Tag Archives: Boston

Then I Saw This Play… Now I’m A Believer

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So here’s the thing:

Yes, I’m a Shakespeare scholar.  Yes, I’m hardcore about my work.  Yes, I take my job very very seriously.

But I still love going to the theatre.  I still love to belt “Defying Gravity” in the shower (and at karaoke night, if I’ve had enough to drink).  I still love to have fun.

Theatre is not only a part of my life, but it has actually become my life.  I can’t say that it was always this way (I went through a brief stint working in IT… ask me how long that lasted and I’ll have to check and see how much of my soul is missing), but I can say that it has been this way for most of my earthly existence.

If I were to weigh every single production that I ever saw, or wanted to see, against the years of actor’s training, practical theatre experience, reading of books, writing of papers, and general engagement with the side of my job that falls most directly into the category “wibbly wobbly timey wimey ideas”, I would never relax.  I would never enjoy myself.  I would never be able to have an evening’s worth of true entertainment.

So yes, my standards for a production are high.  But no, I don’t walk into a theatre expecting every time to see the Trevor Nunn Lear starring Ian McKellon (which, by the way, was absolutely jaw-droppingly spectacular, and not just because good Sir Ian bared it all to play the part… and I do mean all).

That said, I saw something truly wonderful this weekend.

Some dear friends came to visit me from the far-off land of Utah.  One of their ulterior

aforementioned Utah friends. Yes, we dressed for the premier. Yes, Liz is wearing a Sergeant Pepper-esque tailcoat. My life is amazing.

motives was to support their favorite band (Walter Sickert and the Army of Broken Toys) as the band made its theatrical debut with an apocalyptic sci-fi steampunk musical.  Yes.  You read that correctly.  The show is called “28 Seeds” and is performing at my favorite space in Boston, the cyclorama at Boston Center for the Arts.  My friends brought me along as resident theatre expert, though admitted to me after the show that they weren’t certain what my thoughts would be on the matter.

The project itself has undergone some evolution.  It began as a radio play before being picked up by local experimental theatre company Liars & Believers.  After a deep collaboration, Sickert and the gang present this multimedia, interdisciplinary masterpiece which seamlessly blends rock music, technology, and live performance.

The set -- check out all those monitors!

The story appears a little scattered at first with bits and pieces strewn here and there like the set of the show itself.  However, have faith good people.  It all comes together, I promise.  Like any quality piece of gritty science fiction, every ounce of this seemingly disparate information is used to draw the whole she-bang to a campy finale and really, who would have it any other way?

The play’s strategy utilizes my favorite part of a theatrical production: the audience’s brain.  The collaborators of this piece obviously trust their audience to put it all together.  Nobody is spoon-fed, everybody is expected to have a certain degree of intelligence.  You must be at least this smart to ride.  And this strategy, time and again, truly pays off.  There’s a fine balance between over-protective handholding mommy and lackadaisical freewheeling hippie anarchist, but 28 Seeds strikes that balance nicely.  When you hit this note correctly, it ensures that your audience walks away thinking about the production.  If you tell me everything I need to know, there’s nothing left for me to wonder.  If you leave me with something to gnaw on, I’ll want to see it again to figure out how everything was laid down in order to, at the precise moment, tumble upon itself like a complicated dominos configuration fueled by diet coke and mentos.

The amount of sheer talent which went into this collaboration is evident in every detail; from the wonderfully outrageous musicians, to the surprisingly stunning dancers (no, really, you’ll be surprised when they bust it out), to the seamlessness of the story-telling.  It’s almost like watching Cirque de Soleil; there’s so much going on onstage that you’re sometimes unsure where precisely to look.

I suppose calling this piece a “musical” isn’t entirely accurate because “musical” implies the random outbreak of the show’s internal characters into emotion-imbued song.  Rather, Sickert and the band are onstage the entire time, sometimes interacting with the action but more often utilizing frequent musical interludes to comment upon it.  Much like the computer monitors that take up a portion of the stage itself, the band serves as a method through which more and different information is conveyed.  Though I will be the first to admit, it was sometimes difficult to watch the actors when the truly intoxicating Rachel Jayson (violist) was sitting two feet away from me, sporting a corset like nobody else this side of the apocalypse ever could.

