Sisyphus pushing that rock; where is the plank reviewer in this picture?The 2008 Vancouver Fringe Festival has restored my faith in ‘live’ theatre. From the heights to the depths, the festival offered an astonishing range of experience. And it is a vital festival. When I was excited by a show I was often exhilarated. When I was bored I was violently bored (and not stewing in the malaise indifference I feel at a well-produced regional flop). The best writing at this year’s Fringe was as good as, or better than, the writing on our main stages (excepting masterful classics like Shakespeare). The mediocre writing was as mediocre as the usual dreck. The best acting was as good. The best staging was as smart, if not smarter.

I’ll concede that our regular season shows, due to a level of professional competency, don’t fall as low as the major bombs at the Fringe. But as I noted above, these bombs are so much more enjoyable than the blandly competent failures we get during the rest of the year.

I’ve avoided the Fringe for years. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because it is so very live. In the past I may have been too cowardly to sit through a raw failure. Real risks are taken at the Fringe. Due to small budgets and unpredictable venue situations, it’s hard for a production to cover its nakedness under a veneer of professional legitimacy. When you leave a great Fringe show, you feel invigorated, even if you’ve been attacked or asked to take part against your will (perhaps even more so in such situations). When you leave a bad Fringe show, you might feel a little tainted by the experience. Either way you can’t deny the fact that someone has just bared his or her soul to you. In a room. Usually not a very big room.

I was at one production last week, I won’t say which one, in which a brave performer had undertaken and executed his project with skill and integrity. But in the first minute of the show, it was clear that a disaster was about to unfold. For some mysterious reason, everything the artist was reaching for — humour, philosophical depth, surprise, intelligent audience complicity — persistently eluded him. Within two minutes of the opening, my partner in the next seat had disengaged, shut her eyes, and gone sort of out-of-body in order to cope. I was equally horrified by the glacial unfolding taking place, a painful predictability that would make the next hour seem like ten. Part of me was panicking. But part of me was watching intently, full of admiration. This is the part that won out. I faced the artist bravely. Yes, the content of the show was uninteresting, but a heroic human drama was taking place on another level. Like Sisyphus, the artist, with his whole confused being, kept pushing the ball up the mountain. Heart and soul. This was an effort worth my respect. Even though it could only end in failure. And maybe that’s truer to life than the show that says we can somehow conquer death.

On the other hand, I’m still soaring from Jem Rolls full-frontal assault on the banality of our consumer culture. I’ve rarely seen an artist-assassin obliterate his audience with such poetic precision before turning the weapon on himself. And did I pee myself yesterday at the ridiculous antics of Gutenberg! The Musical!? Maybe just a little.

Wandering about the festival bar I see performers from the shows I managed to get to, and I can’t help giving them an admiring glance. I feel a little sheepish in their presence. So much talent, so much courage.

I’ll be back next year. And I plan on seeing even more shows. I’m marking my calendar now. Does the Fringe make my life better? Does it answer the big questions? Does Sisyphus ever get the ball to the top of the hill? Maybe I’m just in love with the effort.

Oh Dear! Oy Calcutta!By: Ingrid Nilson

Words escape me.

In two responses posted on the Plank web site, audience members mention the desire they felt to walk out of this show. While I may have had the impulse, I stayed glued to my seat for its duration, jaw dropped. Afterwards I left the theatre – mouth still agape – and tried to process what I had just witnessed. But even now, I cannot for a second conceive how this was allowed onstage.

While traveling, many people traditionally take pictures and send postcards. In the case of Stewart Katz, he wrote a book (which he shamelessly begs for you to buy during the show), made a “sensational soundtrack” and a musical to go along with it – Oy Calcutta – in which he stars. Who is this guy? He is self-described as “a new age neurotic”. When defined by a dictionary, neurotic means, “suffering from, caused by, or related to neurosis” with synonyms including “mentally disturbed” and “psychopathic”. Katz certainly called it! This depiction is the only explanation I can fathom that would excuse this show.   

