demonstrating his eye candy appeal:
And now here are some videos featuring Cheyenne starting with a few of Xanadu. What is more perfect than Matt Lauer introducing the cast of Xanadu and CJ?
And here's Cheyenne on The View.
Two of the supporting cast are Mary Test and Jackie Hoffman who are a laugh riot. Here they are in a concert in Bryant Park.
Finally, here's the New York Times review of Xanadu. I totally recommend you go see it.
Heaven on Wheels, and in Leg Warmers
By CHARLES ISHERWOOD
Published: July 11, 2007
Can a musical be simultaneously indefensible and irresistible? Why, yes it can. Witness “Xanadu,” the outlandishly enjoyable stage spoof of the outrageously bad movie from 1980 about a painter and his muse who find love at a roller disco in Los Angeles.
The title doesn’t ring a bell? Let me refresh your memory. In “Xanadu” did Newton-John a blooming film career destroy. (Sorry, Mr. Coleridge, I couldn’t resist.)
You probably remember how Olivia Newton-John, the pert, wholesome pop thrush, rocketed to film stardom opposite John Travolta in the Hollywood version of the musical “Grease.” That was in 1978. A mere two years later she roller-skated into oblivion — or at least back to Australia — in a fabulously insipid turkey called “Xanadu,” which didn’t do much for Gene Kelly’s career, either. “Xanadu” also helped kill the “Grease”-born movie musical revival right quick, and the film now resides, I trust, under toxic lockdown at Netflix shipping centers across the country. Watch it at your peril.
Why, you may wonder, would anyone deem it necessary, or even worthwhile, to pay lavish mock homage to a dreadful movie by exhuming it for exhibition onstage? Has Broadway nothing better to do? Has the American musical theater reached such a nadir of inspiration?
Well, yeah. I guess. Whatever. Why pester me with silly questions when there’s so much silly bliss to be had at the Helen Hayes Theater, where the new, improved “Xanadu” opened last night? In any case, Douglas Carter Beane, the impish playwright who has ingeniously adapted the screenplay for the stage (while wearing a Hazmat suit, I hope), trumps such hectoring queries by acknowledging the inanity of the enterprise himself. In his adorably ditzy new book for the musical, Mr. Beane posits 1980, the year “Xanadu” dawned and the year in which the stage version is set, as a cultural turning point. “The muses are in retreat,” muses the god Zeus, played by Tony Roberts, in the musical’s poignant climax. (Kidding!) “Creativity shall remain stymied for decades. The theater? They’ll just take some stinkeroo movie or some songwriter’s catalog, throw it onstage and call it a show.”
Prophetic words, mighty Zeus, but the creators and performers of “Xanadu” desecrate the theatah with such sharp good humor and magnetic high spirits that you won’t have much time to weep for the cultural blight that too much of Broadway has become. And in fact, there is enough first-rate stage talent rolling around in “Xanadu” to power a season of wholly new, old-school, non-jukebox musicals, if someone would get around to writing a few good ones.
Kerry Butler, as the Greek demi-goddess Clio, who also roams Venice Beach as the Australian mortal Kira, is simply heaven on eight little polyurethane wheels. Or heaven in leg warmers. (Actually she’s both: the skates and woolens are Ms. Newton-John’s memorably ghastly signature look from the movie, though the costume designer David Zinn chose not to drape her in those fetching peasant blouses.)
Ms. Butler is the rare Broadway ingénue who is as funny as she is pretty, and she sings gloriously, too, both in her own tangy Broadway belt and in a devastatingly funny impersonation of Ms. Newton-John’s sweetly sighing soprano. (When Ms. Butler is speaking Australian, she’s actually a ringer for a fresher import from Down Under, Nicole Kidman.) She’s got a lovely line in arabesque on those skates, too! Can Audra McDonald or Kristin Chenoweth do that?
Clio-Kira sheds her inspirational light on a frustrated young would-be artist named Sonny, who spends his time making chalk murals on the sidewalk by the shore. Sonny has chalk for brains, too, and Cheyenne Jackson, the star of “All Shook Up,” the forgettable Elvis jukebox musical, plays him beautifully as a big slab of prime beefcake in tube socks and denim cutoffs. Sonny’s twinkling blue eyes have all the depth of a kiddie pool, his earnest effusions the hilarious aridity of soap-opera acting. (Mr. Jackson is a last-minute and temporary substitute for James Carpinello, star of the forgettable stage ripoff of “Saturday Night Fever,” who was injured in a skating accident and will return to the role when he heals.)
