I’m a friggin prophet.
To add to the hate fest of the last two hours, did you notice how Weber-Rice was remembered?
CATS.
OK, longest running deserves a mention. But to give Evita and JC Superstar a split second mention in order to rush to coughing up a praiseball to CATS?!
Because you know, there never was a broadway musical before CATS to which one could take the whole family… (Sound of Music, anyone?).
Peace.
Ugh. I remember pre-miked broadway. Couldn’t hear dialogue up in the balcony. Every line of dialogue was yelled, every song belted – “why are they always so angry?”. Only small theaters (usually off broadway, like the Fantasticks) were able to do un-miked shows well, IMO.
(Sit down children, let me tell you of the time when they first starting miking Broadway… you’d see mics hanging from the ceiling and mics on the floor where the stage lights used to be even longer ago!)
My gripe is the current fad of not hiding the mics. The tiny lavaliers mics used to go under the hairpiece at the top of the forehead, or in the hair above the ear… now, they dangle out of the hairpiece like an Indian jewel was glued there. Or, worse yet, they use the rock-concert earpiece-boom-mic like that used in Rent. And worst of all – another Rent pretension to ‘rock concertdom’ – is walking up to a mic stand to sing. (Look at me I’m a Broadway play, no, look, I’m a rock opera, no look again, I’m a rock concert, no, look again, my second act has things happening without any sort of plot whatsover… fuck drama and book and story… I’m rock and roll!) Blech.
Peace.
(Did I mention I hate Rent?)
("Rent, I knew Hair. Hair was a friend of mine. You’re no Hair.)
“We want the Floradoras! We want the Floradoras!” -crowd at a Little Rascals back yard review.
. . . Only in the Irish neighborhoods, Clancy.