so ya thought ya might like to go to the show

Now that the world seems to be slowly creeping back to some form of "normal" in these so-called "post pandemic" days, I've begun to venture out and experience live music again. I started off slow, first going exclusively to outdoor shows. Luckily, in my part of the Greater Philadelphia area, there are a lot of outdoor shows throughout the summer. The best thing about these outdoor shows — besides being outside — is they are free. I like free. My wife and I saw quite a few free show this past summer. The performances touched on all sorts of diverse genres — R & B, hip-hop, Tex-Mex, folk, jazzy cabaret and even a little bit of surf guitar. Oh, and they were free.

In June, I attended my first indoor show since 2020. I had some initial hesitation about going, but it was a show in a 1300-seat venue with reserved seating. I figured if I kept my mask on and people stayed in their seats, I could enjoy myself and not worry that some drunk hippie would twirl in front of me and cough his COVID-infused droplets all over my face. (No, it was not a Grateful Dead-related band and there was little-to-no twirling.) I left that show unscathed and — better yet — uninfected.

In September, I went to my first general admission, stake-out-your-spot-on-the-floor show since the week before COVID-19 shut down every public performance venue across the globe. I wore a mask and did my best to steer away from close contact with my fellow concert-goers... even this guy. 

Last Sunday, I went out to another show at a very small venue to see a band I had seen before. The headliner was supported by two opening acts, with neither of which I was familiar. After a quick dinner, my son and I went over to the venue and took our place at his favorite spot — a seat by the rail on the balcony, offering an unobstructed panoramic view of the stage, albeit an aerial view. Around 8 PM, the lights dimmed and the first band took to the tiny stage.

Now, I have been to a lot of concerts in my life and I have seen a lot of bands. Some good, some very good and some bad. Some very bad. I've seen some opening acts that I really enjoyed. I've also seen some that had me checking the time throughout their entire performance and trying to figure out how many more songs they would play in their allotted time. When the venue darkened last Sunday, from the opening guitar chords, I knew I'd be checking the time very soon.

The first band was boring... and bored. They appeared disenchanted with performing. Their opening number was dirge-y and tedious and cacophonous. At the song's conclusion, the lead singer, a young lady whose long and unruly hair covered her face, pushed her mouth against the microphone and introduced their next selection.

"Yeah... um.... so, this.... uh... next... um, like song.... is a new song and... like.... um.... its not on like an album or anything... and um... so... yeah... "

Every other song from the 30-minute repertoire was introduced in this fashion. One time, the stage banter was altered slightly to include a plug for the band's merchandise that was available for sale near the venue entrance.

"Um... yeah... so, like we have, like merch for sale. Like over there. We don't have no stickers though. We have t-shirts and... um, yeah... so we have merch and stuff. So, um... yeah... here's like... um... a... um.... song."

The sparse crowd — considerably younger that yours truly — seemed to be okay with this band. This led me to believe that the musical opinion of a 62-year old man is pretty much irrelevant. So, I sat quietly, fiddled with my phone, looked around and waited for the first band to leave the stage. They eventually did, departing with a message as eloquent as anything they previously said.

"So... um... that's our, like.... last song. Thanks for having... um.... us. We have merch. and... um.... so, yeah..."

After a brief rearranging of the stage, the next band came on. They were fronted by a particularly-flexible young lady with dyed periwinkle hair and a short, leopard skin skirt. They delivered a good old-fashioned punk rock show, possibly showing their predecessors "just how its done."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

see the man with the stagefright

* * * * * * WARNING * * * * * *
This blog post contains personal opinions. My personal opinions, as a matter of fact. You may not agree with them and that's okay. Just understand that I am very opinionated and I have resigned myself to the fact that my opinions are in the overwhelming minority. Perhaps this disclaimer should begin every one of my blog posts...

I dislike Broadway musicals. I like some movie musicals — Singing in the Rain, Oklahoma!, The Music Man and any number of gala spectacles from the Golden Age of Hollywood. But there is something about musical productions on the live stage that just rubs me the wrong way.

When I was in sixth grade, my mother took me to a matinee performance of Hair!, the hippie culture musical that was as popular as it was controversial. I had the soundtrack album and I used to play it endlessly. I knew every word to every song, even if I didn't understand what a lot of them meant. (I'm sure my mom was a bit on edge to hear her ten-year old singing "Sodomy.") I remember my mom being scolded by a group of protestors outside of the theater for bringing an impressionable youngster to this "smut" as one angry woman with a picket sign deemed it. My mom, in typical "Josh Pincus's mom" fashion, stood her ground, telling that lady to "mind her own business" (in so many words) as we marched through the theater doors. I remember liking the show, but I can't remember too many details aside from the infamous nude scene occurred at an unexpected time and under the camouflage of bright strobe lights.