In addition to being just a wonderfully fun experience, the show also incorporates elements that make my inner feminist smile.  Two out of three of the major scientist characters are women, the president is a woman, and the only man who seems to have any power at all is an obviously idiotic general who utilizes his power to make the worst mistake humanity has seen.  Curious what it is?  Go see the show!

As you can imagine, this show has its quirks.  If you are offended by nudity, brains in jars, or poking fun at performance art, you should probably give this a miss.  Otherwise, find a way to go see it.  28 Seeds performs Wednesday-Sunday until May 12th.  As an extra special bonus, I will be re-attending the show on May 11th, so if you happen to be there that evening, make sure you say hi!

In Which Our Hero Begins to Make Headway on the Deadly Homework Beast (and does so while looking fabulous)

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Annnnnnnddddd we’re back.

I hit the ground running this week as I spent about half of the long weekend working on finals and the other half doing a bit of relaxing.  As a result, I feel refreshed, invigorated, and in a great place to start the final finals crunch.

It’s funny, but in past years Thanksgiving break has never meant being on top of things.  Historically, it’s been a time where (if anything) I feel even further behind the giant homework snowball than usual.  This may be for a variety of reasons…

1)    I’ve never not worked before.  Ever.  This year, my fellowship is generous enough that I didn’t have to face the first-year-hell on top of viable employment and, being nothing but an opportunist, I jumped at that opportunity.  As a result, I actually had five solid days of not needing to be anywhere (except for obligatory family stuff).  As a result, I had time both to get work done and to relax.

 2)    Tufts, bless their bureaucratic institutional soul, allows us to turn in our finals during actual allotted finals week as opposed to on our last class.  The last class is usually around the second week of December.  Allotted finals time bumps right up against Christmas (my last final is due on the 21st).  That is a significant portion of time in which you no longer have class reading, you no longer have to be physically present in class, and you can simply devote to writing your finals.  Rutgers was a “last class final paper” kind of institution which did mean that my semester ended earlier, but also inevitably meant that I was a) working through my birthday and b) panicking at the tail end of Thanksgiving.

 3)    The liberal consumption of pecan pie and martinis.  Not necessarily together.  In past years, the pecan pie has (of course) been a staple of the thanksgiving table, but the appreciation of a good dry dirty vodka martini has eluded me until this very year.  Now I’m not entirely certain how I lived without them.

 4)    Disney movies.  Enough said.

 Oh, yea, and I attended Mostly Waltz (Boston) yesterday.

Let me take a moment to expound upon the wonders of social dancing.  My experience is in ballroom which, while not entirely out of place at Mostly Waltz, is very different styling from the folk/country/general social dance that most of the dancers there were versed in.  What this meant was an afternoon of, while being comfortable and confident on the dance floor, learning something new and exciting.  Social dancing is the essence of communication.  Without words, two people come together and create something.  A lead needs to be clear in his signals and a follow needs to be able to listen to those signals.  Moving together, the dancers need to understand what to give and take from each other so as to not find themselves in a giant mess.

There were fascinating people at this event; experts (of all ages) in Scandinavian dance, English country, Scottish country, contra dance, folk waltz, blues, all kinds of swing… and they were all there just for the sheer love of dancing.

It’s been a while since I’ve been in a ballroom, but I’ve never felt more welcome or excited to be back.  People were gracious and generous with their time and knowledge, and I didn’t (even for a minute) feel judged about my lack of experience with their particular dance style.

Oh and music.  Did I mention live music?  LIVE MUSIC!  Incredible live music!

Waltzing is a bear necessity

I can’t go so far as to say that I’d recommend this event to dancers who have never danced before, but if you’re good at picking this sort of thing up (or brave, or have friends who would be willing to show you), you should definitely give it a whirl.  Unfortunately, they only dance once a month and the next won’t be until January… but it is totally worth the wait.

So my feet are aching like I forgot they would ache (it’s a different ache from general sore feet due to the parts of the foot which you use while dancing.  I’m just really glad that I have a pair of well-broken-in shoes so I’m not suffering dance blisters as well).  I seem to be winning the fight with the homework beast and, while it is not completely vanquished yet, I am definitely making headway in pushing it back into its cave to hibernate for the winter months.