Working from a screenplay consisting of atrocious musical numbers Scotch-taped together with doltish dialogue, Mr. Beane filled the gaps by dreaming up tasty shtick for two of Clio’s wicked sister muses, Calliope and Melpomene, who are played by the stage-devouring comic actresses Jackie Hoffman and Mary Testa, respectively. Their theme song, “Evil Woman,” is a highlight, as Ms. Hoffman, in her cat eyeglasses looking like a Roz Chast cartoon sprung to life, scats the shrieky guitar riffs while Ms. Testa bellows the chorus in chesty tones. Together or separately, they are both criminally funny.
Perhaps you remember “Evil Woman,” a hit for the not-quite- immortal ’70s synth-rock outfit Electric Light Orchestra. (A clue: Sing the first syllable twice.) If you were at least tween-age in 1980 and in possession of a radio, you will probably recognize a big chunk of the pop score for “Xanadu,” which includes the sultry ballad “Magic” and the pulsating title tune, written (like “Evil Woman”) by Jeff Lynne, the songwriter for E.L.O.
Back in the day, these were the kind of songs that you’d scoff at in public but crank up and sing along with in the privacy of your Camaro. Now, thanks to our metastasizing cultural affection for the drek of yesteryear (one day theses will be written about that seminal work “Mamma Mia!”), we are free to celebrate them in collective public rituals, as long as everyone agrees to keep tongues in cheeks.
“Xanadu,” which has mostly been directed at roller-derby speed by Christopher Ashley, does have a few dead spots in its brisk 90-minute running time. In addition to Zeus, Mr. Roberts plays the Gene Kelly role from the movie, a magnate named Danny Maguire who bankrolls Sonny’s disco dreams.
Mr. Roberts possesses a polished deadpan style, but Mr. Beane’s inspiration seems to have failed him when it came to minting fresh fun from the subplot involving flashbacks to Danny’s 1940s romance. The stage “Xanadu” can’t really muster much in the way of an extravaganza, either, despite Dan Knechtges’s mercilessly cheesy choreography and the music director Eric Stern’s zesty pop arrangements. (For those attuned to higher musical planes, yes, he is that Eric Stern.) The production is skimpy on both the casting and design fronts.
A few dozen audience members are seated onstage, but this device, used effectively in “Spring Awakening,” seems less an aesthetic choice than an economic one here. With a cast of just 10 and minimal sets (the designer David Gallo seems to have blown much of the budget on disco balls), “Xanadu” uses these onstage viewers as unpaid extras and space-filling, mildly animated scenery.
I can imagine, though, that members of the movie’s cult following, amateur cultural archaeologists of all things ’80s, would thrill to the prospect of being magically spirited into the swirling center of a beloved period artifact.
“This is like children’s theater for 40-year-old gay people!” cracks Ms. Hoffman’s Calliope at one point, and she (or rather Mr. Beane) is only half-kidding. But that acidic epithet could be used to describe far too many more earnest Broadway duds of recent vintage. At least “Xanadu” is in on the joke. The show’s winking attitude toward its own aesthetic abjectness can be summed up thus: If you can’t beat ’em, slap on some roller skates and join ’em.
XANADU
Book by Douglas Carter Beane; music and lyrics by Jeff Lynne and John Farrar; based on the Universal Pictures film screenplay by Richard Danus and Marc Rubel; directed by Christopher Ashley; choreography by Dan Knechtges; music direction and arrangements by Eric Stern; sets by David Gallo; lighting by Howell Binkley; costumes by David Zinn; sound by T. Richard Fitzgerald and Carl Casella; projection design by Zachary Borovay; technical supervision by Juniper Street Productions; production stage manager, Arturo E. Porazzi; general manager, Laura Heller. Presented by Robert Ahrens, Dan Vickery, Tara Smith/B. Swibel and Sarah Murchison/Dale Smith at the Helen Hayes Theater, 240 West 44th Street, Manhattan; (212) 239-6200. Running time: 1 hour, 30 minutes.