The plot: a fanny-pack and knap sack towing Canadian woman (Sue Newman) travels throughout India pondering if she’s “just another lost Westerner looking for a guru” with a long white beard. She used to be obese but now wants inner peace (let the cheesy rhyming couplets begin). On her journey, she encounters first an ear-cleaner then a host of other pests bombarding her to buy things. They are all played by Katz in various stages of (un)dress (let the tacky costumes begin) who speaks the entire show in an incredibly insolent Indian accent. Speaking of pests, one of the colourful characters she encounters is a head scratching Rastafarian (Katz clad in a dreadful dread-lock wig) who tells her of his lice and of a severe intestinal parasite he passed, so big it had horns (let the potty jokes begin). And cue a song about diarrhea.

Songs and jokes about intestinal malfunction are splattered throughout the show. At one point, Sue’s Jewish mother calls and expresses jealousy when she learns of Sue’s severe diarrhea; “you’re so lucky, I’m so constipated”. (It might be funnier if three million children didn’t die a year of malaria.) To cure her ailments, she is advised by a coughing, farting and burping Indian doctor with a pillow stuffed under his shirt (guess who), to drink cow’s urine. And wait, there’s a song about urine too, the audience favourite “urination is elimination”. It is complete with lyrics like “being constipated is overrated” and a whole whack of choreography by the back-up dancers to explicitly illustrate such exciting topics.

At another point, Katz appears on-stage in a full body cow suit and accompanies himself on the guitar singing a song about how it’s not easy to be a holy animal but it could be worse (I could be in a zoo or as the dinner at a non-Hindu BBQ). While the rhymes were ridiculous, what I found truly distasteful was Katz' eagerness to tramp on the sensitive subjects of both race and religion in a manner that lampooned excessively and capitalized on stereotypes. While they may not have spoken up, I can attest from conversations I had after the performance that many audience members of Indian (and non-Indian) heritage felt highly uncomfortable and misunderstood by Katz’ parodying presentation of their country, culture and beliefs.

Katz took a trip to India, sure, but in this attempt at spoof, he apparently possesses neither license nor insight to interpret that country’s way of life. From the forced accents to the poop jokes, Oy Calcutta was a gross misrepresentation. It was equally astonishing to see a band of beautifully skilled musicians performing traditional music and a troupe of three very talented dancers contributing their immense ability to such an offensive cause. While they were on stage performing with great proficiency, it made my stomach curdle to see, what was in my eyes, extreme exploitation. Their presence in the show was completely disjointed from the one-man spectacle Katz appeared to be performing.

To get a feel for his showmanship (without having to endure it for an hour), you should really visit his web site, http://stewartkatz.ca and check out the “All About Stewart” section (which might have been a more apt title for this musical). Blame the stage-hogging on the neurosis or the fact that he has previously produced and starred in three theatrical one-man comedies – maybe he doesn’t know any better?

But there is no way deny or overlook the extremist racial degradation going on in this piece. It is completely fitting to compare Katz’s caricatures with blackface performance. He creates archetypes akin the happy-go-lucky darky on the plantation or the dandified coon, but Indian. If the same stereotyping strategy was employed by a Caucasian male to the abasement of aboriginal people, it would be an absolute outrage. But the guise that there is some sort of deeper philosophy from a foreign land to be grasped or that it’s all done in good fun prevents the crowd from protesting or, in my case, leaving part way through despite the impulse.

The show’s production company, Peace in Our Time Productions, was founded by Katz as a “company dedicated to reaching as many people as possible through comedy with a message of tolerance and peace”. I cannot be tolerant or peaceful about the message in this piece; it is tasteless, hurtful and utterly racist. And there’s nothing funny about that.

