The other day I made a mistake. I was searching through the on-screen guide to find stuff for the DVR to record and I saw that The Phantom of the Opera was just starting on HBO 3. I hadn't seen it so I thought, "What the hell?" Ah, how quickly it all came back.
Many people ask me which musical theater composers I admire and which I don't.
First the list:
I REALLY admire: Stephen Sondheim, Cy Coleman, Richard Rodgers, Stephen Flaherty, George Gershwin, Leonard Bernstein, Jason Robert Brown, Jerry Bock, William Finn
I admire: Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, Mary Rodgers, Stephen Schwartz, Alan Menken, Marc Shaiman, Jerry Herman, Jerome Kern, Harold Arlen, Frank Loesser, Jule Styne, Frederick Loewe, Burton Lane, Marvin Hamlisch, Maury Yeston, Noel Coward, John Kander, Johnny Mercer, Charles Strouse, Kurt Weill, Richard Whiting
I don't care for: Andrew Lloyd-Webber, Frank Wildhorn, Lionel Bart (As Long as He Needs Me is a HUGE exception), Claude-Michel Schonberg (there are a few exceptions), Meredith Willson (I know, I'm sure this surprises people)
So, in a nutshell what separates these lists of greats? Simply put, I judge musical merit by comparing it to what I believe I'm capable of as a composer. In other words, if I could do it I don't admire it very much, if I could do it with much study and practice then I admire it, if I could never hope to come close then I really admire it. Yes, it's really that simple.
So, what's my problem with Lloyd-Webber and Wildhorn especially? Well, here's where things get dicy. You see, musical theater composers aren't just composers, they're providing a device to carry a lyric. If the lyric doesn't sit - if it doesn't sell fluidly - then, as far as it's merit for musical theater, the music doesn't work. Lloyd-Webber actually writes some very nice melodies; but they almost never go with their lyric. Or, worst yet, the lyric re-hashes itself throughout a song because the song requires more words. This is common in pop music, but in musical theater it can get boring fast. Take, for example, "Past the Point of No Return" from The Phantom of the Opera:
"Past the pointof no return
no backward glances
the games we've played
till now are at an end
Past all thoughtof "if" or "when"
no use resisting
abandon thought
and let the dream descend [what does that even mean?]
What raging fire shall flood the soul?
What rich desire unlocks its door?
What sweet seduction lies before us?
Past the point of no return
the final threshold
what warm, unspoken secrets will we learn?
Beyond the point of no return."
The lyric just goes on and on to fulfill the tune. Lloyd-Webber's tune, a cross between Rodgers and Wagner, is actually quite pleasant (well, pleasantly chilling) but the lyric, with its cliche'd imagery and goes-on-too-long style, buries it.
Things are worse in Wildhorn's world. Wildhorn, a successful pop producer and composer, simply writes a pop tune and throws it in. "This is the Moment" from Jeckyll & Hyde is a perfect example. First of all, it's structured in the classic verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, modulation, chorus structure of thousands of pop songs from the 70s through the 90s. Secondly, its lyric is sophomoric at best:
"This is the moment!
This is the day
When I send all my doubts and demons
On their way!
Every endeavor I have made ever
Is coming into play
Is here and now - today!
This is the moment,
This is the time,
When the momentum and the moment
Are in rhyme!
Give me this moment
This precious chance
I'll gather up my past
And make some sense at last!
This is the moment
When all I've done
All of the dreaming
Scheming and screaming
Become one! [what does that mean?]
This is the day
See it sparkle and shine
When all I've lived for becomes mine!
For all these years
I've faced the world alone
And now the time has come
To prove to them I've made it on my own!
This is the moment
My final test
Destiny beckoned
I never reckoned [WAY too contrived for the internal rhyme]
Second Best!
I won't look down
I must not fall! [this I like]
This is the moment
The sweetest moment of them all!
This is the moment!
Damn all the odds!
This day, or never,
I'll sit forever with the gods!
When I look back
I will always recall
Moment for moment
This was the moment
The greatest moment Of them all!"
Do you see my issue? A fair tune (certainly not anything special), but Bricusse is forced to keep writing to fill it up. There are some decent lyrics in here (and some shitty ones, too) but by the end, who cares? It's a pop song masquerading as musical theater. Compare this song with Sondheim's breakdown for Sweeney before the end of Act I:
"They all deserve to die.
Tell you why, Mrs. Lovett, tell you why.
Because in all of the whole human race, Mrs Lovett,
there are two kinds of men and only two
There's the one they put in his proper place
And the one with his foot in the other one's face
Look at me, Mrs Lovett, look at you.
Now we all deserve to die
Tell you why, Mrs. Lovett, tell you why.