WITH: Kerry Butler (Clio/Kira), Cheyenne Jackson (Sonny), Tony Roberts (Danny Maguire/Zeus), Jackie Hoffman (Calliope/Aphrodite), Mary Testa (Melpomene/Medusa), Curtis Holbrook (Thalia/Siren/Young Danny/’80s Singer/Cyclops), Anika Larsen (Euterpe/Siren/’40s Singer/Thetis), Patti Murin (Erato/Siren/’40s Singer/Eros/Hera), David Tankersley (Featured Skater) and André Ward (Terpsicore/Siren/’80s Singer/Hermes/Centaur).
(Old Essay #1 - Read this before Born In the USA which follows immediately after. Originally written in July 1999.)
It was with great excitement that I had been anticipating last night’s by invitation only event. When the planning began in the spring, I feared that my schedule would not allow me to attend what would turn out to be a stupendous soiree of a single evening for six very lucky New Yorkers. Obtaining Bruce Springsteen concert tickets was easier.
I arrived shortly after 6 p.m. after all the other guests had arrived. The setting was nicely climate controlled making the steamy heat of the City disappear immediately. The men were all stylishly dressed in black from head to toe. The women were well appointed and neatly dressed. The hostess wore a very stylish apron with ties around the neck and waist. Being the only one to show up in shorts and not wearing any black, I began to feel that I had not doffed the proper gear, especially after being mistaken for a deliveryman in the lobby. [I feel compelled to reveal that I was wearing a Liz Claiborne shirt]. Of course, the guests were most gracious and did not sneer at my faux pas.
The spacious Upper West Side apartment overlooking Central Park was fabulously appointed. Two huge vases filled with summer’s finest flowers graced the table. A collection of glassware beyond belief was laid out on the table. Glasses specific to each beverage stood tall. A brand new pitcher with an ice core purchased just to serve iced tea for the evening glistened as an innovative example of form and function. Glass dishes of varying sizes were stacked next to the cutlery, which had transparent handles. The bookcases were filled with books and journals. Several shelves were lined with what has to be the largest collection of Vogue magazine that I have ever seen. Bryant Gumbel graced several photographs, which was exciting to see because it meant that I was now only three degrees away from Matt Lauer.
The repetitive music of Jerry Herman could be heard over the conversations of the guests as the first course was being served. Marvelous maze chips were cleverly arranged in large (you guessed it) glass bowls accompanied by small bowls of tomato compote. The blend of colors was a feast for the eyes.
The second course of an exquisite pate served on glass plates was presented with an excellent assortment of crackers and water biscuits. The assortment of crackers was more diverse than the breadbaskets served at Bouley Bakery. The pate was richly flavored and spread over the crackers like buttah.
Like a scene from The Way We Were, swirling with the gossip, politics and events of the day, the revelers settled down to watch a film. Certainly, it was not merely a film to one of the devotees who began to ask the guests the virgin question. I was quickly running the film through my brain trying to remember when the audience participation dance number occurred and wondering if I should have brought my umbrella.
The first reel began to roll. The volume was turned up and the special edition of All About Eve with commentary hit the screen. If you think that the dialogue in this film is witty and sharp, it is nothing more than a Dick and Jane book compared to the criticisms and insights offered by the guests who offered incredible tidbits of gingerbread (ok, so I read that article too but not everyone did) and who through reciting some of the key lines of the film, helped those of us who may have missed a line to keep up.
As the bumpy night came to an end on screen, the audience took a break as the second reel was being racked. The sadness of the day re-emerged as we viewed images of that cute toddler playing with his father and sadly saluting his father one last time over and over again. Happily the spice offered during dinner kept the atmosphere from becoming too maudlin.
Served in a lovely glass casserole with a glass cover, the jambalaya laden with fruits de la mer and the land could be easily viewed while it stayed warm. Any dish containing the food of my people (this time the leader would be Mao) is a winner with me. The grain was fragrant and fabulously diffused with the flavors of the shrimp, sausage and spices. Petite barbecued chicken wings were nicely basted in a scrumptious sauce with just enough patches of charred sugar. A choice of two fine bottles of salad dressing was offered for the delicately chopped salad of lettuce, tomato, cucumber and colored peppers.