Written by: Stewart Katz
Directed, Produced and starring: Stewart Katz and Sue Newman; Also Starring: Namchi Bazar, Laura Albert, Melissa Estable and April Mackey
Stage Manager: April Mackey.
Original music by: Stewart Katz and Sean ‘Sirbassa” Hill
Live Music Performance by: The Ek Band Collective

There's something sexy about being around a person who performs a job well. A friend and I once compared notes about being impressed – and somewhat turned on – by being a passenger in a vehicle when the driver had to respond quickly and adroitly to black ice on the road (in my case) or a deer stumbling out of nowhere (in her case). Effortlessly expert performance is hot, baby.

In a theatre, in some ways, you're in the same kind of position: you hope the people on stage will take you for a good ride, and when they do, it's pretty satisfying. When they do it expertly and with humour, it's a turn-on – mentally and emotionally.

I was impressed, moved, delighted and just downright pleased by the Road Show Company's production of One More for the Road, a late play by George Ryga (yes, he of The Ecstasy of Rita Joe fame). According to University of Calgary Special Collections (sources! they're everywhere on the 'net!) this one-person show was written for Ryga's friend, Dick Clements, another performer. The piece is built around Dick's recollections of the spoken and sung ramblings of Chester C. Sharpe, a sort of Everyman figure but also a composite of Ryga and Clements. John R. Taylor, who has worked in production design for film and TV and also acts, and who was involved with a 1990 Fringe tour of One More for the Road, directed this 2008 Fringe performance.

Jacques Lalonde, as Dick, carries the character with a light touch, which is appropriate because the folksy humour would become schlock if it were played over-earnestly. (And as a non-fan of banjo, I'm surprised to say the banjo-picking – by Lalonde and by Kempton Dexter, of HiRise Dex and the Stellar Jays who also added original compositions to the show – was mellow and musical, not harsh.) Lalonde plays his character's physicality at the right note, too – there are moments when he has to skip around, or do a bit of a dance, and he presents a convincing combination of playfulness and world-weary wisdom.

Dick intersperses anecdotes about his friendship with Old Chester, another ramblin' man, with songs that we've all heard so many times we forgot what they were really about. One More opens those meanings again. For example, what is the point of "Home, Home on the Range" if it isn't about finding a place in the world that makes sense to you, a place where you don't have to fight. Unless you've had a few and you really want to toss a few punches, just to mix things up.

Layers of silliness and seriousness blend beautifully in One More For The Road. There are plenty of moments where Chester (never physically there) and Dick make fun of themselves, and the theme of love lost is as constant as the theme of love – and friendship – found. Ryga sweeps across emotions: there's love on summer evening; there's death on a windy night; and somehow friendship helps it all make sense.

Whether you're a playwright or an actor or an audience member, it's hard to trust simplicity. But simplicity works here, and it's safe to relax into it because you won't be disappointed.

I left feeling contented and warmed. If I'd been there with my honey, I'll bet that warmth would have eased into a bit of a turn-on, because the eve became one of opening to sensuality and laughter. So, go see One More for the Road before it wraps. It's a slow seduction and you'll come out feeling great.

Produced by: Road Show Company

Background Banjo Player: Kempton Dexter

For more information on the show and to join the public debate drive here.

Transcendental Masturbation:The Comebackby SeanonymousTyson

Well. It seems my failings are now tied inextricably to this Marvel of Manhood. I was charged with seeing this show on sept 6th (I did), and write a review (I did...36hours later…bad me). So I finish that rough draft and I sit down to edit and submit, only to find… a lively little discussion already commenced. So far the online tally is a plus, a minus, a ‘mud-sling’ and some ‘petty’ stuff…  Now I gotta follow this up? Can’t  NOT do it. My editor would kill me. But I’m supposed to be an impartial reviewer, with an empathy for performers and an understanding of not only the theatre and the Fringe but I also have to be an aficionado on what’s funny (to me of course. I can’t speak for you). So, after careful deliberation and a little bit of tweaking (I like to think I stayed true to the original), here is what I was gonna say before some of you crossed that line afore me.

