2 posts tagged “broadway”
Growing up in Maryland, we had crabs. We had Ocean City, we had bragging rights to Washington D.C., and we had crabs. What I was too young to realize was that we also had John Waters.
Until I saw "Hairspray" (the movie) in the theaters, with mom. She hadn't grown up in Baltimore, but she loved musicals and so did I and we just swooned over "Hairspray." Somewhere, Waters was snickering.
In the years since, the rise of the king of disgusting films Waters has probably been doing a lot of that, as our basic culture has lowered to his expectations, while simultaneously he's gone more legit (no more feces-eating in his films, thankyouverymuch). And nothing is more legit than Broadway, or a Broadway musical. I didn't care all that much for "Hairspray" on Broadway (although the rest of the world did) and I've never had the urge to see the second "Hairspray" musical. But once I heard a friend of mine (Adam Schlesinger, the genius in Fountains of Wayne and Ivy, among other things) was part of the musical team for "Cry-Baby" on Broadway -- another Waters film -- I was definitely charged up to go.
And last night was the Broadway debut. Waters was of course in fine form, striding in with a blue blazer lined in white and camouflage pants; he wasn't mobbed but he was certainly the center of a lot of attention. The show itself was about 60% entertaining. It's got some fun lines and one amazing dance routine where Cry-Baby is in jail and breaks out, and in the process everyone ends up tap-dancing on license plates (seriously, it works) but I'm not sure about the rest of it. Poking fun at the '50s feels ... dare I say it, dated.
"I think it celebrates old-fashioned juvenile delinquency, which is a term that no one uses anymore because juvenile delinquents now kill people," Waters told the San Francisco Chronicle, and that is what makes it fun -- but there's something rather ho-hum once you know how he defines crass. You get pregnant juvenile delinquents dancing up a storm, an anti-polio picnic, elaborately choreographed make-out sessions and a lot of wink-wink behavior. I know this isn't his film, and it gets away from the film in a lot of ways but ... there's nothing shocking here. And that may be the most bizarre part about the show.
However.
The party afterwards, held at Mansion downtown -- that was incredible! I ran into some industry friends (a lawyer, his co-worker and an aspiring actress) at the coat check, and as we headed into the main area we were handed large brown shopping bags and told to go pick up stuff. But before we did that, libations were in order. I'd put in an order for a boring vodka-Coke, then saw one of the special drinks of the night was absinthe poured over a sugar cube. Nobody else in our group was willing to sample, so what the hell, and I ordered it. The bartender turned on a tap from a raised vat filled with a watery liquid and ice cubes and let it dribble over a suspended sugar cube balanced on a glass. Classy.
"Kinda nice that you can get this stuff now, since it used to be illegal," I noted. They were actually paying attention, so you know I had to go there: "After all, you know what they say about absinthe ... it makes the heart grow fonder."
And then they kicked my ass to the curb.
Actually, no: the lawyer said that was just exactly his type of humor and I survived another very bad attack of punning. The drink arrived. Kind of, um, dull: Only about 1/3 of the glass was filled with what looked like water , with a small mountain of sugar piled on the bottom. But what the hell, I tried it. Vaguely licoricey, but no kick. I passed it around. We all shrugged. I figured I'd end up on the floor later if this stuff had a delayed reaction, and off we went to do some grown-up trick or treating.
The main level had a dance floor, and hired dancers in 50s-dress were doing the Lindy and all kinds of fantastic moves; trannies and cross-dressers wandered the room in full regalia, and stations of goodies drew us forward to filil our bags. There was a kissing booth around which mounds of Altoids gum canisters were arrayed; we picked some up but no smooching went down. Further along, a makeup stand handed out some high-end "makeup couture," while cigarette girls bumped into us, offering candy smokes.