The guests filled their plates and sat down to enjoy the delicious meal. As the hostess urged us all to mangia with more gusto than Anthony’s mother on a Wednesday, she gracefully covered our laps with place mats. The second helping that several of her guests happily consumed did her proud.
An illuminating discussion occurred as we learned about Keith’s whereabouts. [You were sorely missed and I hope that this faithful accounting of the evening helps you to get a feel for what you missed]. Perhaps, the most clarifying point was understanding whom the fuck Kevin was and why HE was also missing. And, yes, the answer to my question on Friday is that he’s a MAJOR hunk. WOOF!
The dishes were cleared and the festivities just kept on rolling. Mr. Lustbader was the only male called to the kitchen to assist the women that evening by uncorking a bottle of bubbly so fine that I still have no idea how to pronounce it. The well-honed skills of the French linguist C.L. were helpful here especially since she brought the bottle. More later on that. C.L. then dazzled us with her command of English as she proffered a toast to congratulate our hostess on her highly deserved Emmy award. Although I must sadly report that I do not get HBO and have still never seen our talented hostess in professional action. Major sigh.
Another of the evening’s highlights rolled as the group gathered for a photograph to symbolize the importance of our influences in inspiring and enabling our hostess to reach the level of greatness she has achieved thus far. After the group picture, each guest lovingly held the the angel with the globe as we took turns stroking her wings and capturing that moment forever to share with her parents who must feel like our adopted family as they have heard so much about us.
After the photo session, we once again settled into our seats to watch the rise of Eve Harrington. The raucosness of the first half was subdued as the effects of the alcohol washed over the crowd which looked like it had spent a long day at the beach as their bodies slumped into their seats.
A key moment occurred when some French phrase was used. This is where those remarkabel linguistic skills came into use again. C.L. was able to quickly translate for the French-challenged among us adding another layer of depth to our understanding of the film. We watched the calculated planning of Eve unfold as the players got caught up in her web. But alas, she failed in her bid to crush the friendship of the gang.
Our attention once again returned to food. Dessert was another delicious display of decadence. An assortment of confections from that renowned non-dairy bakery in Flushing was available for tasting. The selection was incredible: chocolate, nuts, no nuts, and coconuts. Unlike the guests, blondies were also available in addition to a nice lemon tart. Yet another glass bowl was filled with another carefully chopped salad of fresh fruits. Summer at its gastronomic best. Of course, a new set of glass dishware was unveiled as the coffee cups sat empty.
Along with dessert, we were treated to a surprise bootleg video of what has got to be the greatest sensation to hit the cabaret world since David Campbell. A new chanteuse dressed in a slinky black dress sang "I Love A Piano" as I had never heard it performed before. I’m sorry to say that despite my great luck in being able to get into the hottest events in this town, this performance was not among them. This mystery diva’s musical stylings were not only heavenly but also sensuous. That all to brief glimpse of female thigh sent me places that I had never seen before. If I were some other kind of boy, I’d let her stroke my keys and pump my pedals anytime!
Even with all of this fabulousness, one thing stood much higher than all the rest. The greatest highlight of the evening for me was having my friends around me as I was struggling with the fragility and vulnerability of our lives. Being nearly the same age as my favorite hunk and knowing that I could have stalked him for four years at Brown, saddened me throughout the day. As I thought about those we miss and the realization that much like all that glassware of the evening, how quickly our hopes, dreams and lives can be shattered at the drop of a hat, I was buoyed by the staggering number of years that I have know each of you collectively and our enduring friendships.
In the immortal words of the non-repetitive Stephen:
"Here's to us. Who's like us? Damn few!"
(This is an old essay from July 1999.)
I spent three hours in Chinatown, Jack, I connected to the Internet and I never went back...
I opened up to ten browser windows at once one Saturday morning in April, in order to buy a spot with 20,533 other Bruce fanatics. In the end, I purchased 18 tickets to five different nights and sold the ones I would not use myself at cost. What a mensch. Actually, I just didn't want to get sent up the river. The most you can re-sell a ticket for is three dollars.