After an 8 year absence and a full tour card this year (not to mention his recent debaucherous stint at Burning Man) Glen Callender Ufa is still coming down to earth. Perhaps he already has and is only now rebounding off the bottom. Either way, with proclamations like “I just don’t care anymore!” The question must be asked. Should ‘you’?

Looking like the bastard love child of two great Rick’s ( Mr Ocasek and Mr Astley) our synth styling singer/songwriter takes the stage to croon his catchy introduc-”tion”.  While it sucks us right in with its  bobble head-like rhythm, given the ‘vegan’ peeler-routine that follows, I’m glad I sat at good distance.
Perhaps, in the expansive Performance Works space, thoughts began to grow in me. I couldn’t help but realize the work was better suited to a smaller, more intimate venue. Say....a lounge…..  in a gentlemans’ club….. Perhaps a ‘bored silly’ waitress in a bad tuxedo outfit, cut a little too short. The happy hour highballs would flow while we flirt and laugh at all the sexual innuendos assailing us from the nook where the band usually sat, home now to the evenings’ entertainment. Perchance numbers would be exchanged, dates set, kept and consummated.

Years later we find ourselves driving up to the Airport Suites, a quick overnight stay before we spirit the kids off to Disneyland. We’re halfway through sign-in when the hauntingly melodic strains of “Imagine: reImagined” waft out of the lounge and stir the ashes of memory. A knowing glance shared, a soft wry smile met with a toothy grin.

“Let’s get these little ones an adjoining room”, she says. I inform the ‘concierge’ of our requirements. 

Jennifer (our precocious little 1st grader) asks, “Mommy, why do we have to sleep next door?”

“Well darling, you and your sister are big girls now, correct?”

“ yes mummy”

“and you were up early this morning, before mummy and daddy were, and you packed your own bags, and you didn’t have a nap”

“no mommy. I didn’t…….   (whispering) Emy did…”

“that’s okay darling, well…. We thought that maybe you ‘young ladies’ would like to go for a dip in the pool and then order some room service from your own phone….”

“really…”

(whispering) “well actually, I have to stay up for a while and make sure daddy understands just how important this trip is. and he’s not going to go and hang out in the lounge and listen to that silly man tell his dirty jokes.  or mommy will have to give him a spankin. and, I want to make sure you girls get your beauty sleep before we see Gramma”

(whispering) “okay mummy. I’ll help. but don’t tell emy…. I’ll explain it later when you and daddy have your talk… okay?”

(in a loud whisper) “You have yourself a deal.”  They shake on it.

Neither her mother or I think she’s ready for that conversation yet. No matter how grown up she may act.

Perhaps in another   …….8 years.

So then I’m sure somebody would have read it (cause clearly people are) and gone all:

“What’re you talking about? Does this reviewer think that he’s being all funny by starting us off like we’re gonna like where we’re going, then he starts to make up his own stuff along the way like it’s supposed to be better than what the guy did? And then we’re gonna think ‘wow, you’re so witty’
Right! like I’m supposed to care about that? Talk about masturbation!”        posted by   potty@humor.com

So then somebody else would have responded:

“deep.
Like a toilet.”      posted by gladth@ugotit.ca

Sometimes we are clever. Sometimes we are entertaining. Sometimes we’re both.    (sometimes)

Come over this to find out more.

Christina Sicoli (Wild Rose) restores Andrew's faith in humanity, or somethingWhen David Jordan contacted me about something that Simon Ogden had suggested, my first thought was “what?” Simon’s idea was to review every show in this year’s Fringe Festival over the first weekend. When I told my Plank colleagues about this, they too went “what?”

You mean every show?

Then I met with David and Simon and we started talking about a team of reviewers flooding the festival, Plank Magazine hosting the online forum and getting people talking on the site, debating the shows and generally hurting each others feelings and, man, was on board for that. And so were my colleagues and so, thankfully, are many of you.