In later years, I saw Grease! (eh! it was okay), Beatlemania (it was an incredible simulation, he said sarcastically) and The Phantom of the Opera (I hated it). After that, I have pretty much avoided the theater. It's weird because I love going to concerts and seeing live music performed. But there's just something about musical theater....

That said...

Back in 2013, network television began the experiment of bringing live Broadway musicals to the small screen. Although, I don't like Broadway musicals, I do love me some television. So, I watched one of the first ones that was broadcast. This was an over-hyped production of The Sound of Music starring Carrie Underwood. I am not familiar with Ms. Underwood's career, aside from knowing that she was a winner on American Idol, a show that despite having never seen, I have already formed an opinion about.... and it is not a favorable one. I was familiar, however, with the film version of The Sound of Music, but not the stage version, which this particular production would mimic. It was, at best, uneven. Carrie Underwood appeared overwhelmed and not up to the role's demands. Broadway powerhouse Audra McDonald, as "Mother Abess," overshadowed her fellow cast members with her stellar vocals. The rest of the production was highly forgettable (remember... my opinion).

In spite of lukewarm reviews, NBC stuck it out and, a year later almost to the day, presented Peter Pan Live! — a shit show if there ever was one. Allison Williams, in the title role, appeared uncomfortable, displaying a "deer-in-the-headlights" expression for the duration of the show. She was featured alongside a slightly out-of-it Christopher Walken, who seemed to have lost interest midway into the second act.

These two misguided presentations were followed by even more attempts from NBC, (Hairspray! and The Wiz) standing firm as though they were going to continue with this until they got it right (and so far, they haven't). Fox, feeling they had a better handle on things, joined in with Grease! (jumping on the "titles that include an exclamation point" bandwagon), A Christmas Story and The Passion (a musical tale of Jesus's last days, which no one recalls watching).

I actually watched Fox's take on The Rocky Horror Picture Show, touted as an "event," a week before Halloween in 2016. I loved The Rocky Horror Picture Show when I was in high school, having seen well over one hundred audience-participatory showings. This ill-conceived presentation was doomed from the start. Of course, it would suffer from endless comparisons to the now-beloved low-budget (if somewhat dated) original film. The television version played out like Rocky Horror karaoke. The ensemble was obviously talented, albeit miscast (remember... my opinion). Their delivery of the songs, while certainly strong and loud, was soulless, passionless and — more importantly — lacking any attachment to the source material. The casting of Laverne Cox as "Dr. Frank N Furter," was an obvious grab for attention, but, in my opinion, it missed the mark (remember... my opinion). No disrespect to Ms. Cox. She is indeed a powerful presence with a dynamic voice, but having this character played by a woman misses a joke that is important to the campy nature of the plot (remember... my opinion).

Ever the glutton for punishment, I settled down last night to watch yet another one of these "live musicals for television." This time, the mighty marketing department at Disney threw its magical hat in the ring, as they presented The Little Mermaid as an amalgam of the original animated film and new sequences featuring a politically-aware, racially-diverse cast parading around on a freeform stage before an interactive live audience. The production itself was, for the most part, beautiful. It was chock full of the type of theme park "magic" that makes Disney Disney. However, those who have experienced the "Voyage of the Little Mermaid" attraction at Disney's Hollywood Studios in Florida may have felt a twinge of déjà vu. The staging was very reminiscent of that show. Very reminiscent. On the plus side, the cast was very talented. "Ariel" was portrayed (on stage) by 18-year old Auliʻi Cravalho, who previously voiced the titular character in Moana. She was a formidable successor to the now-adult Jodi Benson who voiced the character in the original 1989 animated feature. Ms. Cravalho possesses the voice, appearance and persona that fits perfectly into the cookie-cutter mold of the current trend in Disney Princesses. Graham Phillips, looking fresh from the set of any Hallmark Channel Christmas movie, fit nicely into the part of hunky "Prince Eric." Single-named Jamaican singer Shaggy seemed unfamiliar with the role of stuffy crustacean chaperone "Sebastian." However, he turned in acceptable recitations of "Under The Sea" and "Kiss The Girl," employing his signature growl in each. (Subsequent reviews chided him for not wearing the "claws" of his animated counterpart.) Evil sea witch "Ursula" was played to the villainous hilt by Queen Latifah. From the moment she hit the stage, decked out in a white fright wig and patent leather tentacles, she was determined to steal this show right out from under everyone involved. TV staple John Stamos, as the real-life incarnation of cartoonish "Chef Louie," was determined to upstage even Queen Latifah's over-the-top performance. At times, the entire production seemed like filler between an onslaught of promos for "Disney +," the entertainment giant's new streaming service that launches in a week.

However, there was something missing.

The staging was clever and innovative. The cast was talented. The story was classic. And everything was dripping in Disney magic. Yet something was missing.

