The lead singer did a decent David Clayton-Thomas impression and the musicians were excellent, especially the drummer, whose featured solo was a showpiece for his lightening-fast hands. But I wondered how the front man for the band calling itself Blood, Sweat & Tears (pursuant, I assume, to an array of legal agreements) could keep a straight face talking about “we” when referring to the band’s hits and accomplishments, including winning the 1970 Grammys Album of the Year over Abbey Road.
What made this braggadocio cringe-worthy for me is that only one of the current members of the band joined it before 2010, and even he joined 10 years after the last of the original members left. Did they really think the elderly audience was so senile that they would believe that these clones were the real thing?
Or perhaps the band was counting on an audience that had indulged in one too many of the omnipresent happy hours in The Villages. The local paper is filled with notices about them, right before the pages filled with notices about AA and Al-Anon meetings.
In The Villages’ three town squares, happy hours are accompanied by local bands playing golden oldies for free for the resident golden oldies, which begs the question as to why the residents pay to see a faux Blood, Sweat & Tears. Maybe it’s for the uncomfortable folding chairs in the Savannah Center.
Or maybe it’s for the chance to see surprise guest performers, like sports commentator and interviewer Roy Firestone, who was there plugging his book and forthcoming show, telling anecdotes, and doing speaking and singing impressions. I have to admit he wasn’t bad, but his act seemed so out of place that a lot of people sat and squirmed until the band appeared to do its impressions. At least that was my impression.
I saw Svetlana Belsky play the piano as part of the EStrella Piano Duo at a Fourth Presbyterian Church lunch hour concert last year and was very impressed with her skills and wit. So, upon finding out that she would be performing the opening concert of the 3rd Chopin in the City Festival at the Consulate General of Poland, I casually mentioned to anyone who would listen (invoking Rule #1 – “It can’t hurt to ask” and Rule #2 – “It only takes one.”) that it sure would be great to get an invitation to the private event.
And so, having been successful in my quest, I found myself at the concert and reception, having a lovely conversation with a member of the Consulate General of the People’s Republic of China, who informed me, my free drink in hand, that he and members of the other consulates in town regularly make the rounds of each other’s events.
It was shortly thereafter that I learned that, despite the attraction of the party-hopping, I was not cut out for the diplomatic service, as the gentleman seemed to lose interest in our discussion after I informed him I knew where his Chicago headquarters were located because I had seen picketers marching outside of it.
The concert itself was wonderful, once it got started after seemingly interminable opening remarks by a woman who seemed to be practicing an Oscar speech as she thanked everyone she had ever met, or hoped to meet, for helping to make the evening possible.
Belsky played beautifully, with energy, grace and skill; a twinkle in her eyes, and the occasional impish grin that she made a part of the music. And her commentary between pieces once again exhibited her wonderful sense of humor. I hope to crash another of her performances in the near future.
Though I’d like to compare this blog, somewhat conceptually, although certainly not artistically, to Ben Hecht’s 1001 Afternoons in Chicago (a book that interestingly contains only 65 of his newspaper columns), for me, the single most identifying thing about Hecht has always been his co-authorship, with Charles MacArthur, of the play The Front Page, and his co-authorship of the movie His Girl Friday, based upon that play.
Adina Hoffman, whose rapid-fire speech pattern at the program drew a page from the style of Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday (it has been said that gangsters learned how to talk from seeing gangster movies, such as Scarface, written by Hecht) painted a much broader picture of Hecht for the audience, most of which, as usual, I will ignore for my purposes.
But, for example, according to Hoffman, Joseph Goebbels, Adolf Hitler’s Minister of Propaganda, called the final scene of the Alfred Hitchcock movie Foreign Correspondent, uncredited screenplay by Ben Hecht, the greatest piece of propaganda ever written.
One thing to take from that is that Hecht not only wrote many classic Hollywood scripts, but also was the uncredited script doctor for many more, including, who knew, Gone with the Wind. According to Hoffman, film critic Pauline Kael called Hecht the greatest American screenwriter and famed director Jean-Luc Godard called Hecht a genius who invented 80% of what is used in Hollywood movies (at a time when movies were more than just a bunch of computer generated comic book stories).
On a less consequential, but, if you stretch it, coincidental note, Quentin Tarantino’s movie Inglourious Basterds includes Goebbels as a character, and MacArthur, Hecht’s frequent writing partner, was the target of a Dorothy Parker quip after her relationship with MacArthur resulted in her pregnancy, when she allegedly said “how like me, to put all my eggs into one bastard.”