This has been just an unbelievably fun adventure for all of us in Plankland. One of my colleagues phoned me on her way home to say how energized she was from the whole experience. And that energy is coming from all of you who have participated in the forums or who have just dropped by to read a few reviews before heading out to the Festival and, of course, from the performers themselves.

We want to also thank our Fringe reviewers who did such fantastic work: Cathy, Ingrid, Miranda, Rachel, Tyson and, of course, Simon! We also want to thank David Jordan and his team and the volunteers.

But it’s not over yet! We still have the final weekend ahead. It’s kind of hard to keep track of all 68 shows – and their reviews – across the site so, if you feel so inclined, why don’t you post your top experience, worst nightmare or general thoughts below. I know David and his team will be just as interested as we are. And please, keep in the spirit of things and don’t shill for your own show.

As for me, my high-point would be having my faith restored in the one-person show by Barry Smith, Christina Sicoli and TJ Dawe.

The low-point would have to be the “incident” last night at the Fringe Club over the Rice Krispie square. I do apologize to anyone who witnessed it but I think you could see for yourselves how unreasonable Alex was being. I really hope Heather will reconsider the ban from the club for the weekend. For me that is, Alex should remain banned.

Get out there and enjoy the Fringe!

Hey Alex, want some?

By Ashleigh Dalton

Tucked away in the gym of a church basement, a diverse group of performers put on a theatre show and made their family and friends, and most importantly, themselves, proud.  When the curtain call came, I could feel the sense of accomplishment from each of the actors as they took their bows and celebrated their individual and collective achievements.

Theatre Terrific is a theatre company for people with disabilities. Featuring sixteen performers of various abilities and disabilities, All Sorts focused on the coming together of three very different families (the polite house, the anarchist house and the happy house) through songs and body movements, and a symbolic story of a crow. The purpose of the production seemed to be telling a story that would communicate a message about accepting differences.  They succeeded in this, with effective usage of sound (recorded and live) and visual components (strong costume choices, and a clever contrast of light and dark in shadow puppetry) to support the story.  I would have liked to see more careful use of the set, as the entire first sequence took place in the back corner of the stage, with the actors' expressions and actions barely visible to the audience.  

Short and direct in its 30-minute course, All Sorts provided an outlet for performers who may not fit within mainstream theatre groups.  This was a piece of theatre with a serious and important message, told in a fun and light-hearted way.

All Sorts was produced by Theatre Terrific, Vancouver.  Written and directed by Susanna Uchatius.

For more information and to discuss the show please go here.

Confessions: Three MonologuesBy: Ingrid Nilson

It’s no secret; the young cast of Confessions: Three Monologues is extremely talented.

I must confess I was pleasantly surprised by the sweet success of this indie amalgamation; it was a treat for the senses. A hodgepodge of three short solo performances, live music and multimedia crammed into a cute coffee house off the trodden Fringe path, this show embraces the very essence of DIY morals. The theme that merged these mix-matched monologues was news media; each can be described as “personal, human stories related to news reports…” But the true through-line was the team’s commitment to excellent theatre - they brought their own venue, even penned their own performance (in one case) and then threw down a raised two-by-four as a stage and put on an impressive act.

Audiences will be enticed by the focused ferocity of these young actors (and the aroma of all things delicious at The Agro Café). In the aptly named Letter From a Soldier: My Name is Aslam, Evan Frayne is an American soldier in Iraq narrating a letter home to his girlfriend. He shares his experience trying to “shoot people before they shoot us” with an accent vaguely reminiscent of The Godfather. Though he intends not to get to know any of the "sea of moustaches, towel heads or camel jockeys,” an unexpected friendship ensues. Frayne gets his 15 minutes of fame in this short but well-developed new work. He deserves to be saluted for delivering a solid performance of a story that embraces the human connection while breaking your hear.

Hats off too (and garments as well) to performer Alicia Novak, who wrote and performed a monologue about a web-cam stripper who begins to explore her identity. She uses the metaphor of balancing on a tightrope to frame the piece. It’s a creatively courageous artistic achievement. While her capacity as a writer comes through, the transitions between settings within it aren’t always as clear (I found myself two seconds behind sometimes). But I’d visit this site again for further developments!