Because the lives of the wicked should be made brief
For the rest of us death will be a relief
We all deserve to die.
And I'll never see Joanna
No I'll never hold my girl to me - finished!
Alright! You sir, you sir, how about a shave?
Come and visit your good friend Sweeney.
You sir, you sir? Welcome to the grave.
I will have vengenance. I will have salvation.
Who sir, you sir? No one in the chair, come on!
Come on!Sweeney's waiting.
I want you bleeders.
You sir - anybody.
Gentlemen don't be shy!
Not one man, no, not ten men.
Not a hundred can assuage me
I will have you!
And I will get him back even as he gloats
In the meantime I'll practice on less honorable throats.
And my Lucy lies in ashes
And I'll never see my girl again.
But the work waits!
I'm alive at last!
And I'm full of joy!"
Hmm, seems kind of repetitive, too, huh? Maybe. But let's look at it. Each time Sweeney repeats himself, he's returning to that feeling. "We all deserve to die" - major thematic material, by the way - is said more than once, but each time it's followed by a different lament. Notice also (well, you could if you were listening to it rather than reading it) that the musical themes and motifs are constantly changing to fit the mood, character, and feeling. And take a look at the end! He's full of joy! Why? Because he's just decided to get back at the world by becoming a mass murderer! He's alive at last!
Anyway, that's a very tiny nugget of what goes into my tastes in regard to musical theater composers (and, I suppose, lyricists - although that's really another discussion).
Please feel free to comment, disagree, stop talking to me, or whatever - just my opinions.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
On My Father
It's been so long since it all happened. I'm not sure how many people even know it did. After this weekend, after Bruce Russell and Ben Alderson, I guess I just wanted to tell my story. I don't mean to steal anyone's thunder. I find myself thinking of dad and I thought some others might like to know exactly what happened.
I was 21 or 22. I was delivering flowers, leading music at a church on Wednesdays and Sundays, and getting work as a music director with community theaters and high schools. At this particular time I was teaching West Side Story at Seminole High School for the late Wendell Williams. Rehearsals were after school. On Wednesday, after delivering flowers for four hours or so, I stopped by home to get lunch before driving to Seminole. I was upstairs and my mom was downstairs when we got the call. Some guy at dad's new job called saying that dad had collapsed and was on his way to the ER.
My dad, Rick Tucker, had been going from job to job for years. After flying four tours in Vietnam as a Navy helicopter pilot, he'd had a couple of good jobs. First selling for Sears and Roebuck and then selling mortgages for Savings of America. After refusing to make a deal that he felt was unprincipled, he'd been let go and was now moving from job to job trying to make ends meet. Taxi driver, used car salesman, mortgage salesman, parole officer - he'd done anything he could to try to help us stay afloat. With his jobs, mom's up-start real estate, and my collection of minimum wagers and music stuff, we were OK.
At the time, all thought it had been a heavy stroke. He was standing in front of his desk when he suddenly collapsed to the floor. He was in a coma and it was hard to tell when he might come out. By the end of the day, he'd been moved from the ER to NICU (neurological intensive care) so they could take pictures of his brain and keep him under heavy guard. As the hours went by, the doctors realized that a blood vessel had exploded in his brain due to an aneurysm (a peanut-sized bulb in a vessel that allows pressure to build up over time). It was already too late. His brain was covered in blood and the vessel had lost it's connection to the rest of the arteries. A neurosurgeon and neurologist were called and both delivered a bleak prognosis.
My mom was having none of it. There must be something that can be done. So, at 7:00 the next morning, the 14-hour surgery began on his brain. By the middle of the day, the surgical waiting room was deluged with visitors. At one point we counted 98 people there for dad and our family. This probably sounds corny, but I'm still humbled by that. I had a decision to make, we were in the second week of a two-week run of The Boys From Syracuse at the Tides Dinner Theater. Adam, Jason, Kirk, Michelle, Jay (Jordan), Nancy ... so many people I still know and love were a part of that show. I decided to play the show that night. Christy stayed longer at the hospital so I could go to the theater and she could keep me informed (this is before the days of cell phones, after all). That night, I actually missed a song cue and Jason had to deliver it twice. When I finally realized what he was doing, the audience got to hear me say, "Oh shit!" before rolling into "Dear Old Syracuse". During the first scene of Act II, a little yellow piece of paper was delivered to me at the piano. It said:
1. Your dad's ok.
2. Surgery is over and he did fine. He's still in a coma and we won't know for a while how things went.
3. Your mother loves you.
4. So do I.
That was Christy. She's pretty damn cool.