And now for your viewing pleasure….

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oOWC5zf8YMw]

Happy Monday, folks!!

Not all Bookstores are Equal…

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Last week, I realized that I hadn’t ventured out of a two-block radius of my well-trodden flight path in my new home for some time.  While the road to the grocery store and a few choice old friends’ houses were well trodden, pretty much every other road in the area was not.  So, I called up my favorite partner in crime and we went bookstore spelunking in Cambridge.

We started in Harvard Square where we hit Raven Used Books which was a small-ish basement store.  Their premises in Northampton is much more impressive both in terms of shelf space, as well as selection.

We then proceeded to the Harvard Book Store which I perhaps should have been more impressed with.  Mixed amongst your standard textbook sections are varying fiction sections as well as a large stationary area.  Downstairs are used and overstock books, which is wonderful for those of us who just like to browse the tomes.  Also, I was rather

One of these shelves is not like the others....

amused at their… er… extracurricular section.  Somehow I felt like anywhere associated with a major university, much less a major university as prestigious and snooty-by-reputation as Harvard, would have left said shelf out of their plans… or at least designated it to the back of the room where hopefully the casual observer would miss it entirely.  The fact that said shelf was there seemed like a coup against society and amused me thoroughly.

We then proceeded to Rodney’s in Central Square which was, by far, the best find of the day.  Two entire floors of used and rare books, some awesome hand-crafted shelving units for sale, nifty post cards and note cards, and way cool vintage theatre posters along the wall in the upstairs.  In terms of location, selection, and atmosphere I would say that Rodney’s took the cake for the day.

But then… adventure struck.

Sometimes you know when you are about to walk into an adventure.  More often than not though you just have to be open to the possibility and it will find you.  This was one of those second-case scenarios.

You may have determined by now that my partner-in-crime and I are absolutely and wonderfully obsessed with used bookstores.  So, naturally, we leap at the opportunity to investigate a new one.  On our way home from Rodney’s, I noticed a sign on the side of a building proclaiming “Revolution Books”.  My partner and I waffled slightly about whether another bookstore was called for on that particular day, but then I noticed that there was a parking spot DIRECTLY in front of the building.  I turned to my partner, the query in my eyes, and he nodded.  We both knew what we had to do.

I pulled the car into the spot and we got out, curiosity overcoming perhaps our better judgment.  We glanced back at the sign and realized that it was not a storefront or really over any recognizable entry into what looked like your run-of-the-mill retail-space-ground-floor-with-offices-above Boston building.  There was a barber shop and an assortment of other normal things occupying the space where our bookstore should have been.

Then we noticed a white sheet of paper with the words written in thick marker: “Revolution Books open: second floor”.  It hung over a door which we recognized led to the next level of the building.  I looked to my partner and he assured me that it would be fine.  Of course it would be fine.  We were in Cambridge, for crying out loud, not some third world country.

I opened the door to let him in and he took point, ensuring that we weren’t about to be jumped upon by bookstore boogies.  I reached to close the door after me, but realized the entry way was so small that we would have to climb several of the stairs before us before we could be out of the door’s way.

Perhaps the narrow hallway and tiny entry was simply to deter those who were not of stout enough heart to brave the shelves of what would surely be the greatest used bookstore ever.

We walked the stairs and crested the top into a small hallway that held several offices which advertised various private practice style services: a therapist, an accountant.  We looked to each other, our certainty wavering, but the candle of excitement still burning behind our eyes.

That is when we saw another hand-printed sign which pointed our way to “Revolution Books”.  We followed it to the second door, tucked into the back corner of the floor.  Judging by the size of the building, whatever was behind this door couldn’t be much larger than a one-room place…

The door was cracked open and we did see bookshelves behind it.  There was a giant portrait of Che Guevara plastered on the door.  Before I had a chance to back-peddle, wondering what kind of place this truly was, we were beckoned in by a man who sat directly across from the door.  “Come on, in we’re open.”

it was, you know, that famous poster

My companion, too polite to decline the advance, led the way in.