Marissa Smith is the showstopper here. The Susan Smith Tapes stems from a factual, and heart-stopping, story of a mother who murdered her two young boys, making worldwide headlines in 1994. It helps to know the background of how Smith zoomed zoomed her Mazda into a lake, kids in tow, and tried to blame it on a fictional carjacking black man. After tearfully pleading on TV for her sons’ safe return, she eventually ‘fessed up to her crime and was sentenced to life in prison.

Smith captures a creepy chronicle of the convict’s perspective by filming herself, in front of us, from her prison cell, sharing her story. Because she’s scared of history’s opinion, she decides “I may as well get my say.” In series of addresses to the camera, she attempts to sweet talk Oprah, Jerry Springer and Barbara Walters, intending to send in the tapes and get her side of the story heard. A magical manipulator, Smith as Smith charms us with her “sensibilities”, her smile and her deceptively simple performance. Playing a seductive victim, "it just came over me, the death pull", she argues that she was a model mother and that if we saw things her way, we’d agree that “Susan Smith done horrible right”. The terrifying thing is, we almost do. (We would have more so if it weren’t for the repetitive sound affects of water, reminiscent of a flushing toilet but intended to replicate the sounds of Susan’s memory.)  

The pleasant sound of a live musician onstage playing pre-show and throughout makes this an entertaining event from the moment you walk in the door. Watch this ambitious cast of youngsters under the direction of Josue Laboucane and you won’t be disappointed. Whether they communicate through a camera, a computer, a letter, or even a guitar, the message comes across in Confessions; these guys have it going on!

“Letter From a Soldier: My Name is Aslam” written by: Deborah Voctoroff; “Tight Rope” by: Alicia Novak; “The Susan Smith Tapes” by: RM Vaughn
Directer: Josue Laboucane
Producer: Marissa Smith
Performers: Marissa Smith, Evan Frayne, Alicia Novak
Stage Manager/Lighting Designer: Katherine Gavin Somers
Musicians: The Hemlocks

For more information and to confess your opinions go here.

The Enquiry OfficeBy Sean Tyson

“The term refers to a particular type of play which first became popular during the 1950s and 1960s and which presented on stage the philosophy articulated by French philosopher Albert Camus in his 1942 essay, The Myth of Sisyphus, in which he defines the human condition as basically meaningless. Camus argued that humanity had to resign itself to recognizing that a fully satisfying rational explanation of the universe was beyond its reach; in that sense, the world must ultimately be seen as absurd.”  — Jerome P. Crabb

The Enquiry Office is considered an example of absurdist theatre, yet it certainly asks questions of us (the audience) that we should find inspirational. This production is inspirational for several reasons. Firstly, because I want to brush up on my French. Then I’d be able to read the play in its original language. Secondly, I’d like to track down a copy of the translation by Commandeur dans l’Ordre des Palmes academiques, Professor Colin Duckworth. I want to see the American vs. European -isms of the Man’s and Woman’s lines, respectively. Finally, I’d love to sit down with director Assen Gadjalouv and the cast to ask, “why?”

The play takes place in an Enquiry Office at a train station. There is a Man and a Woman: “HE” works there, “SHE” does not. That’s the framework Jean Tardieu’s script sets out before it goes off to examine the conditions of human life. While I was able to extract a few themes (the translator’s note gave me an idea of what to listen for), seeking them out was easier done with eyes closed. 1st Theme:  The Man who has attained “top of the ladder” status vs. the Woman who is simply “cut out for dreaming.” This idea of having achieved a level of success seems to be HIS prime motivating aspect. HE has a steady job as the Enquiry Officer, HE knows what is going on, HE is in charge. SHE, on the opposite side, is lost, unsure how to proceed and unable to make any decisions pertaining to herself. Through their conversations we are supposed to recognize this struggle within ourselves.  2nd Theme: fear of death (the unknown) vs. love of life (the familiar). When SHE asks about the future, HE replies that SHE “will die when she leaves” the office. SHE seeks to stay, thus avoiding her impending doom. What should be a discussion about the desperation of humans trying to cling to that which they know, is lost in a staging device that plays on a 3rd theme: alienation vs. inclusion. There was an interesting moment when SHE broke the fourth wall and sat among the audience; but then SHE was right back in the play and the moment…well, maybe it worked. I’m still thinking about it obviously.   