Over the next bunch of months a lot of things happened. First, my dad did wake up after almost four months in a coma, but he was never the same. The right side of his body was paralyzed and he was not really Rick Tucker any more. He couldn't speak and, we think, couldn't think. Once he came home, we cared for him as best we could for the next 3 1/2 years. Our lives became an endless string of diapers, wheelchairs, placing a 6'4" man in a car, blood, tests, communication attempts, etc. We moved from place to place after having lost the house. His new employer had dropped the ball and he was completely uninsured. $350,000 of hospital debt, mortgage debt, credit card debt, loss of income (both his and my mom's due to her spending all of her time at the hospital), and other shit left us near destitute. We lived with another family for a while. We lost our dog, Ramsey, for two years. We lost the piano. Hell, we lost pretty near everything.
Finally, after over three years cancer took my dad. Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma - contracted via exposure to Agent Orange in Vietnam - had covered his organs. After chemo and radiation, the decision was made to remove the feeding tube, amp up the morphine, and let him go. I had a decision to make again. Do I do a show or not (this time it was Lend Me a Tenor at Spotlight Dinner Theater). We cancelled that afternoon, but I went on that night (castmembers included Jorge, Fadi, Michelle, Brick, Wendy, Ligia).
The funeral was huge. Everyone was there - including the Aldersons and the Russells. Over the next few months I cried like a baby more than once. I screamed and cursed at god until I got hoarse (although that sounds cliche, I actually did). By the time everything was over, we were living in a home that was protecting the little money mom had finally gotten from the Navy thanks to Clinton's including Agent Orange on the official list of combat-associated death causes. My mom was very alone. I'd left the church and my faith. I'd tried college and dropped out. We were massively in debt and awaiting the seven years needed to start cleaning up that kind of a mess.
Life now seems far removed from that time. It serves as a divider between that other, former, life and the one I lead today. There are still a bunch of people in my life who remember my dad before he collapsed. A bunch more remember the sweet but simple dad in the wheel chair. I've got all sorts of stories from that time. Most of them are that kind of funny that's mixed with just enough tragedy to make it really biting - my favorite kind of funny.
So, there you go. If you've ever wondered, you now know the basics. I was 22 when he collapsed and 25 when he died. Since I was twelve years old, I've lost my uncle Frank and aunt Paula (Mindy, Michael, and Matthew's parents - my mom's sister and brother-in-law with whom I pretty much grew up); my grandmother (my mom's mom); my grandfather and uncle (my dad's step-dad and brother - who, incidentally, also died from a ruptured cranial aneurysm); and my dad. Oh, there've been lots of others, but these were the close ones.
If you've ever wondered where I get my musical talent and stubbornness - that's my mom. But the way I sit, my neck, my tendency to be a ham, my loudness, and my (seeming) self-confidence - that's all dad. He gave me a lot. He loved me and brother, Richard, almost as much as he loved mom. He was kind, dear, funny (in a stupid kind of way), honest, and caring. He was a pretty cool guy who knew how to make a really bad joke at a really wrong time. There aren't many people that disliked him. I miss him very much.
I was 21 or 22. I was delivering flowers, leading music at a church on Wednesdays and Sundays, and getting work as a music director with community theaters and high schools. At this particular time I was teaching West Side Story at Seminole High School for the late Wendell Williams. Rehearsals were after school. On Wednesday, after delivering flowers for four hours or so, I stopped by home to get lunch before driving to Seminole. I was upstairs and my mom was downstairs when we got the call. Some guy at dad's new job called saying that dad had collapsed and was on his way to the ER.
My dad, Rick Tucker, had been going from job to job for years. After flying four tours in Vietnam as a Navy helicopter pilot, he'd had a couple of good jobs. First selling for Sears and Roebuck and then selling mortgages for Savings of America. After refusing to make a deal that he felt was unprincipled, he'd been let go and was now moving from job to job trying to make ends meet. Taxi driver, used car salesman, mortgage salesman, parole officer - he'd done anything he could to try to help us stay afloat. With his jobs, mom's up-start real estate, and my collection of minimum wagers and music stuff, we were OK.
At the time, all thought it had been a heavy stroke. He was standing in front of his desk when he suddenly collapsed to the floor. He was in a coma and it was hard to tell when he might come out. By the end of the day, he'd been moved from the ER to NICU (neurological intensive care) so they could take pictures of his brain and keep him under heavy guard. As the hours went by, the doctors realized that a blood vessel had exploded in his brain due to an aneurysm (a peanut-sized bulb in a vessel that allows pressure to build up over time). It was already too late. His brain was covered in blood and the vessel had lost it's connection to the rest of the arteries. A neurosurgeon and neurologist were called and both delivered a bleak prognosis.