To secure tickets for the Born in the USA tour in 1985 I slept out overnight in the parking lot of the Triangle Shopping Center in Yorktown Heights where I spent most of my formative years from the age of 8 to 17. Getting tickets for the Springsteen concert I attended in the early 90's was much easier. He surprisingly did not sell out the Nassau Coliseum on that tour. Several days after the tickets went on sale, I called Ticketron on a whim and snagged two ultra nose bleed seats which were right alongside the stage. My friend, C.L., accompanied me to Nassau coliseum as she did this past Sunday to the Continental Area in East Rutherford, New Jersey, formerly knows as the Governor Brendan F. Byrne arena, part of the Meadowlands Sports Complex.
For the past three months the anticipation built continuously each day as the concert drew nearer and hit its highest point when the first night of Bruce's concert made page 1 of The New York Times. I was feeling much older than the last concert at the Coliseum even though less than a decade had passed and was thinking that this could be Bruce's last tour. Bruce, who is now 49 and still quite a hunk, may be too old to do another tour after this one or more likely I will be! Bruce broke the Meadowlands all-time record with a 15-concert engagement in which he sold 308,000 tickets.
However, my endorphin level dropped dramatically when I woke up on Saturday morning and Jack Ford confronted me with the news that the plane had gone down. I had had a fabulous evening the night before (see "Of Moppets, Jambalaya and Petting Zoos"). But on Sunday, I awoke to the same bad news of the day before and firmer confirmation that I would never have breakfast with my heartthrob again and would have to be content with having him on my computer desktop.
I was 18 months old in November 1963. I don't recall much of the death of John's father other than none of my cartoons were on and there appeared to be nothing interesting on television whatsoever. How strange to find myself glued to the TV this time some 36 years later listening to the same commentary repeatedly and watching the same video clips over again and again with intense concentration. I found myself not being able to sleep Saturday night and woke up early on Sunday because I wanted to see what was going on. The loss of the father did not register me with me in any meaningful way as a toddler as the loss of the son now gripped me as an adult.
The night before, C.L. and I arranged to meet inside the Port Authority Bus Terminal at 5:15 PM outside the Duane Reade on 8th Avenue and 42nd Street. [For those of you who don't know or have forgotten, C.L. and I met 24 years ago in Mr. Martin's Latin I class at Yorktown High School. I know....you're thinking...she can't possibly be more than twenty-five years old.] I wanted to make sure that there would be a cool place to wait since Sunday turned out to be our third straight day of 90+ degree weather with a heat index over 100 and I tend to be early . I had originally thought we'd meet at 5:00 PM but I thought I'd try out my new flexibility skills and begrudgingly agreed to the 15 minute delay. She was happy to meet me earlier, but I stood resolved to stretch my inner self and set the time for 5:15.
Of course, I arrived at the bus terminal at 4:50 so I figured that I'd save time and buy the tickets before I met C. L. So much for flexibility. I followed the signs upstairs and ended up on the third level with a lot of closed shops. After some uncertain maneuvering, I ended up going back down to the second floor. I finally saw a row of ticket windows but not the ones I needed for NJ Transit. I walked all the way over anyway and behind a wall found the NJ Transit windows. I purchased the tickets, a mere $6.50 round trip. Then I had to journey back to the meeting spot. It turns out I ended up in the south terminal building and needed of find my way back to meet C.L. in the north terminal building.
I found C.L. already at the Duane Reade when I got back. She almost didn't recognize me because I wasn't carrying my usual green backpack. Again, I was testing my inner strength. It was only 5:10. I had asked at the ticket booth where to get the bus. Gate 305. C.L. had asked someone and they said right outside. We asked a third person and the reply was Gate 305. We headed to 305. We got on what was supposed to be the 5:30 bus which ended up being the 5:15 bus since it left early. We arrived at the Continental Arena at 5:30. The bus driver pointed to the opposite side of the area as the pick-up spot and cheerfully wished us a great time at the concert.
C.L. was a good sport and didn't complain bitterly about having to wait an hour in the heat of the sun until the arena opened. We walked around the parking lot to the entrance of the arena where the buses disembark their passengers. We passed a souvenir stand and looked at some of the T-shirts. So many choices...such high prices! Most of these cotton underwear were being sold for $30.
