Urinetown—The Musical
Live Arts
stage
There are a few things that everyone can be sure of: 1) the earth
is round; 2) if you fling a baseball (or a parking ticket, or a shitzsu) up in the air, it will come back down; 3) musicals are ripe for parody.
And there’s one basic law that should govern most community theaters: If you want to produce a musical, pick one in which every little failing can be smothered in the phrase “It’s supposed to be bad.”
Urinetown—The Musical, the brainchild of composer and lyricist Mark Hollmann and writer and lyricist Greg Kotis (and featuring such stirring numbers as “Don’t Be the Bunny” and “Snuff That Girl”) takes deadly aim at the conventionalities of musical theater. More specifically, it takes Les Miserables hostage, demanding that we give up our fondness or respect for it in exchange for some hearty laughs.
Here’s the premise: In an imaginary, Gotham-like city, a severe drought has to led to the outlawing of private toilets, and everyone must pay to urinate in public amenities run by a monopolistic corporation called Urine Good Company.
Still with me? Yes? Great. Let’s continue.
A lowly urinal manager, Bobby Strong (Jonathan Green) leads a rebellion against UGC, while also finding time to fall in love with Hope Cladwell (Alice Reed), the daughter of UGC’s CEO, Caldwell B. Cladwell (Dan Stern). Will the rebellion succeed against massive odds? Will the rich girl choose abstract love over Daddy’s money? Will the concept of a happy ending get fed into the parodic meat grinder?
John Gibson directs Live Arts’ version of this Tony Award-winning concoction. With the help of a set—designed by Jeff Bushman—that resembles a construction site, grubby costumes designed by Julia Carlson, and Carin L. Edwards-Orr’s by turns muddy and garish lighting design, Gibson creates the appropriate visual atmosphere: When the show’s over, you’ll feel like washing your hands.
All right, so some of Gibson’s sight gags, such as a send-up of Bob Dylan’s lyrics-on-placards sequence in Don’t Look Back, fall flat, and Rob Petres’ choreography isn’t always slick, and the song stylings of the three leads probably wouldn’t make it past the first round of “American Idol.” Who cares? These bumps in the road in effect satirize the satire. And on the completely bright side: The comic inventiveness of Michael Horan and Karie Miller (whose characters team up to provide verbal CliffsNotes for the audience, and in general anchor the show) needs no excuses.
—Doug Nordfors
Danielson
Satellite Ballroom
Friday, July 14, 2006
music
On Friday night, I heckled Neil Hamburger, the self-proclaimed world’s worst comedian, and he threw a drink at me in response. It was all part of a horrible routine by “America’s Funnyman” (a comedian that purposely tells lame, tasteless jokes) and the fact that people actually laughed at him was pretty sad.
But enough about that freak—I was actually at the Satellite Ballroom to see Danielson, a collective fronted by the brilliant Daniel Smith who first debuted in the mid ‘90s with A Prayer for Every Hour—an album originally recorded as part of Smith’s thesis at Rutgers University. Ever since, he has released a string of records comprised of mad, rambunctious tunes that often seem to contain a moral lesson of some sort (although it’s hard to tell—it’s damn near impossible to make sense of his lyrics). Musically, Danielson’s songs approach the epic, usually beginning with Smith on acoustic guitar, yelping in a voice resembling Mickey Mouse, then building slowly into foot-stomping orgies of sound, replete with a symphonic array of instruments. Judging by their albums, Smith and his “Familyre” seem like they would be great live—something approaching the ecclesiastical fury of a gospel church revival—but his last (and first) appearance in Charlottesville was disappointing. For some reason Smith played that show encased in a giant, tree-shaped suit crafted out of foam and felt. While visually stimulating, the suit definitely encumbered his performance (the incredible stifling Tokyo Rose heat didn’t help, either) and the show ended up being a bit anticlimactic.
But this time, outfitted (as was his
band) in quasi-military-slash-postal-worker regalia, Smith turned in a stellar performance. Joined by his sister Megan (on vocals, xylophone and finger-snaps), two drummers, a keyboardist and a bass guitarist, Brother Daniel (as he is called) played songs culled largely from his most recent release, the excellent Ships.
The show was infectiously energetic, with Smith repeatedly exhorting the crowd to help him with his “clap-a-longs,” and receiving a feverish response. By the end everyone was exhausted, but undeniably enriched. “C’mon,” Smith routinely yawped over the course of the night, urging the crowd to join in—but, for me, no exhortation was necessary: Whatever Brother Daniel bids, I will gladly do.
—Jayson Whitehead