My mom was having none of it. There must be something that can be done. So, at 7:00 the next morning, the 14-hour surgery began on his brain. By the middle of the day, the surgical waiting room was deluged with visitors. At one point we counted 98 people there for dad and our family. This probably sounds corny, but I'm still humbled by that. I had a decision to make, we were in the second week of a two-week run of The Boys From Syracuse at the Tides Dinner Theater. Adam, Jason, Kirk, Michelle, Jay (Jordan), Nancy ... so many people I still know and love were a part of that show. I decided to play the show that night. Christy stayed longer at the hospital so I could go to the theater and she could keep me informed (this is before the days of cell phones, after all). That night, I actually missed a song cue and Jason had to deliver it twice. When I finally realized what he was doing, the audience got to hear me say, "Oh shit!" before rolling into "Dear Old Syracuse". During the first scene of Act II, a little yellow piece of paper was delivered to me at the piano. It said:
1. Your dad's ok.
2. Surgery is over and he did fine. He's still in a coma and we won't know for a while how things went.
3. Your mother loves you.
4. So do I.
That was Christy. She's pretty damn cool.
Over the next bunch of months a lot of things happened. First, my dad did wake up after almost four months in a coma, but he was never the same. The right side of his body was paralyzed and he was not really Rick Tucker any more. He couldn't speak and, we think, couldn't think. Once he came home, we cared for him as best we could for the next 3 1/2 years. Our lives became an endless string of diapers, wheelchairs, placing a 6'4" man in a car, blood, tests, communication attempts, etc. We moved from place to place after having lost the house. His new employer had dropped the ball and he was completely uninsured. $350,000 of hospital debt, mortgage debt, credit card debt, loss of income (both his and my mom's due to her spending all of her time at the hospital), and other shit left us near destitute. We lived with another family for a while. We lost our dog, Ramsey, for two years. We lost the piano. Hell, we lost pretty near everything.
Finally, after over three years cancer took my dad. Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma - contracted via exposure to Agent Orange in Vietnam - had covered his organs. After chemo and radiation, the decision was made to remove the feeding tube, amp up the morphine, and let him go. I had a decision to make again. Do I do a show or not (this time it was Lend Me a Tenor at Spotlight Dinner Theater). We cancelled that afternoon, but I went on that night (castmembers included Jorge, Fadi, Michelle, Brick, Wendy, Ligia).
The funeral was huge. Everyone was there - including the Aldersons and the Russells. Over the next few months I cried like a baby more than once. I screamed and cursed at god until I got hoarse (although that sounds cliche, I actually did). By the time everything was over, we were living in a home that was protecting the little money mom had finally gotten from the Navy thanks to Clinton's including Agent Orange on the official list of combat-associated death causes. My mom was very alone. I'd left the church and my faith. I'd tried college and dropped out. We were massively in debt and awaiting the seven years needed to start cleaning up that kind of a mess.
Life now seems far removed from that time. It serves as a divider between that other, former, life and the one I lead today. There are still a bunch of people in my life who remember my dad before he collapsed. A bunch more remember the sweet but simple dad in the wheel chair. I've got all sorts of stories from that time. Most of them are that kind of funny that's mixed with just enough tragedy to make it really biting - my favorite kind of funny.
So, there you go. If you've ever wondered, you now know the basics. I was 22 when he collapsed and 25 when he died. Since I was twelve years old, I've lost my uncle Frank and aunt Paula (Mindy, Michael, and Matthew's parents - my mom's sister and brother-in-law with whom I pretty much grew up); my grandmother (my mom's mom); my grandfather and uncle (my dad's step-dad and brother - who, incidentally, also died from a ruptured cranial aneurysm); and my dad. Oh, there've been lots of others, but these were the close ones.
If you've ever wondered where I get my musical talent and stubbornness - that's my mom. But the way I sit, my neck, my tendency to be a ham, my loudness, and my (seeming) self-confidence - that's all dad. He gave me a lot. He loved me and brother, Richard, almost as much as he loved mom. He was kind, dear, funny (in a stupid kind of way), honest, and caring. He was a pretty cool guy who knew how to make a really bad joke at a really wrong time. There aren't many people that disliked him. I miss him very much.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
On Vocabulary
It all started long ago.
You see, I was a geek; a nerd; a big ol' dweeb. Surprised? I know, who'd 'a thunk it? OK, so I'm still a geek; not really a nerd; couldn't really tell you what a dweeb is.
Well, there I was. Short, big ol' glasses (it was the late 70s!), couldn't catch a ball, liked to sing - you get the idea. What was I gonna do? I really liked girls and I had no way of getting their interest. Yeah, I was one of the boys who had his first crush in 1st grade. Her name was Beth - a Jehovah's Witness actually ... well, her mom was, anyway - and she was really cute. So how do I get to know her? What about Jennifer in 2nd grade? Lisa in 3rd and 4th?