It’d been a little over a year since I first went to see The Paper Machete live magazine at the Green Mill on a Saturday afternoon. I learned from that experience that seats are hard to come by (the Wednesday evening show, at least the one time I went, isn’t as crowded), and so arrived an hour and a half before show time, which was only 15 minutes earlier than necessary to avoid unintentionally making lots of new friends among a crowd of people standing around, pressing their bodies into an insufficient amount of space.
Getting there early also affords one the opportunity to watch emcee Christopher Piatt, standing behind the bar, trying to not so subtly rehearse his frenetic Danny Kaye court jester lip-synching routine.
Piatt is a constant, but the rest of the cast of The Paper Machete changes from show to show, so it was an amazing coincidence that Becca Brown, whom I saw perform there a year ago, was again on stage, showing off her strong singing voice.
The comedy also was good, as before, but I was there primarily to see Big Red, that is Meghan Murphy, do her thing, as I have done at Theater Wit, Steppenwolf, and Venus Cabaret.
She didn’t disappoint, capping off her performance by holding the last note of her set long enough that I could have read a couple chapters of a book, had I brought a book.
Piatt, in thanking Murphy and expressing his admiration of her talents, referred to her as the personification of Jessica Rabbit, which seemed to please Murphy.
Fanboy that I am, I couldn’t resist approaching Murphy after the show as she sat at the bar drinking with friends. I introduced myself and fawned over her for a respectable, but not creepy, amount of time before going on my way.
It is said that when two koalas find themselves occupying the same tree, they will hide from each other to avoid being noticed. Some say this happens because koalas are viciously territorial, but I’d like to think they do this out of a sense of decorum, or polite comportment, or respect for the other occupant of the tree. All of which has only a little to do with the 61st Grammy Awards ceremony, where colorful plumage draws notice – plumage in the form of sequins, silver lamé, and fine silk. Oh, and music.
For Grammy neophytes, here’s a tip: there are two awards ceremonies. The first, known as the Premiere Ceremony, offers recognition to non-prime-time categories such as Best Spoken Word Album (Jimmy Carter’s Faith – A Journey for All won) and Best Boxed or Special Limited Edition Package (“Weird Al” Yankovic won). It takes place in a right-sized Microsoft Theater auditorium with comfortable seats and two massive jumbotrons showing crisp details of everything happening on stage.
Many winners were not present, making those non-winners present feel just a little queasy about their misguided optimism. We were there to cheer on the very present Spektral Quartet and jazz saxophonist Miguel Zenón, whose collaborative CD, Yo Soy la Tradición, was nominated in the Best Latin Jazz Album category.
Joshua Bell in background adjusting his bow tie
About 30 minutes after we took our seats, the word went up and down our row that a famous Strad-carrying member of violin aristocracy, Joshua Bell, had taken a seat directly behind us. And that’s when the koala behavior set in. No one in our row would openly acknowledge his presence, much less turn around to say hello. True, I may have imagined it, but there was a vaguely discernible sense of classical string musicians slinking down in their seats, as if to avoid notice by a fellow musician. Stay cool, friends, was the mood in our midst, though I personally cheered loudly when Joshua was announced as a contender for the Best Classical Instrumental Solo (violinist James Ehnes, who happened to be grocery shopping in Florida at the time, was pronounced the winner).
Kalani Pe’a and friends
Programs like this are best when they showcase lesser-known musicians to audiences interested in their work. A few performers stood out in this way: the larger-than-life Hawaiian singer Kalani Pe’a – sporting a glittering purple sequined jacket – served as a presenter and also took home a Grammy; Seun Kuti and guitarist Fatoumata Diawara, who dazzled us by channeling her inner Santana; and 15-year-old vocalist Ángela Aguilar, who took solo and trio spotlights with Aida Cuevas and Natalia Lafourcade. If someone knows Aguilar’s dress designer, could you please pass me that name?
Fully employed guest blogger Samme Orwig
The “big” awards ceremony was held in the Staples Center, and this was clearly a made-for-TV event. There were no jumbotrons, and the audience was, in effect, one large, living prop. For example, those watching the show at home might’ve wondered why it took the audience so long to realize that yes, it really was Michelle Obama making a surprise appearance on stage. Only a few people could actually see her clearly, and no one wanted to cheer without being absolutely sure it was the former First Lady. Once we were convinced, the crowd went wild – as they did when the other stars, whose names were announced, stepped onto the stage. Nonetheless, it was worth being packed into stadium seating just to say we saw performances by Dolly Parton, Diana Ross, and Lady Gaga – all in the same night.