Upstairs we got our pictures taken at the "prom" by standing behind cardboard cutouts (and I got a paper "corsage"), we visited a "doctor" and his "nurses" who asked where it hurt (I poked at my elbow) and got a bag of candy (Neccos, Clark Bars, Smarties) to ease the pain. We were escorted out of the badly-protected VIP area and briefly met one of the big cheese Nederlander clan of Broadway theater owners/producers. We stopped by a table where we approached one of three primly-dressed 50s ladies who asked us questions in return for goodies.
"What did they make in the prison?"
"License plates."
"Correct! But how do you know so much about what goes on in jail?"
"Don't tell anyone!"
"I have no secrets from the LAWD."
But she reached down and gave me a box of butterscotch Tastykakes for my trouble.
Hello! HEAVEN.
We headed back to the dance floor, which had quickly filled up, and tried to get new drinks. I'd finished my "absinthe" but, well, there was something absent in the absinthe, so we bellied up and ordered more. This time, they did it right: The alcohol went in first, then the vat of ice water over the cube. Duh. Apparently I'd had a virgin absinthe, aka sugar water, last time. And this stuff definitely had a kick. The lawyer also got one; later the co-worker got an absinthe mojito. So we were all well and pleasantly toasted as we headed to the dance floor.
Now, I don't dance well, but I love to do it. And most people I dance with either can't, or don't like to, or are just all bashful, so I don't get much opportunity. Turns out our lawyer friend knows how to dance, at least far better than I do, so I actually got to twirl and do a few funny moves while the 50s classics moved into 60s classics and John Waters took Kathleen Turner (aka Serial Mom) out for a spin. After a James Brown song we collapsed into the sofa seats and played "Name that Band" and added lyrics to "Mony Mony" when it came on. But slowly the songs segued into "Hollaback Girl" and worse (I do like HBG, though) and it became far too loud to talk, and that's the sign to go.
We redeemed our raffle ticket at the Taste truck outside for a selection of cookies and Rice Krispie treats and got a cab. I think I finally crashed out at home around 2. Now, that's a party.
Moral of the story: None. But if you're going dancing with John Waters and drink absinthe and get home past the witching hour, try not to do it on a weeknight. Oy!
There are many consequences of Getting Older, and I have refused to whine about most of them.
It is boring to talk about gray hairs. (Being blonde and a dyer this isn't an issue yet.) About not moving as fast as you once did. About having to buy creams to cover things that never needed covering. To talk about how odd it is that you now are older than most of the folks you work with (and sometimes for). I mean, it happens. Everyone's fingerprints are different and fascinating and maybe that's why we have blogs, to talk about whorls and loops and such, but: It. Is. Boring.
Then there are the exceptions.
So I went to see Duran Duran play on Broadway on Friday night, having done a nice little article on the shows (they're doing ten of them to promote their new album, "Red Carpet Massacre") for work, a version of which will appear in Billboard later this week. That is the sort of sentence which, when I was 15, I'd have literally wet myself to imagine I'd be saying some 27 years later. If I could have imagined 27 years later. And there still is a 15 year old in the upper left side of my brain going "holy shit! holy fucking shit!"
Because of this article, I got to get a very nice fourth row ticket to the show. And because of this article I got to go to an after-party in a hotel private balcony. (Not private enough, there were about 100 or so of other special people in there, too.)
As to the ticket and the show, I'd like to bring out the adolescent and say, "Holy Crap! I mean, oh my fucking God."
Not the kind of nutcase who throws bras on the stage but a really bad dancer who acts out the songs. I am Elaine. Yes, that's me. And proud of it.
After the show I headed over to the after-event. I'm not a huge fan of these, because after you've been to 37, you've been to them all. They're packed and loud and it's hard to get even near anybody who matters, and if you're not someone who matters they will determinedly not see you even if you stand there for a half hour, so really -- who cares? I go for the view and a drink and maybe a nosh and try to do the job, but it's not something I stay and end up with a lampshade on my head at. I leave that to Mary-Kate.