To really understand things, you have to know my cousin Matthew. Although I have an older brother, he's as odd as I am and we really always got along. My cousin, Matt, was different, though. He and I are the same age and we often went to the same school. We were as close as brothers - but as opposite as was possible. Those balls I couldn't catch? He threw them.
So, around this time I learned to really enjoy reading. A lot. That's when I made the decision - I'd learn every English word every created. I'd know every single word in the language and be able to use it. You can imagine how many people I annoyed. Words stick with me for a while. It's a process:
1. Hear or read the word. Just the other day I heard a word from a book that Amanda's reading for a recording project.
2. Discuss the word with a bunch of people who may or may not know what it means or how it's used. (We did this at the Elend's house while celebrating Amanda's birthday).
3. Try, but fail, to incorporate word into everyday use. This usually fails because my memory is a bit of a prankster. It actually waits around until it senses that I'd really like to use a particular word or reference a particular person or idea and then pulls the rug out from under me. (Actually, I can't remember the word I heard - seriously.)
4. Over-use the word. You see, once I've forgotten the word a couple of times I'll go re-commit it to memory and start using it right away - you know, so that my mind is used to the word when I really need it.
5. It has entered my personal lexicon; I can now go forth and annoy (wasn't that one of Christ's commandments?).
It's not really my fault. It developed as a defense mechanism. Matt used to make fun of me for always using big words. But I like them. They say a lot in a little space. Obviously, if you read my blog, you know that I have a small cadre of words I can call upon for all uses (really is definitely one of those words - it gets way overused in my life - so do very and so). But every now and then I'll throw in a word not many people know. I'm sure it's tres annoying.
So, if you're ever hangin' around me and hear one of those words, just take it in stride. Or ask me about it. I will then commence boring you with the etymology of a word you probably couldn't care less about.
I still don't think I'm a dweeb, though
You see, I was a geek; a nerd; a big ol' dweeb. Surprised? I know, who'd 'a thunk it? OK, so I'm still a geek; not really a nerd; couldn't really tell you what a dweeb is.
Well, there I was. Short, big ol' glasses (it was the late 70s!), couldn't catch a ball, liked to sing - you get the idea. What was I gonna do? I really liked girls and I had no way of getting their interest. Yeah, I was one of the boys who had his first crush in 1st grade. Her name was Beth - a Jehovah's Witness actually ... well, her mom was, anyway - and she was really cute. So how do I get to know her? What about Jennifer in 2nd grade? Lisa in 3rd and 4th?
To really understand things, you have to know my cousin Matthew. Although I have an older brother, he's as odd as I am and we really always got along. My cousin, Matt, was different, though. He and I are the same age and we often went to the same school. We were as close as brothers - but as opposite as was possible. Those balls I couldn't catch? He threw them.
So, around this time I learned to really enjoy reading. A lot. That's when I made the decision - I'd learn every English word every created. I'd know every single word in the language and be able to use it. You can imagine how many people I annoyed. Words stick with me for a while. It's a process:
1. Hear or read the word. Just the other day I heard a word from a book that Amanda's reading for a recording project.
2. Discuss the word with a bunch of people who may or may not know what it means or how it's used. (We did this at the Elend's house while celebrating Amanda's birthday).
3. Try, but fail, to incorporate word into everyday use. This usually fails because my memory is a bit of a prankster. It actually waits around until it senses that I'd really like to use a particular word or reference a particular person or idea and then pulls the rug out from under me. (Actually, I can't remember the word I heard - seriously.)
4. Over-use the word. You see, once I've forgotten the word a couple of times I'll go re-commit it to memory and start using it right away - you know, so that my mind is used to the word when I really need it.
5. It has entered my personal lexicon; I can now go forth and annoy (wasn't that one of Christ's commandments?).
It's not really my fault. It developed as a defense mechanism. Matt used to make fun of me for always using big words. But I like them. They say a lot in a little space. Obviously, if you read my blog, you know that I have a small cadre of words I can call upon for all uses (really is definitely one of those words - it gets way overused in my life - so do very and so). But every now and then I'll throw in a word not many people know. I'm sure it's tres annoying.
So, if you're ever hangin' around me and hear one of those words, just take it in stride. Or ask me about it. I will then commence boring you with the etymology of a word you probably couldn't care less about.
I still don't think I'm a dweeb, though
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
On Black. White.
