bored of the ring
Much to the chagrin of every roommate and BF I've ever had, I'm a huge Johnny Cash fan. The number of songs from the Man in Black exceeds almost any other performer in my music collection (oddly enough, Annie Lennox clocks in first; Aretha lands at third). I never got around to seeing Walk the Line, partly out of fear that it would tarnish the legend, and also because that Joaquin guy really creeps me out.
Tonight, however, I did see Ring of Fire, the new "jukebox musical" of J.C.'s life.
Jesus H. Christ: What a disaster! I realize I'm probably extra sensitive, playing the fan card and all, but I can't imagine even a casual aquaintance of Cash's work enjoying this show. For those who don't know "Hey Porter" from "Hey Jude," well, that might be for the best. It's hard enough to sit through the show's cornier moments; doubly difficult if you know and love the material it's mauling.
It's funny: Halfway through the first act, I was reminded of a musical revue I caught in Atlanta a few years back called Ain't Misbehavin', which celebrated the songs of Fats Waller. Turns out Ring creator Richard Maltby conceived of that show, too, and he's largely credited/blamed for the jukebox trend that now clogs Broadway.
And I'm not squarely choosing sides on that particular battle. I realize that there will always be shows like Mamma Mia!, theatrical cotton candy that exist solely to put smiles on the faces of Times Square tourists. Which is fine. It's hard to leave a production like that and not be humming along. No one goes to Mamma Mia! looking for a new lease on life, or wanting to gaze deeply into the twisted paradox of the human condition. It's fucking Abba. Let your hair down and go with it.
Alas, my man Johnny Cash just doesn't fit into such a happy little Prozac capsule, even if Ring avoids the annoyance of plot contrivances and wisely resists becoming a straightforward biopic. What emerges is an oddly chosen playlist of songs Johnny recorded at one point or another, less enjoyable than a greatest hits disc and too often tedious to see reenacted on stage. That said, the show does feature some genuine talent: I couldn't take my eyes off Jarrod Emick, the "younger" male lead, and all three women wowed me at one point or another.
I'm just terrified to see what comes next. We've been through shows based upon the Beach Boys, Elvis, Frankie Valli, even Billy Joel. Whither the Helen Reddy retrospective? How about Meatloaf? Bring on some Tony Orlando and Dawn!
This could go on for years. When the time comes to write the book for the Annie Lennox jukebox musical, somebody better give me a crack at it. Sweet Dreams are Made of This, Baby. Who am I to disagree?
Tonight, however, I did see Ring of Fire, the new "jukebox musical" of J.C.'s life. Jesus H. Christ: What a disaster! I realize I'm probably extra sensitive, playing the fan card and all, but I can't imagine even a casual aquaintance of Cash's work enjoying this show. For those who don't know "Hey Porter" from "Hey Jude," well, that might be for the best. It's hard enough to sit through the show's cornier moments; doubly difficult if you know and love the material it's mauling.
It's funny: Halfway through the first act, I was reminded of a musical revue I caught in Atlanta a few years back called Ain't Misbehavin', which celebrated the songs of Fats Waller. Turns out Ring creator Richard Maltby conceived of that show, too, and he's largely credited/blamed for the jukebox trend that now clogs Broadway.
And I'm not squarely choosing sides on that particular battle. I realize that there will always be shows like Mamma Mia!, theatrical cotton candy that exist solely to put smiles on the faces of Times Square tourists. Which is fine. It's hard to leave a production like that and not be humming along. No one goes to Mamma Mia! looking for a new lease on life, or wanting to gaze deeply into the twisted paradox of the human condition. It's fucking Abba. Let your hair down and go with it.
Alas, my man Johnny Cash just doesn't fit into such a happy little Prozac capsule, even if Ring avoids the annoyance of plot contrivances and wisely resists becoming a straightforward biopic. What emerges is an oddly chosen playlist of songs Johnny recorded at one point or another, less enjoyable than a greatest hits disc and too often tedious to see reenacted on stage. That said, the show does feature some genuine talent: I couldn't take my eyes off Jarrod Emick, the "younger" male lead, and all three women wowed me at one point or another.
I'm just terrified to see what comes next. We've been through shows based upon the Beach Boys, Elvis, Frankie Valli, even Billy Joel. Whither the Helen Reddy retrospective? How about Meatloaf? Bring on some Tony Orlando and Dawn!
This could go on for years. When the time comes to write the book for the Annie Lennox jukebox musical, somebody better give me a crack at it. Sweet Dreams are Made of This, Baby. Who am I to disagree?
5 Comments:
hahahahah! 'it's fucking abba' just replaced 'where's andrae' as my phrase of the week!
i'm with you; the only times these jukebox productions measure up in my book is when they're tied to some semblance of a dramatic performance.
an excellent one from a couple of years ago was ted swindley's 'always ... patsy cline.'
cheers,
- sean
ps - omg, joaquin phoenix creeps me out, too!
Now I am no fan of the "jukebox musical;" however, I did just see "Jersey Boys" and thought it was amazing. But hey - a friend of mine is in it, so I'm a little biased.
An Annie Lennox-based show would probably be brilliant.
Mamma Mia! is a tad different in that it has a "plot" -- albeit cheesey and narration. It's actually fun the first couple of times (I have indeed seen the show twice cuz it was on Broadway and toured) because a familiar song is used in an unusual or unexpected context to tell a story -- like a REAL musical.
This "jukebox" thing has no thread, it's just -- song after song. At least Love, Janice was a biopic, a one-woman show that comforted and explained.
Oh, honey, it was painful last night.
Friend of mine named Lance Werth actually starred in this cabaret-style review of Helen Reddy's music in New York a couple years ago. It was called "Reddy or Not" and received decent notices.
saw a medly from this on Today last week. I winced, staring at the TV in disbelief because it was soooo bad. That's what I love about TrayB: we hate the same things. :-)
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