3 posts tagged “sondheim”
(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!"
Carousel is the very first musical I ever saw. I was a toddler and my parents took me to the revival at the New York State Theatre. I remember riding up and down escalator after escalator. I remember the death scene. Closing the circle, the revival of Carousel again at Lincoln Center was the last show I took my father to before the passed away.
I just read the play Rabbit Hole by David Lindsay-Abaire. It's an engulfing drama with the right amounts of comedy thrown in to make it not too maudlin. One of my favorite exchanges:
Izzy: ...."And she's a big lady. Real hefty. More chins than--what does Mom say?"
Becca: More Chins than a Chinese phone book."
About the changing nature of bereavement:
"I don't know. The weight of it, I guess. At some point it becomes bearable. It turns into something you can crawl out from under. And carry around--like a brick in your pocket. And you forget it every once in a while, but then you reach in for whatever reason and there it is: "Oh right. That." Which can be awful. Not all the time. Sometimes its kinda...Not that you like it exactly, but it's what you have instead of your son, so you don't want to let go of it either. So you carry it around."
I just keep thinking about the Sondheim lyric, "Sometimes people leave you...halfway through the woods...No one is alone." Although the grief from death can be very isolating, you have to move yourself to the point where you can carry it around like that brick. Otherwise, you become immobilized and your own life stands still which isn't the point. You have to keep moving forward. Move on.
"People make mistakes. Fathers. Mothers. Honor their mistakes. Everybody makes. One another's terrible mistakes."