FX has had some pretty kickass TV recently. First, if you haven't caught it, run out and get the first season of 30 Days on DVD. The second season just ended and isn't available, yet, but the first season will get you started. If you don't know, 30 Days was created by Morgan Spurlock of Super Size Me fame. Like Super Size Me, Morgan gets people to move out of their comfort zones for 30 days. Episodes have included 30 days in jail (Morgan himself); an evangelical Christian living with an Islamic family in Dearborn, Michigan; an American whose job was outsourced living in India to do that job; a Texas border Minuteman living with a family of illegal Mexican immigrants; you get the idea. The beauty of this show is that the results are as surprising to the viewer as they obviously are to the participants. In each episode, both parties really do seem to grow a little and understand a part of humanity that they were willing to villify before things got started. The Minuteman living with the Mexicans was a particularly touching episode.
The other great series is Black. White., a six episode series produced by Ice Cube in which a black family and a white family live with each other for six weeks. Cool, huh? But wait, there's more! Each member of each family spends a certain amount of time in professionally done makeup as the other race! Cultures clash, ideologies are shattered. My favorite part of this show was, as we should probably expect, most of the participants were unable to look too far beyond their own, unique outlook. As a matter of fact, it was the kids who provided the real hope. The white girl, Rose, spent time in a slam poetry class with black kids. Her arc is amazing. She struggles to fit in while not revealing that she's actually a white poser. The other kid, Nick, is black and, according to his parents, listless. His mother and father, Renee and Brian, can't stand the fact that race is not a major issue for him. They want him to have an appreciation for the struggle the black man has faced over the past 300 years. Although I understand this desire, I have to wonder if it's the best thing. I mean, the kid literally didn't give a shit about race! At some level isn't that a good thing? Isn't that the ultimate aim? Well, perhaps not. At any rate, I learned a lot from the series. Most optimistically, I learned that younger people, if the two sampled on the show are any indication, are closer to bridging the gap than their parents could ever be (the mother of the white girl, Carmen, had her heart in the right place, but she approached everything with such startling ignorance that it cancelled out any good that may have come from it).
Anyway, check 'em out. This is the form of reality television that really shines. I guess I'm a sucker for social experiments.
The other great series is Black. White., a six episode series produced by Ice Cube in which a black family and a white family live with each other for six weeks. Cool, huh? But wait, there's more! Each member of each family spends a certain amount of time in professionally done makeup as the other race! Cultures clash, ideologies are shattered. My favorite part of this show was, as we should probably expect, most of the participants were unable to look too far beyond their own, unique outlook. As a matter of fact, it was the kids who provided the real hope. The white girl, Rose, spent time in a slam poetry class with black kids. Her arc is amazing. She struggles to fit in while not revealing that she's actually a white poser. The other kid, Nick, is black and, according to his parents, listless. His mother and father, Renee and Brian, can't stand the fact that race is not a major issue for him. They want him to have an appreciation for the struggle the black man has faced over the past 300 years. Although I understand this desire, I have to wonder if it's the best thing. I mean, the kid literally didn't give a shit about race! At some level isn't that a good thing? Isn't that the ultimate aim? Well, perhaps not. At any rate, I learned a lot from the series. Most optimistically, I learned that younger people, if the two sampled on the show are any indication, are closer to bridging the gap than their parents could ever be (the mother of the white girl, Carmen, had her heart in the right place, but she approached everything with such startling ignorance that it cancelled out any good that may have come from it).
Anyway, check 'em out. This is the form of reality television that really shines. I guess I'm a sucker for social experiments.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
On Theater Sound
Finally!
So, now that our production of City of Angels has opened and is running, I can take a few moments to discuss the most difficult aspect of that effort (and, possibly, any other musical theater effort) - sound.
Sets, costumes, props, lights, choreography, we've pretty much got all these things figured out. But sound is a different issue. There are two major issues here. The first is what, exactly, an audience expects and requires in a live theater setting and the second is the equipment required to give it to them.
Sound has always been a difficulty for live theater. The Greeks used to build amphitheaters near natural rock formations that they had found which naturally amplified the human voice. When Jesus delivered the Sermon on the Mount, he was standing at the apex of a natural bowl formed by a ridge and a valley which allowed his voice to carry to thousands.
In Europe and America, as opera led the day, the orchestra was sunk as many as 12 feet into a pit in front of the stage and the audience was tiered in mezzanines and balconies to keep them close enough to the stage to hear. Meanwhile, opera performers studied the science and art of making their voices carry to thousands of people (an unnatural sound, to many ears).
As the twentieth century turned, so did the ability to artificially amplify and record sound. Valentino and Swanson lost their jobs because they didn't "sound" like actors, the last castrati was preserved on vinyl, Callas could be heard in every living room, and George Martin made sure that our right ears heard Lennon while our left heard McCartney.
In the twenty-first century, sound is a mega-millions industry. Not a single portion of our lives isn't saturated by recorded sound that's mixed and prepared to within an inch of its existence. Extremely powerful electronic and digital tools for manipulating sound are available cheaply and widely. Hell, most podcasts are mixed and mastered professionally.