At the next stand I bought my first T-shirt. It is black with a picture of the Asbury Park casino on the front. Right out of my childhood in which I spent most of my summers at the Jersey Shore in Bradley Beach, a small community one mile south of Asbury Park. The back lists all the NJ dates of the tour. We continued on and I picked up a second T-shirt for my baby sister's 28th birthday on August 1. Her T-shirt is a simple white one with a few photos symbolic of Bruce on the front: a carousel horse, a flag, and a hubcap, nothing on the back and only $28!
As we were coming over on the bus, the lady across the aisle from us wondered out loud what "those parties at the cars are called." We approached the front and we hit the tailgaters. It seemed like a very subdued crowd. People were grilling and drinking. Very few were blasting music. As we got closer to the main entrance we began to hear strained female voices screaming out Born to Run. As we got closer to the singing we hit the beach set up in the outdoor parking lot. On a stretch of blacktop a makeshift boardwalk was replicated with a volleyball court with sand, arcade games with stuffed animal prizes and the source of the singing...a karaoke stage.
The two women thankfully soon finished singing and a preadolescent girl got up and droned Glory Days. I wished she'd passed me by. The next performer was a young man from Minneapolis in his early 20s dressed all in black and shades. He treated us to a well executed rendition of Elvis singing Born to Run. The next act cued up and we strolled on. We briefly watched a game and walked to the end of the boardwalk. We picked up a key chain/bottle opener from a table set up by a radio station. What a useful thing to have when the beer bottle top is not a twist-off! C.L. and I will get much use out of that trinket. We came back to the karaoke stage where a nicely muscled, hairy-chested young man, was singing Born to Run shirtless. Woof! The best performance so far and marvelous eye candy. Unfortunately, he had only about one stanza left when we got within view. Suddenly C.L. noticed the celebrity she described in her earlier correspondence. What a sharp eye she has! When we got inside later on, she even recognized the young man from Minneapolis sans shades!
Around 6:30 the doors opened and we decided to hit the air conditioning. We entered at Gate D and began our counter clockwise walk to our seats which turned out to be on the complete opposite side of the arena near Gate B. We passed several souvenir stands and checked out the merchandise. It was all the same stuff that we saw outdoors but we learned that they accept credit cards inside.
As we continued our walk, we took stock of the food offerings. It was all your basic fare: $4.50 hamburgers, $3.00 franks, chicken fingers, fries, Cracker Jacks, Carvels, soda, beer, etc. I settled for a $3.50 foot long. Yes, I got the heavy duty size dog and ate it with relish. After our meal I went to check the men's room where an alleged drug deal had taken place. I refrained from checking underneath the stalls.
C.L. wanted something from Carvel's. I was undecided but walked over there anyway. The choices were limited to vanilla, chocolate and twist. But, they did have that chocolate dip stuff that makes a hard shell (neat stuff) and chocolate and rainbow sprinkles. I once again challenged my inner strength and did not get anything and simply watched C.L. eat her cone.
Inside, the concert crowd still seemed a little subdued or I just felt that way since I had not caught up on my sleep from getting in at 3 AM on Saturday morning, some four to five hours after my normal bedtime. At 7:30 when the concert was scheduled to start, the arena appeared to be only half full. Our seats were behind the stage about three-quarters the way up, but we were closer to the stage than any other seats I had obtained out front. With the giant screens that were mounted behind the stage, we were able to see all that was going on from out front.
We covered a variety of topics waiting for the concert to begin including our cell phone services. I decided to try mine out and called one of my friends who was screening his calls and failed to pick up the phone. C.L. decided to try him and got through because he did not recognize her number on the Caller ID. To be fair, he did try to *69 me (that's STAR 6 9, for you perverts), but I had turned my phone off to conserve the battery. Finally at 8:15, the lights went down and out popped the E Street Band one member at a time and finally Bruce. The crowd leapt to its feet. The masses were ecstatic and wiggling to the music. He opened with a song I did not know and played several more throughout the evening that I did not recognize.
We were sitting in front of a pair of married couples who were particularly annoying. One of the husbands provided running commentary throughout the night on the number of guitars on stage, when the performers would take a drink, what they were drinking , who was sweating and other such important details. He did prove useful a couple of times when he was able to name a song that C.L. and I did not recall. His wife was particularly stupid insisting that a recording was being played as Bruce lip synched according to her fantasy world. The other strange thing about the couple was that they had recently seen Shania Twain and Puff Daddy in concert. I guess I should give white trash more credit. In front of us were four beer drinking buddies who stood through much of the concert. Despite this annoyance they were truly enjoying the concert unlike the couple next to C.L. who did not stand at all through the concert or seem to have any expressions of happiness on their faces throughout the night, although the woman did sing along very quietly a few times. Their only saving grace was that he was quite cute.
