Emily Dickinson said real poetry made her feel as if the top of her head had been taken off.
I had that experience on Saturday.
Partner and I went to see “American Idiot” on Broadway. If you're as out of touch with popular music as I am, you will need to be told that this show is based on the Green Day album of the same name. Partner had seen some scenes on the last Tony Awards telecast and was very interested in it. I was a little dubious; I had bad memories of a road production of “Movin' Out,” the Billy Joel-inspired ballet/musical, and after an hour's worth of Twyla Tharp-style leaps and twirls to the tune of “Scenes From An Italian Restaurant,” I decided that stage shows and pop music do not mix.
I was wrong.
This is an amazing show. Everything pops. The set is a busy amalgam of rock concert, living-room furniture, fire escapes, and a compact car suspended by chains over stage right. And video screens everywhere, chattering through the whole show. And light projections, sometimes mimicking the action, sometimes commenting on it, sometimes disagreeing with it.
The talent – well, it's Broadway, you really don't make it onto the stage unless you're pretty good. Everybody in the cast was able to sing, and dance, and act, and do gymnastics, and play the guitar. I kid you not. Everybody.
And the dancing! This is not Twyla Tharp. This is angry dancing. This is ugly dancing. When the choreography was supposed to communicate fighting, or sex, I found myself holding my breath, thinking: Oh my god they're actually doing it.
And then there are the songs. Every new musical I've been to for years has had dead spots and meaningless songs. “We need a song here – go write one. How about a ballad?” (The “Spamalot” number “The Song That Goes Like This” says it better than I ever could.) “American Idiot” does not have a single wasted song or dead spot. The ballads, when they come along, are actually a welcome relief from the propulsive energy of the show; you get a chance to catch your breath before the next onslaught.
When we came out, Partner and I were both incredibly buzzed, and had to walk around for a while to get rid of the energy we'd built up during the show. New York is always sensory overload for me anyway, so I was deaf and blind for a few minutes as we jostled our way down 44th Street.
But Partner told me a story later about something he'd seen right after we came out of the theater.
In among the crowd, he saw a mother dragging two kids – a boy around thirteen, a girl maybe fourteen - out of the theater. The boy had a rapturous look on his face; he'd obviously really enjoyed the show. And then his mother shrieked: “I don't want you to get any ideas! I don't want you to come home smelling like drugs and dragging girls home with you!”
Partner said the boy shrank into himself, going from ecstasy to sullen defensiveness in a matter of seconds. The boy turned to his sister. “You liked it,” he said accusingly. “I saw you crying.”
“I was not crying,” the sister said. “I thought it was boring.”
The mother did not get it. Maybe the sister got it and maybe she didn't.
But the boy got it.
Once the top of your head gets taken off, there's no getting it back on again.
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