Ticket for One, Please

I'm not a gay man, a cheesy tourist, or a granny from middle America.

But, I must confess, I do love me some musical theater. In honor of last night's American Idol, where the theme was the music of Andrew Llloyd Weber, I figured that musical theater was as good of a topic as any. And, frankly, I was flat empty on other more intriguing ideas today.

My old roommate Jill and I used to go a lot, and even had season tickets for one grand year of Broadway in Chicago. I'll avoid telling you during how many shows she fell asleep. But I will say that I'm still baffled by how one can conk out to a full snooze right in the middle of the French Revolution. It was tres (Les) Miserables, I assure you. Overall, we loved being a part of the classic culture of Chicago.

Anyway, I have seen many, many shows, and was impressed by them all. For most of them, I now own the soundtrack and when no one is looking (or the windows aren't down in the car), I belt out the tunes as if I were the one on stage. My key takeaway for each is also included, for your memory lane reading pleasure:

Les Miserables—first show ever, at age 13, with Jenny and her dad at the Fox Theater in Atlanta; we were all dressed up and felt very special. Black velvet, a hair bow and tights have never meant more. Doesn't mean we looked that good, but the lovely strawberries in our pre-show sparkling cider may have led to a life of drinking. I blame Mr. Goff.

The King and I—one of the many shows that my Mom took my sister and me to, cleverly using the half-off coupons from the local grocery store; our girls' night treats were exquisite, and I even liked the movie rendition.

Phantom of the Opera—the music makes me cry, and the candles/fog scene is outstanding, but the whole premise is just a tad bit strange, no? Or am I that vain to find it difficult to believe she'd fall in love with a creepy attic-crawling figure in a plastic half-mask?

Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat—all I remember is the giant patchwork coat. I'm sure it is a good show, but I can't bet on it.

RENT—loved it loved it loved it. Heard on the radio in Atlanta that they were giving away the front few rows (part of the author's plan to gain attention from/audience members from younger, more broke generations), but when I got there, the lady sold out right in front of my face. My date felt bad, turned to a scalper, and paid a fortune. I really liked that move. Him, not so much, but seeing the show from the 10th row was killer.

The Lion King—expected furry costumed theme-park-style animals, and was pleasantly surprised at the artistry of it all. Seriously didn't expect that.

Jesus Christ Superstar—was a little offended. Maybe I was taking the whole "mock Jesus' crucifixion" a little too seriously?

Oliver—great show, but all I can think of is my mom playing Oliver when she was young in the school play. I think she was THAT skinny that she made a great orphan. Boy.

Miss Saigon—two words. Heli. Copter. I cried a lot in this show, both times I saw it. Beautiful story, great music, fantastic stage effects.

Hairspray—really great show. Where else can you see a can of ozone-killing aerosol so proudly celebrated?

Stomp!—who knew you could make music that sounds so great from a few garbage cans and a broom?

Mama Mia—fantastic, and was again really surprised. Yes, this is a pretty freaking cheesy storyline, but the tunes are great. ABBA forever!

Wicked—sat really close and the costumes blew me away. And all that green paint! Where can I get that for next year's St. Patrick's Day?

Chicago—the movie was so much better than the stage show, I'm afraid. Sorry, thespians. Except for the Cellblock Tango, which is great no matter where you see it.

The Producers—yes, it was good. I wasn't that blown away. Funny, strange, yes. Would ever see it again? Not a chance. Maybe I missed out by not seeing the original cast?

Urinetown—gross. Stupid. Forgettable. Do I sound like Simon Cowell?

Speaking of Simon, here was my absolute favorite (goose-bump) performance last night. I predict a David vs. David finale. Which would be fine by me...



The show must go on.

Singing the Blues

Last night, Brett* and I were watching American Idol. It's my guilty pleasure, and I'm dragging him into it full speed ahead.

I don't hear him complaining.

In fact, we got into a healthy discussion about what this contest, or similar types of reality-TV based talent shows, are doing one of two things to American music culture:

• They are creating a culture of "instant stars" who wouldn't normally have been famous, haven't earned it and probably aren't ready for the success, and they sell albums and make record producers happy and rich, but they are just overproduced, slick pop stars with little to no true musical talent.
  
  
• They are an example of mainstream cultural musical taste, and whether you like it or not, this is what the public is buying. Evidenced by the Billboard sales, music award shows and tour records, shows like American Idol seem to be generating a product which America wants, and therefore, proves the artist in question is "talented."

We debated, and it was clear that both things are true.

The reality-TV atmosphere, and the "fan voting" and the sugary-pop nature of the artists churned out by American Idol isn't necessarily a barometer of long-lasting, historically relevant musical talent. However, you'd be hard pressed to argue against the success (and dare I say skills) of artists like Kelly Clarkson, Daughtry and Carrie Underwood. All three have had a few great years, and their bank accounts and fireplace mantles are better for it.

The true comment thread during last night's Hollywood show—for me at least—was the blue tongue syndrome. Each contestant came out to audition, sang their lungs out (for better or worse) and showed the audience (millions of Fox viewers as well as the three cranky judges) their blue tongues.

We also had a few theories about this:

• There was a huge bowl of blue Jolly Ranchers backstage and no one can resist a good Jolly Rancher.
  
  
• There is a new brand of throat lozenges for singers that is tinted a lovely shade of cyan.
  
  
• A sneaky production assistant doused the craft services table with invisible-to-the-naked-eye powdered blue food coloring.
  
  
• American Idol is a cult and they gave them all blue Kool-aid backstage to make it all hazy and interesting, and to ensure that no one leaks Paula's real addictions to the press.

But, seriously. Didn't these kids look in the mirror? Or, more precisely, didn't it occur to someone at Fox that this would undoubtedly look strange on television?

It gave me the blues.

Or maybe that was just the TERRIBLE performance by the southern pageant queen and the even WORSE argument she got in with Paula to give her another chance. In that whiny "I'm pretty and used to getting what I want so give it to me now!" voice that makes my skin crawl.

Sing your way to the door, babe. Don't let it knock off your tiara as you leave.


*This is Brett's first mention by name. And, a sneaky test to see if he's reading this. More likely, his mother will read it first, and will mention it to him, and he'll come to me in protest. She's already a fan, or so I hear. Pass the blue blog Kool-aid, please.