Bruce played his guitar, sang, danced and ran all over the stage for three straight hours and by our count performed 24 songs. He performed tirelessly, completely exhausting me sitting up in the stands. You could see his shirt become saturated with perspiration as patches began to darken until his entire shirt became the same darker shade of blue. Bruce's connection with the audience almost approaches umbilical. His fans absolutely adore him. He makes a real connection with the crowd and genuinely appreciates their adoration and affection. The audience was always willing to sing along and to sing alone whenever Bruce held his microphone in their direction. His first top 10 hit, Hungry Heart, is a great audience participation number where the audience sings the entire first verse alone. During other numbers, Bruce would swing his arm in the air in tempo with the music and the audience would follow - a true pied piper.
We had wondered whether Bruce would mention the weekend's tragedy. Before the last number he sent out a message to the two families and expressed that our thoughts were with them. I do not know the final song very well nor could I hear it with much clarity. Actually, the whole evening was a little less than acoustically satisfying. The finale sounded familiar but I could only make out the refrain which went as follows:
"I will follow you.
If I should fall, please wait for me."
This
was certainly not the upbeat, vibrant ending I had anticipated and
was hoping for, but it was a poignant and beautiful ending to be
shared with friends, family and sadly with JFK, Jr., Carolyn, her
sister and their families. In the end, I think his choice was better
than singing Glory Days or Born in the USA. It was a fitting
bittersweet, heartfelt tribute to America's son. [Note added on 3/29/08: This was actually how the concert ended during this tour. It had nothing to do with that weekend's tragedy.]
The trip home was pretty easy. The bus pick-up location is actually right outside the gate where our seats were located. There was some confusion as two lines formed to board the buses but that disarray probably only delayed us by fifteen minutes. There was the usual cutting in line which I guess is to be expected since we were going back to New York City after all.
As we approached the Lincoln Tunnel the majestic Manhattan skyline came into view. My thoughts turned once again to the excitement and energy of that little island purchased for a few mere trinkets. It's a magical place and I was flooded with the feelings that good things will happen again and had indeed that afternoon as David Cone pitched a perfect game in Yankee Stadium nearly a year after a potentially career-ending and life-threatening aneurysm. It was only the third perfect game in Yankee history and only the 14th perfect game in all of baseball history.
My greatest sense of loss over John is that we will never know what might have been, just as losing his father forever altered contemporary American history. It's similar to the dull ache that I felt when Michael Bennett of Dreamgirls, A Chorus Line, Company, Follies and other legendary Broadway hits and bombs passed on. While Michael's wizardry was bounded by the stage, John's mere presence seemed to brighten the world just as Mary could take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile.
They found John, Carolyn and Lauren. All hope is now dashed but at least now there can be some degree of closure.
The exhilaration I experienced at the Springsteen concert is much the same as the night I saw Merrily We Roll Along at St. Peter's Church near the Citicorp building the night several of us were introduced to Malcom Gets. The musical took us back in time to a New York City rooftop where three friends gathered to watch the beginning of man's exploration of space. I can picture John up on that roof. He embraced life. He loved his family. He treasured his friends. I can’t think of a life better lived.
Up on the roof, the three friends sang of the hopes and dreams that John and his father have come to symbolize for all of us and offered us the challenge to achieve greatness. I think about John and his zest for life when I hear this song and I am comforted in knowing that we can all carry his legacy by moving forward and following our hopes and dreams. I also remember that John was a would-be actor and that perhaps he too enjoyed musical theatre. Yes, this is another non-repetitive Sondheim song. Actually, it's a pretty good, hummable tune.
"It's our time, breathe it in.
Worlds to change and worlds to win.
Our time coming through,
Me and you, pal.
Me and you!
Years from now,
We'll remember and we'll come back,
Buy the rooftop and hang a plaque:
'This is where we began
Being what we can.'
It's our time on the block.
Give us room and start the clock.
Our dreams coming true.
Me and you, pal.
Me and you!"