Other notables inside the Staples Center included H.E.R.’s performance of “Hard Place,” which bore melodious echoes of an old song called “Perfection” by Badfinger; Brandi Carlyle’s “The Joke,” which some felt was the most moving piece of the evening, and, of course, Lady Gaga’s nuclear production of “Shallow.” One of my favorite Gaga moments had happened earlier, when she made a shout-out to her Little Monsters, causing cheers to erupt. It made me wonder why more stars don’t create a special name for their fan base, because a name like “Little Monsters” offers the type of tribal identity that humans – even if we don’t want to admit it – crave.
Samme and Clark – where’s the red carpet?
For their nomination earlier that afternoon, Miguel Zenón and Spektral were up against household names such as Eddie Daniels and a few lesser-knowns, but the 16-man Dafnis Prieto Big Band took home the Grammy. Will Spektral be in the hunt for Grammys 2020? There’s no telling, but Spektral’s next collaborative CD, with composer/performer Nathalie Joachim, will be released this coming September.
In a 1969 appearance on The Tonight Show, George Gobel famously quipped to Johnny Carson, “did you ever get the feeling that the world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes?” The reviews of The Woman in Black, a show that has been running in London for 30 years, have unanimously been highly laudatory, until this one. I’m the brown shoes.
The Playbill notes say that the “early reviews in 1989 paid tribute to [the adapter and director’s] ability to take the audience on a journey whose transport is its own imagination.” During most of the play, I imagined being somewhere else.
The show is supposed to be scary, but my boredom was interrupted only momentarily by some of the sound effects. And though the fog machine at times made it hard to see, there was nothing to see in the first place, including the imaginary dog Spider, the use of which more properly belonged in an introductory improv or mime class. And Spider didn’t even get a credit in the program.
One favorable review admits that “[t]he show is slow to get started.” I’m still waiting. Another admits that “[t]he play [has a] less-than-watertight plot” and a “contrived storyline”. In what universe does that justify a highly recommended?
Yet a third review states that there are three reasons to see the show, one of which is so that you don’t have to go to London to see it. I can think of other reasons not to go to London, like the food and the weather. That review also suggests seeing the show because “it has brought light to the long-darkened stage of the Royal George Theatre.” I like the theater, but the play actually brought blackouts and the aforementioned fog, very little light.
If fog is my incentive, I would prefer seeing The Hound of the Baskervilles, which includes a dog that isn’t invisible.
The title, Photograph 51, refers to Dr. Rosalind Franklin’s x-ray diffraction photograph of the B form of deoxyribonucleic acid that helped lead to the discovery of the double helix, referred to in the play as the secret to life.
Photograph 51 is not to be confused with Area 51, the top-secret military base in the middle of the Nevada desert that has been the subject of much speculation as to its possible contents, including spacecrafts of aliens who, some would suggest, actually are the secret to life on earth.
On the other hand, ever since I was taken on a research tour of pizza places in the early 1970s by one of the eventual founders of Rocky Rococo Pizza and Pasta, it has always been my understanding that olive oil is the secret to life, though there also is support for yogurt in that regard, and the nucleic acid drink available prior to the performance at the Court Theatre wasn’t too bad either.
As to the play, Chaon Cross, whom I have seen in the last few years as Ella in Life Sucks and Lady Macbeth in Macbeth, once again gives a strong performance, this time as Dr. Franklin.
The set of Photograph 51 includes two not too subtle spiral staircases and a second level walkway between them that reminded me of the set of Jailhouse Rock, which reminded me that the name of another prison, Attica, sounds a lot like the name of the great 1997 science fiction movie Gattaca, whose title letters G, A, T, and C, stand for guanine, adenine, thymine, and cytosine, the four nucleobases of DNA, thereby bringing us back to where we started, except that I would be remiss not to also mention Fahrenheit 451 and Dick Butkus as other famous 51s. Now you know why I don’t get much sleep.
It seems to me that A Gentlemen’s Guide to Love & Murder could have been titled How to Succeed in Murder Without Really Trying. I easily could envision a young J. Pierrepont Finch (spoiler alert) rising to the top of the D’Ysquith family, to become the Ninth Earl of Highhurst, through cunning, good fortune, and the cool clear eyes of a seeker of wisdom and truth.
