Chad's spot for various thoughts, musings, poetry, ideas and whatnot

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Thanks to the generosity of a good friend, the lovely wife and I were able to go and see a performance of Phantom of the Opera at the Fox Theater last night.

The production was fantastic from a technical point with elaborate sets, fairly cool special effects and excellent lighting.

The Fox was magnificent as a space. It's one of those rare spaces that makes you yearn for the days gone by where people spent lots of money to create spaces that were exotic and sought to transport a visitor to another place and time. Maybe it's because we are all so worldly now that there is a lack of wonder but it just doesn't seem like places with the same level of elegance and sophistication are created for the public to enjoy anymore.

I wish I could say that I enjoyed the performance but I didn't. The actors gave fine performances portraying their cahracters and the singing was technically excellent. I just don't enjoy Andrew Lloyd Webber's stuff. I know that makes me a Philistine but I just don't dig it. His stories are needlessly melodramatic and sacchrine in my mind and everything said seems to take forever to say. Once said the plot then takes a quantum leap to the next place with little or no subtlety. Oftentimes, it seems that the only point of a song is to display the virtuosity of the performer, not to move the plot along. Now I have no problem with displayed virtuosity, whether it be Wynton Marsalis on the trumpet, Yo-Yo Ma on the cello or Eddie Van Halen on the electric guitar. It just seems to me that the point of music is to transport the listener to the state of the emotion of the composer. On Sketches of Spain, Miles Davis' first trumpet notes nearly bring me to tears every time I listen because I can feel the heat and the pathos of the Spanish plains in every beautifully held and drawn note. When Sting recorded the Soul Cages album I could hear the catharsis of singing about a father recently lost and a son's desire to reconcile. Much of what I heard last night seemed to be singing for singing's sake, much like some of Stanley Jordan's jazz guitar compositions which sound so perfectly crystaline and sterile. What music there was that was melodic and lyrical was over done and, to me, lost in a see of soap operaish blech.

Now, I understand that there are literally millions who would be willing to take me to task for what I've written and so I know that this is a case where I am more likely discussing my lack of taste than I am the artlessness of the show. In the future, however, I'll look for something less "pop" I think.

The most important part of the evening was getting to spend it with my wife. We both dressed up and she was radiant. We don't get a chance to do that very often and she was truly a vision to behold. Even the poor audience manners (yes, it seems that the crowds at the Fox aren't much better behaved than the crowds that attend our local theater) couldn't dim what was a wonderful evening with my wife. That was the true beauty and grace of the gift given by our friend; the time to spend together doing something special that we'll treasure for many, many years. I would go to a lecture on Eastern European shopping customs as they relate to the class conflict dielectic given by Wall Street pit traders on crack if I got to get dressed up and go with my wife to a place as special as the Fox. I hope that we can do this a lot more often (though I would rather avoid Wall Street pit traders regardless of whether they're on crack or not).

Thanks for reading.

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