In which my mind is clearer now

I literally just hit the floor here at work, and this is not some irresponsible use of the term "literally" by which I actually mean "figuratively." I literally did hit the literal floor. I have the rug burns to prove it, although not in any entertaining places.

The reason for my nosedive was a ringing phone, which was placed too far away for me to reach, but I could lie and say that I am still reeling, literally, from the awesome power of Ted Neeley, whom I watched portray the title role in a production of Jesus Christ Superstar. That would be a lie, of course--not that I saw him, but that the delayed effects of his majesty made me lose my balance nearly 24 hours later. The guy is good, and still busts out the excellent Heavy Metal High Notes, but he is also 64 years old or thereabouts--nearly twice the age of Christ when he died--so there were moments when, seated in the dark, halfway back in the house, I believed myself to be watching a performance by Richard Harris.

I have always wanted to see Jesus Christ Superstar, and I do not care that my knowledge of the entire libretto and willingness to sing it at any time makes me a giant throbbing geek. I don't care! Sue me. I don't have any money, so the most you'll get is an original cast recording (on vinyl, natch) of the show in question.

Disallowed from listening to the radio by religious parents who found Top 40 "inappropriate" for a child, and without a television, my entertainment consisted only of church choir, mountains of books and the original cast recordings of every musical known to man. Anything Goes? I know it by heart. Man of La Mancha? I would play it over and over and weep at the end when Don Quixote kicks the bucket as the padre intones, "De profundis clamo ad te..." with harmonic back-up singers. To dream the impossible dream... Oh, the melodrama in 9/8 time!

My extensive knowledge of the musical theatre genre paved the way for a long period of understandable friendlessness, which was alleviated in a regretful manner by my auditioning for and getting parts in several amateur productions. Oliver! Oklahoma! Anything with an exclamation point after its name was good by me. (Except, perhaps, Oh, Calcutta!, which was proposed but eventually shouted down by the school board.)

Still, even as I sang along with the soundtrack from Li'l Abner and The King and I, I knew that I was securely in squaresville. But what could I do? Churchy music bored me. I was intimidated by rock, which I associated with long-haired, mustachioed skinny guys in bell bottoms and flowered shirts. Still, in spite of my fear, I liked the Rolling Stones and the Beatles, and secretly amassed a collection of records that I listened to in private. Eventually, my mother discovered them and into the trash they went, but I think she knew that she couldn't keep me entirely sequestered.

Before I learned about the Velvet Underground, the Modern Lovers, or the Lyres, Jesus Christ Superstar bridged the gap between Broadway musicals and forbidden rock. My parents couldn't complain about the electric guitars and sonic wailing because of its religious theme. True, they were perturbed that the play ended before the glorious resurrection, but who could hear their judgmental lecturing with all those apostles wondering "What's the Buzz?"

I very well understand how cheesy it is that I bought the songbook and played them on our baby grand piano. I'm embarrassed to recall that my audition for my first voice lesson included "I Don't Know How to Love Him." In spite of the high cringe factor, however, that show still warrants a place in my heart. A place filled with fringe and disco-ing, lycra-clad apostles, true, but a place.

So, I dragged the Keelhauler to see the show last night. I think he was a bit puzzled as to my reasons. ("It seems to me a strange thing... mystifying...") But in the end, he enjoyed the electric guitar accompanying the singers, and the aforementioned Heavy Metal High Notes. He, I should note, did not have tears running down his face at any point during the show, unlike I did--because I remain, apparently, a 13-year-old theatre geek at heart.

When I think about it, I am not certain what would have moved me to tears. Portrayed with extreme reserve by Mr. Neeley, the character of Jesus seemed unlikely to spark the kind of rabid devotion that would carry along a religion for 2,000 years. Likewise, Judas--played by Corey Glover--seemed not to comprehend that theatre is not "down here... theatre is UP HERE!" in his skulking and restlessness. Pilate was played by an understudy whose emotional, pause-laden delivery caused him to lag significantly behind the orchestra. He seemed not to grasp that Pilate was a government official and not the star of an early form of soap opera. Watching the production, seeing the exaggerated fake conversation of the chorus during crowd scenes, the struggling to hit the high notes, the wandering from light cue to light cue, I remembered all the things I hated about musical theatre. But damn, it still looked fun.

I don't want to give anything away, so I won't tell you how the play ends, but it was very dramatic! and involved flying!

Walking through the lobby as we left, I pointed out a guy to the Keelhauler--he was about six feet tall, with very long blondish hair and major Southern fried rock muttonchops, a flowered shirt and bell-bottom jeans. He was exactly the stereotypical rock musician I had been terrified of as a child. I made the Keelhauler look at him. "He's someone FAMOUS!" I said, not at all quietly, "Who IS he?" The Keelhauler had no idea, and all my staring brought no clarification. Looking at him, I felt no fear, only awe of his amazing facial hair. Finally, I am able to make peace with my past, through the beautiful medium of rock opera.

Hosanna, hey-sanna, sanna sanna ho, sanna hey, sanna ho-san-na! I am a recovering theatre geek.



Star of the day. . .Carl Anderson
posted @ 4:06 p.m. on March 08, 2007 before | after

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She lay awake all night,

zzzzzzzzzzz......