As with last year’s Memphis, I preferred Porchlight’s production of A Gentleman’s Guide to the Broadway in Chicago version I saw a few years ago, due, in large part, I suspect, to the intimacy of the venue, which is, nevertheless large enough to provide the set designer the creative liberty to forge a functional and entertaining backdrop to the action.
As with Porchlight’s Gypsy, I was fortunate enough to see the first table reading of A Gentleman’s Guide, which, in this case, afforded me the opportunity to observe Matt Crowle working on the voices he would use for the nine different characters he portrays. And, while that was playful and interesting, it could not have prepared me for the way in which he distinctly inhabits all of them once he’s in costume and afforded the chance to add physicality to the roles. There are many famous death scenes in the theater. For my money, Crowle’s turn as Reverend Lord Ezekial D’Ysquith may be the most entertaining.
That said, I guess I need to see a production of The Complete Deaths (74 of them from the Bard of Avon’s works), which I missed at ChicagoShakespeare Theater in 2016. Hopefully, the play itself will rise from the ashes so that l’ll have another chance.
Meanwhile, I’ll have to be satisfied with a website I found chronicling 100 of the most memorable on screen movie deaths, led, coincidentally, by Alan Rickman, a member of the Royal Shakespeare Company, who gained his greatest fame in America, without really trying, as Hans Gruber in Die Hard.
All You Need is Love, and I got 90 minutes of it, attacking my visual and auditory cortices from every direction (not to mention those parts of my brain related to long-term memory, as it has been over 50 years since the Beatles first gained our attention). The problem with the show is that, if you focus too much on one thing, you don’t notice five other things that are happening at the same time. There’s no pause, rewind, or instant replay. I’m sure there must have been a kitchen sink thrown in somewhere that I missed.
The varied and spectacular exhibitions of strength, grace, and agility by the show’s performer/athletes, as they danced, twisted, stretched, and threw their bodies around, made me think of Katelyn Ohashi, the UCLA gymnast who is the current queen of YouTube because of her amazing routine at the recent Collegiate Challenge at the Anaheim Convention Center, which undoubtedly will lead her to the greatest reward a gymnast can attain, no not being awarded a gold medal at the Olympics, or getting a job with Cirque du Soleil, but rather winning the mirror ball on Dancing With the Stars.
I first saw Cirque du Soleil when it was performing Saltimbanco under a tent in the early 1990s. For some bizarre reason my most vivid memory of that show is the guy who climbed up chairs that he piled on top of each other. I always wondered what his mother thought as she grounded him, literarily and figuratively, sending him to his room, in the hopes of interrupting him as he went about wrecking furniture in pursuit of a career in the lost art of hand balancing.
In addition to the music, special effects, and huge cast, Love features hundreds of garish costumes, not unlike what you see on the street in front of the hotel.
The closest I had ever come before to reading past the first three words of Moby-Dick was to see the Gregory Peck movie and the Star Trek movie First Contact, wherein Captain Picard is accused of being like Captain Ahab.
In case you were wondering, Moby-Dick, the novel, is 206,052 words long. It took over 150 of us a little over 24 hours, taking turns, to read the whole thing aloud. I was assigned the last 1158 words of Chapter 134.
In case you were further wondering, the Smithsonian tells us there appears to be absolutely no good reason why the title is hyphenated (the name of the whale is not hyphenated inside the book, except, mysteriously, in one place), it possibly being a typographical error or the result of a long-obsolete custom. Melville originally titled the book simply, The Whale, but then apparently changed it for marketing purposes, which didn’t really work as it had “tepid reviews and miserable initial sales.”
Nathaniel Philbrick, author of Why Read Moby-Dick and the introductory speaker leading into the read-a-thon (or as the lead staff person for the occasion called it, the Moby-Dickapalooza), advised us that, back in the day, “if you liked Moby-Dick you had literary cred”, that Faulkner said it was the one book by another author he wish he had written, and that Hemingway, in writing The Old Man and the Sea, admitted that he was trying to best Moby-Dick.
Along with the unwashed masses, such as myself, reading from the book, there were quite a few ringers – Sara Paretsky, for one, and Dave Catlin, who directed Moby-Dick at Lookingglass Theater, for another. I mention him because he introduced himself to me in the ready room after I impressed him by knowing my left from my right.
Upon conclusion of the event, it was determined that three people (plus the staff person in charge) had stayed for the whole thing (giving more meaning to the unwashed masses). Their presence throughout made moot my intellectual curiosity as to whether, like that tree in the forest, if no one had been there to listen to the readers in the middle of the night, they would have made a sound.