Yes I know the play is absurdist. And yes, I know I’ll have to look for my own answers. I also know the performers must already have theirs. If they do, then the director must find a way to clarify them for us. Even though it looked great visually, and the physical aspects intrigued me, this production creates more confusion than contemplation.

For more information make enquires here and also start debating while you're there.

By Rachel Scott

Musical of Musicals: The Musical! is a hilarious must-see for all musical theatre lovers. Throughout the course of the show, our very talented cast takes us through several incarnations of the same plot – all performed in the styles of different composers. Stephen Sondheim, Andrew Lloyd Weber, and Rodgers and Hammerstein are a sampling of the genius you’ll see recreated  - and lovingly mocked - on stage.

This show stands out because it is so technically demanding and so well done.  The performances are fantastic, the direction tight, and the accompaniment is flawless (thanks to Sarah Jaysmith).  The costumes and props give us the essence of the genres without being overdone or slowing down the action.  The excellent ensemble work by Mikal Grant, Steven Greenfield, Anna Kuman, and Colleen Winton is notable here in Fringe land, which thrives on a diet of one-person shows and duets.

I should mention that I am a musical theatre lover and hold all things “jazz hands” close to my heart.  If you don’t know these composers, you will miss a lot of the jokes that make this piece so exceptionally funny.   But that’s no reason not to go.  The joy of watching four fabulous pros do their job is reason enough.  

Musical of Musicals: The Musical! was originally produced in New York City and written by Joanne Bogart and Eric Rockwell.  This production was directed by Ryan Mooney, accompanied and assistant musical directed by Sarah Jaysmith, and performed by Mikal Grant, Steven Greenfield, Anna Kuman, and Colleen Winton.

For more information and to join in the public debate go here.

A Man, a Magic, a MusicThis one-man musical review by Movin’ Melvin Brown does everything you’d expect from a musical revue, and more. Really more.

The first thing this show has going for it is the source material: 50’s-60’s R&B. In my books you can’t do better than that. That’s my Shakespeare in a beat-box — the whole range of human emotion is there, coupled with incomparable grooves and soulful musicianship. Next you’ve got lead man Melvin Brown who sings like multi-phonic angel, like the R&B artists he’s impersonating, and like himself. And he sings with his body, by which I mean he dances. It’s all one thing.

The tunes are strung together in an autobiographical narrative that begins in Cincinnati in the forties. The turning points in Brown’s life are usually coupled with a recognizable hit from the R&B canon. Brown has a way of introducing these numbers as if each one were paradigmatic shift in human history. And I think for him they were. His personal history is a refresher, from one man’s perspective, of the African-American experience of the last half century. Brown never gets precious about any of this material. He stays lifted, always moving forward with a smile. Still, between his personal memoirs and achingly beautiful songs like “Unchained Melody” or “These Arms of Mine” the harshness of his experience hit me in the gut by several times.

The rest of the time I was singing or clapping along with the rest of the house. The show alternates in this way, between story and song, for a while. But just when I settled into this comfortable pattern, something changed. As Brown moved into the 70s and 80s, the detail in his personal biography deepened and the revelations became startling. New and completely unexpected angles on what a song and dance man could be had me thinking “Oh my…” and sometimes, “Holy shit…” Brown reveals a lot of himself. Really more than I was expecting. But I don’t want to say too much. Go and see for yourself. You will see. Really.

For more information and to discuss the show (and beat up on Alex) go here.