And then there's live theater. Theater, it seems, simply cannot keep up. Audiences have literally grown up with mixed and mastered sound - delivering to them exactly what the creator wants them to hear at every second - in every part of their lives. TV, movies, radio, CDs, video games, elevators, dentist waiting rooms - it's all filled with perfectly mixed sound. Musical theater, it seems, cannot compete. Opera is fine. Take a bunch of really loud singers and throw in a super-scripter, and you're all set. Plays are fine, too. After all, any music or "noises off" are simply turned down by the sound op so as not to get in the way of the actors. But musical theater has a unique problem. How do we get audiences to hear lyrics that sound as clear and close as the Black-Eyed Peas did in the car while maintaining that live, natural sound that theater relies upon to reach its audience. The answer: no one has any fucking clue.
Here's my theory. An audience enters into a sort of contract with the creators and performers of a theater piece. The audience agrees to work a little harder to hear and see than they do at home while watching reruns of Will and Grace. They agree to pay a little closer attention to the dialogue and lyrics beacuse they understand that theater is an all together separate medium from the electronic ones. They know they won't see real trees. They know the phone isn't really ringing. They know that when a character has left the stage, he's actually just hanging out in a room with green walls. Suspension of disbelief. Oh, they'll suspend their disbelief for movies and TV, too, but they may not be willing to work quite as hard to follow and understand as they do in a live theater. They don't have to - Schumacher has made sure that his 64+ tracks of audio are mixed so that every single sound and word is heard perfectly. They get it - they know that each performance of a piece is special because of the unique combination of cast and audience. There's electricity, chemistry (call it what you will). Al Pacino may be incredible in Dog Day Afternoon, but he's the same incredible every time it's shown. Put him on stage, though, and from night to night, each audience experiences something slightly different - Tuesday he's on fire, Wednesday he's slightly off, Thursday he's frightening, etc.
So, how do we do it? How do we make sure the audience hears exatly what we want? How do we make sure that the trumpets can rip, that the bass and drums can groove with power, and that the leading lady can be heard as she quietly descends into a breakdown? There's choir mics - little condensors that hang from the grid above and pick up a wide range of sound (including dialogue, foot-stomping, curtain rails being pulled, and sets being wheeled on and off). There's lavs (lavalier, or body mics - mics that are worn by each actor - that send their information to the sound board not via wire but via radio signal). There's handheld mics (these are usable only for rock-concert-like settings). There's floor mics (like choir mics, they're small condensors placed at the foot of the stage - a problem because the actors tend to speak and sing out to the audience rather than down to the floor). But that's not all. It's not enough to pick up the sounds being made on the stage. Now you have to amplify them and send them to the audience. This is where theater enters "sound hell":
So, do you have a video camera? Go get it. Great. Now, plug it into the nearest TV. Got it? Great. Turn it on and aim it at the TV. Trippin', right? that's called feedback, or a video loop. It's like standing between two mirrors. Each image is feeding into the next creating an unending loop of image after image. Well, it turns out, sound meas loops, too. Get the mic too close to the speaker and you'll make a loop. You've heard it before. Every sappy movie ever made that has a scene with our hero standing uncomfortably at a mic and revealing to us what he's learned and how he's growm has a moment of feedback. It's that high-pitched squeal. So, now you've got a bunch of mics on the stage - if you're using choir mics or floor mics it's going to be worse - and speakers nearby aimed at the audience. Now, what's your theater space made of? If it's got hard walls (brick, concrete, panelling) then it has the potential to magnify the feedback loop greatly.
Anyway, I'm sick of that. But I think you get the idea. Now, don't get me wrong, it's all surmountable. But a theater's going to need to invest a lot of money, effort, and time into getting things right. And, to make things even more difficult, things are going to change from production to production. Check out this article about a theater that finally got it right - and then look at how much it cost:
http://www.meyersound.com/markets/theatre/circus.htm
So, now that our production of City of Angels has opened and is running, I can take a few moments to discuss the most difficult aspect of that effort (and, possibly, any other musical theater effort) - sound.
Sets, costumes, props, lights, choreography, we've pretty much got all these things figured out. But sound is a different issue. There are two major issues here. The first is what, exactly, an audience expects and requires in a live theater setting and the second is the equipment required to give it to them.
Sound has always been a difficulty for live theater. The Greeks used to build amphitheaters near natural rock formations that they had found which naturally amplified the human voice. When Jesus delivered the Sermon on the Mount, he was standing at the apex of a natural bowl formed by a ridge and a valley which allowed his voice to carry to thousands.