But at this one, I had an accommodating PR woman who made sure to pull Nick over my way. So we could talk for the second article. So there I am and there he is. We have met before, once at another after-event and had a lovely conversation. He's definitely the brains of the outfit. So we talked and he's sincere and I'm absorbing about eight things at once while this is happening: a) we're talking b) he's really quite short c) yes, Lori is right he is combing over d) he has delicate white makeup and careful eyeliner e) It's Nick Fucking Rhodes aaaaah! f) etc. Also, after a moment or two John becomes available and so we are cut loose and then John Taylor, who I've met and never had more than a moment's conversation with is there and All Mine. The best cheekbones in the business are there and we start talking about the show. I can slip into some of the same questions because I'm now concentrating on about ten things at once here, including a) boy, he's tall b) why does he lean forward when he talks to you and contract his face in a pinched way like that? That was what gave me this disconcerting image of what John Taylor will be like when he's a crotchety old man. It was that kind of a stance. Then c) I became aware of how we were being observed by about 8 other women who had no idea why he was giving me the time of day, including d) a very large shiny woman who sat behind me at the show and was insisting on being heard now.
Midsentence, we were done, and off to the next lot. And that's when I cottoned: I was going to talk to each of them. Individually. My adolescent's head had now exploded. And I began to remember I had a camera with me, so just how goony was I going to let myself be?
So then I was talking to Simon. Always my favorite. Had to be: Fellow Scorpio, fellow struggler with weight. He was standing next to his model wife Yasmine, who was in a fur coat and had her back to me (as it should be). And if I was focusing on 8 things with Nick and 10 things with John the Crotchety talker, I've got about 23 going on with Simon but the main thing is this: We have nothing to talk about. I mean, yeah, fine, talk about the show. Talk about the show in London getting cancelled and the video for "Falling Down" getting banned over there. And there was one Major Moment when he put his hand on my shoulder (I can hear Lynda squeeing, "He's touching you!") and saying, "We'll have to stand closer to talk" (of course there's a BUT) "because I have to protect my voice." But as with the others ... once you're done with the basics, you're done.
And that's the thing about getting older that nobody tells you. Should you get older, old enough not to wet yourself in front of these people you used to wallpaper your room with, who you wrote fan fiction about, and to the stage where that 15 year old can sit in the back of your head and tap her feet quietly -- should you get to that age and meet them, there's nothing to say. Well, there is: You can blither about their band and be like every other gooberhead fan (of which I am, naturally), and you can stretch out the business-related questions a bit more, but after that -- it's not as though they're going to ask how work's going, or is mom all right, or about those cupcakes you were making. These people are not your friends. They're not going to be. And not that you really thought they would be, but -- the meeting of them serves only to show the lines and the creases and the in-betweens. They aren't who you think they are. They're just people.
So the No. 23 thing I was thinking as I disengaged from Simon and told him thanks and didn't get a picture was this: This is not someone I would have gone out with. This is not someone who, were he just a regular normal guy I met, that I would have ever, ever had a relationship with. He's like air, it's like talking to someone who really isn't even there. And he's going to be 50 next year and up close ... ah well. I know this sounds completely ridiculous: Who do you think you are? And yet that's not the point.
There is a certain level of every fantasy that says were the circumstances correct, you could go through with that fantasy. Even if you had to do it on another dimension. Making some element of it happen in real life makes you realize that there is no dimension on which the full fantasy could possibly happen. At all. And that's ... okay. Really. It's just one of those things I hadn't considered before.
So, I didn't get a picture with Simon. We moved on to Roger. And as I did before at the other event, I had a lovely conversation with him; he's probably the most personable and least ... air-like. Also the one who occupies the least amount of space in that fantastical dimension, which gives him more space to exist in the here and now. So I felt perfectly fine about pulling out the camera and getting a photo. At which the PR woman told him, "She's spoken to every one tonight, and you're the only one she asked to get a photo with!"
So here we are, the aging fan and the aging rock star drummer (with the air-like Simon behind him). We have both Gotten Older, and somehow did it together.
Make of that what you will.