Soul.

Passion.

Sound familiar?

The Little Mermaid Live! suffered from the same thing as The Rocky Horror Picture Show Live! It was dead. Lifeless. Cold. Emotionless. It was Little Mermaid karaoke. They were singing the songs. Singing the words to the correct music, but it was... as the kids say... "meh." (Remember... my opinion). Twenty minutes into the first act, I caught Mrs. Pincus — a true lover of lavish musicals — fiddling with her phone, the unmistakable electronic "beeps" betraying her lack of attention.

"I lost interest." she stated after I nudged her to look at a particularly inventive effect. Those three words spoke volumes.

Shared opinion.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

and all that it's supposed to be

Back in the summer, I won free tickets to a couple of shows in the area by spinning a big carnival wheel that was set up by a concert promoter at the Xponetial Music Festival (presented by Subaru). In September, Mrs. Pincus and I used our first set of free tickets to see 60s holdover Arlo Guthrie at the venerable Keswick Theater in the nearby hamlet of Glenside, where he delivered a surprisingly entertaining performance. He and his band did all the songs you'd expect Arlo Guthrie to do ("City of New Orleans," "Mr. Customs Man," that pickle-motorcycle song and a sprawling recitation of "Alice's Restaurant," complete with video accompaniment) and turned in a pretty good show. And, of course, it was free, so... no complaints.

Last night, Mrs. P and I went back to the Keswick, to see Rufus Wainwright on the 20th Anniversary tour of his first two albums. I can name two songs by Rufus Wainwright (maybe three, if you count covers) and I own none of his albums. I didn't even know that his debut was released twenty years ago. But, I don't dislike him. I just wouldn't call myself a "fan." And free tickets are free tickets, so...

First, let me offer a bit of a confession. Two days before the Rufus Wainwright show, I went to see guitarist JD McPherson bring his holiday show to the somewhat grungy Underground Arts in North Philadelphia, a venue that is more "underground" than "arts." JD and his band are touring in support of his stellar new release, a rocking Christmas album that would stand as a great record on its own, even without the sardonic Christmas references. I have seen JD McPherson several times before and at the conclusion of each show, I still can't figure out why this guy isn't a huge star.

So, in the satisfying afterglow of Wednesday night's concert, my wife and I filed through the metal detectors at the Keswick and were guided to our seats by one of the attentive ushers, all of whom would look more at home behind the counter of a Woolworth's in 1940. The Keswick opened its doors on Christmas Day 1928 and a lot of the staff appears to have been present as witnesses to that big event. The theater is currently undergoing a tediously-slow renovation, so the plain plastered walls and bare-bones stage are a bit of a stark distraction. I'm sure the place will be beautiful thirty years from now when the improvements are completed.

My wife and I were in the definite minority, as the crowd showed great enthusiasm for Rachel Eckroth, the opening act. Rachel, a member of Wainwright's band, served up a group of atmospheric tunes played on an array of synthesizers. The voice distortions and otherworldly noises emanating from her musical instruments likened her performance to a kid who just got a Casio keyboard on Christmas morning and was learning all the cool stuff it could do. Plus her songs were boring.

This picture is not blurry.
You're falling asleep.

After a short break, Rufus Wainwright and his band took the stage and busted out "April Fools," the opening track from his self-titled 1998 release – and one of the two songs I knew coming in. Well, I thought, this may not be too bad. I have been to many, many concerts where I was not at all familiar with the artist's catalog and still had a great time. (A September 2017 show by Austin indie rockers A Giant Dog comes to mind.) Rufus soon departed into the sleep-inducing mire of a slew of draggy, wordy, mid-tempo songs, all delivered in the slurred vocal styling that has become his signature. I found myself dozing, only to be awakened sporadically by the thunderous applause of the local Rufus Wainwright fan base – people who probably paid for their tickets – showing their approval.

Rufus's stage banter wasn't exactly riveting either, as he first acknowledged two young boys sitting stage-side and related an incoherent anecdote about taking his own daughter to concerts. Then, he stammered out a story about touring with his mother (the late folk singer Kate McGarrigle) with a very loose reference to being in Pennsylvania and the pay-off being an insult to fans of folk music.

The band returned to the stage after a brief intermission. They enthusiastically launched into "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk," the other Rufus Wainwright song I knew. Then, Set Two took the same path we saw in Set One. It sunk back into that familiar dirge-y ebb, each line of each song dispatched at the oozing pace of an overturned jar of molasses. Mrs. Pincus and I exchanged silent, eyebrow-raised glances in the darkened theater. At the conclusion of the next song, we quickly gathered our coats and made a break for the exit under the camouflage of a standing ovation.