In Europe and America, as opera led the day, the orchestra was sunk as many as 12 feet into a pit in front of the stage and the audience was tiered in mezzanines and balconies to keep them close enough to the stage to hear. Meanwhile, opera performers studied the science and art of making their voices carry to thousands of people (an unnatural sound, to many ears).
As the twentieth century turned, so did the ability to artificially amplify and record sound. Valentino and Swanson lost their jobs because they didn't "sound" like actors, the last castrati was preserved on vinyl, Callas could be heard in every living room, and George Martin made sure that our right ears heard Lennon while our left heard McCartney.
In the twenty-first century, sound is a mega-millions industry. Not a single portion of our lives isn't saturated by recorded sound that's mixed and prepared to within an inch of its existence. Extremely powerful electronic and digital tools for manipulating sound are available cheaply and widely. Hell, most podcasts are mixed and mastered professionally.
And then there's live theater. Theater, it seems, simply cannot keep up. Audiences have literally grown up with mixed and mastered sound - delivering to them exactly what the creator wants them to hear at every second - in every part of their lives. TV, movies, radio, CDs, video games, elevators, dentist waiting rooms - it's all filled with perfectly mixed sound. Musical theater, it seems, cannot compete. Opera is fine. Take a bunch of really loud singers and throw in a super-scripter, and you're all set. Plays are fine, too. After all, any music or "noises off" are simply turned down by the sound op so as not to get in the way of the actors. But musical theater has a unique problem. How do we get audiences to hear lyrics that sound as clear and close as the Black-Eyed Peas did in the car while maintaining that live, natural sound that theater relies upon to reach its audience. The answer: no one has any fucking clue.
Here's my theory. An audience enters into a sort of contract with the creators and performers of a theater piece. The audience agrees to work a little harder to hear and see than they do at home while watching reruns of Will and Grace. They agree to pay a little closer attention to the dialogue and lyrics beacuse they understand that theater is an all together separate medium from the electronic ones. They know they won't see real trees. They know the phone isn't really ringing. They know that when a character has left the stage, he's actually just hanging out in a room with green walls. Suspension of disbelief. Oh, they'll suspend their disbelief for movies and TV, too, but they may not be willing to work quite as hard to follow and understand as they do in a live theater. They don't have to - Schumacher has made sure that his 64+ tracks of audio are mixed so that every single sound and word is heard perfectly. They get it - they know that each performance of a piece is special because of the unique combination of cast and audience. There's electricity, chemistry (call it what you will). Al Pacino may be incredible in Dog Day Afternoon, but he's the same incredible every time it's shown. Put him on stage, though, and from night to night, each audience experiences something slightly different - Tuesday he's on fire, Wednesday he's slightly off, Thursday he's frightening, etc.
So, how do we do it? How do we make sure the audience hears exatly what we want? How do we make sure that the trumpets can rip, that the bass and drums can groove with power, and that the leading lady can be heard as she quietly descends into a breakdown? There's choir mics - little condensors that hang from the grid above and pick up a wide range of sound (including dialogue, foot-stomping, curtain rails being pulled, and sets being wheeled on and off). There's lavs (lavalier, or body mics - mics that are worn by each actor - that send their information to the sound board not via wire but via radio signal). There's handheld mics (these are usable only for rock-concert-like settings). There's floor mics (like choir mics, they're small condensors placed at the foot of the stage - a problem because the actors tend to speak and sing out to the audience rather than down to the floor). But that's not all. It's not enough to pick up the sounds being made on the stage. Now you have to amplify them and send them to the audience. This is where theater enters "sound hell":
So, do you have a video camera? Go get it. Great. Now, plug it into the nearest TV. Got it? Great. Turn it on and aim it at the TV. Trippin', right? that's called feedback, or a video loop. It's like standing between two mirrors. Each image is feeding into the next creating an unending loop of image after image. Well, it turns out, sound meas loops, too. Get the mic too close to the speaker and you'll make a loop. You've heard it before. Every sappy movie ever made that has a scene with our hero standing uncomfortably at a mic and revealing to us what he's learned and how he's growm has a moment of feedback. It's that high-pitched squeal. So, now you've got a bunch of mics on the stage - if you're using choir mics or floor mics it's going to be worse - and speakers nearby aimed at the audience. Now, what's your theater space made of? If it's got hard walls (brick, concrete, panelling) then it has the potential to magnify the feedback loop greatly.
Anyway, I'm sick of that. But I think you get the idea. Now, don't get me wrong, it's all surmountable. But a theater's going to need to invest a lot of money, effort, and time into getting things right. And, to make things even more difficult, things are going to change from production to production. Check out this article about a theater that finally got it right - and then look at how much it cost:
http://www.meyersound.com/markets/theatre/circus.htm
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