In my forty-plus years of going to concerts, I can say, with some level of confidence, that this was the single most boring show I have ever attended. Not a complaint, mind you, because the tickets were free.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let me play among the stars

It was a few days before Memorial Day 1977 and my friends and I were looking for something to do. We had a three-day weekend ahead of us and, since the school year was winding down, we didn't have much homework (those of us that actually did homework, that is.) Three of us were just hanging around in Scott's room, on the second floor of his parent's Northeast Philadelphia split-level home, trying to figure out what could kill some time on an otherwise boring Wednesday night. Someone began thumbing through a newspaper and suggested we go to a movie. We had already seen Annie Hall, released just a few weeks earlier. We passed on Charles Bronson's White Buffalo and the dumb premise of the would-be thriller The Car.

"How about this one?" asked Scott, pointing to a quarter-page ad for something called Star Wars. I wasn't much into science-fiction. I watched a few episodes of Star Trek years ago without much interest. Scott campaigned for Star Wars and Alan agreed. I think they were just tired of hanging around and doing nothing. So we went.

We knew nothing about what we were about to see. We heard no advanced press, no pre-release buzz, no nothing. We were just three sixteen-year-olds going to a movie. We bought our tickets at the box office (23 years before the likes of Fandango and any sort of service charges and convenience charges). We paid $2.25 for our tickets. We probably bought popcorn and soda and still got change for a five. I don't remember any long lines or any crowds, for that matter. We entered the theater and had our pick of seats. We had no idea what to expect.

The lights soon dimmed and, after several teasers for upcoming feature films (Smokey and the Bandit would be coming out that weekend), the now-familiar and iconic preface scrolled into the screen. Everyone in the theater read it to themselves, a low murmur filling the air as some audience members were unable to whisper or keep their mouths shut. For the next 121 minutes, as the screen lit up with colorful flashes, booming explosions and other special effects, the audience was captivated.

Except me. I didn't get it.

When it was all over, the crowd erupted in wild applause (something I still find odd for a filmed performance). Some felt compelled to punctuate the clapping with hoots and whistles. The extensive closing credits filled the screen as the audience filed out, busily chattering about different scenes and different characters. Some repeated memorable lines. (How many times I would hear "Laugh it up, fuzzball." and "I'd rather kiss a Wookie." in the coming weeks!) Others re-enacted and analyzed key scenes to the best of their recollection.

Except me. I didn't get it.

Even Scott and Alan got caught up in the excitement. They were already talking about seeing it again. I scratched my head. Did I miss something? Did some hidden meaning pass me by? I just watched the same movie they did. It was basically a cowboy and Indian picture with lasers and aliens. Not too profound and certainly not earth-shattering. I think maybe my teenage mind was too old for such childish frivolity. I was more interested in girls and concerts and girls.

As the summer progressed, the buzz for Star Wars increased. My next-door neighbor — four years my junior — saw Star Wars 25 times throughout the course of the summer. He had little action figures of the characters from the movie and he recreated scenes on his front porch for his own amusement — until the next time he saw the film.

But, I just didn't get it. A few years later, I saw The Empire Strikes Back, hoping it would somehow strike a chord with me and it would all suddenly click. It didn't. In 1983, I saw Return of the Jedi, giving this whole Star Wars thing one last chance. By this time, I was 22, far too old to be moved by evil overlords and Jedi knights in shining armor. And still, nothing. No connection was made. Frankly, I found the trilogy boring and forgettable. I know. I know. I am in the definite minority.

When the second wave of Star Wars mania broke, it came complete with built-in recognition and shrewd marketing. Star Wars - Episode 1: The Phantom Menace was released in 1999 when my son was 12, the prime target market. He, of course, loved the film. He had a slew of Star Wars-related toys and played with them often. He enjoyed the original trilogy in re-release and then the subsequent releases in the so-called "prequel saga." He was, like most fans, critical of certain sequences and certain characters (the annoying Jar Jar Binks comes to mind), but, he still considers himself a fan. He loves the Star Wars attractions at Disneyland and Walt Disney World and, while not a regular viewer (he's 28 now), has an appreciation for the Star Wars cartoon series and their place in the Star Wars canon.

Now, on the eve of the heralded release of the next phase of the Star Wars legend — The Force Awakens — the excitement builds. The Internet and all outlets of social media (something that didn't exist in the first go-round) are a-flutter with speculation, prognostication and anticipation. Disney, the multimedia entertainment powerhouse that purchased the rights to all things Star Wars in 2012, stands to rake in a ton of money from the new movie. Fittingly, they unleashed a meticulously planned marketing assault that began just moments after the ink dried on their contract with George Lucas. The previews are already garnering positive reviews and at least two more films are already planned. There are upcoming modifications to Disney's theme parks to incorporate both the growing and long-time interest in the Star Wars universe. Everyone is excited and delighted and enthusiastic.

Except me. I still don't get it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com