The room was probably the size of my bathroom.  There was a single double-sided bookshelf creating two rows of books, and a second bookshelf against the far wall.  A grizzled aging hippie sat at a table with a red tablecloth and piles of pamphlets.  “Small place you got here.”  My companion said.

“Small place, with a big message.”  The man replied with a smile.

I began to look around.  Suddenly something clicked.  The red tablecloth.  The Che portrait.  The titles of these books.  The name of the store.

I had somehow managed to stumble into the underground base of militant Communism in Boston.

And my Partner in Crime is a Republican.

I was standing in the underground base of militant Communism in Boston with the only Republican in Massachusetts.

Needless to say, we had to get out…. Fast.  My partner and I exchanged looks out of the sides of our eyes and tried to noncommittally sidle closer to the door.  This would have been easier if the man behind the table hadn’t been eagerly watching our every move.  As it was we were lucky to escape with our ideals intact and without any pamphlets to throw out on our way down the stairs.  I don’t quite know what would have happened if we had actually been forced to speak while in the bookstore.

Not that I don’t admire Che Guevara, just that I’m sure those who frequent said bookstore wouldn’t want anyone revealing the secret location of their underground base.  Rest assured, that secret is safe with me.

…Hopefully they won’t read this.  And if they do, they should know that I’m ready for them when they come for me.  My roommate has cats.  Large cats.  Large attack cats.  And I haven’t yet mounted my sword collection on the wall (hush, I’m a geek, it’s useful in case of zombie holocaust, rampant scary liberal hit men, or Mormon missionaries).

That Dirty Water

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In an effort to become acclimated to my new home, earlier this week I took a nice, long, historic walk around Boston.

You might have heard about it.  It’s called the freedom trail.

The current Statehouse

For those not in the Boston know, the freedom trail is a walking tour around central Boston’s most famous historical sites.  You can pay money to follow a costumed historian around town, or (what we did) you can simply start at the beginning and walk yourself.  Perhaps the part that most appealed to my dramatic sensibilities was the fact that you, literally, follow the yellow brick road.  A red brick line (sometimes painted) leads you from one stop to another, so for people who are new to the city (or tourists) it becomes an easy way to spend your afternoon while learning your way around, not spending a great deal of cash, and getting an edumacation.

I have always been drawn to cities with a deep sense of history.  Yes, New York is historical, but you have to delve pretty far past the modern skyscrapers and stick-straight streets to find its place in the history books.  Without entering a museum, it’s difficult to remember that Old New York (or was it New Amsterdam?) was, in fact, Old New York.

Boston is nothing like that.  On a certain level, this town may be obligated to flaunt the

inside Park Street Church

value of its monuments.  It’s difficult to page through American History and avoid Boston, much less New England as a whole.  This place is like Mecca for history buffs.  You can’t turn a corner without finding yourself face to face with Franklin or Adams in some capacity.  Most importantly (and perhaps appealingly), the old is blended with the new here.  Much like in Rome where the Coliseum sits at the end of a long row of modern shops and office buildings (yea, I know, I kind of pictured it on top of a lonely hill too before I went there), Boston has chosen to incorporate its monuments into the creation of its modernity.  In perhaps the most amusing show of this, the State Street T stop is actually located inside the Old State House.  The semiotic critic in me is going NUTS with this realization.

As we wound our way through Boston, I felt a certain gravity sink in.  I watched the tourists pass us in droves and my New Yorker spidey senses tweaked at their presence.  I was annoyed that they moved slowly, I was frustrated that it was difficult to take pictures, and I resolved to re-walk the trail in the fall after school had started when, undoubtedly, it would both be cooler and less crowded.  The realization that I could very easily accomplish this in turn led to the next realization: I was no longer a tourist in this city.  I am a resident.  I live here.  I can come back whenever I want.

Commonwealth Books -- the inside

To cement the jubilation, we promptly discovered one of the best used bookstores I have ever entered.  First of all: it looks JUST LIKE my grandmother’s basement; books stacked precariously on mismatched shelves, the smell of aging paper, the books themselves unable to be bound to any single category of age or size.  The place is absolutely crammed with old tomes.  It’s a little on the pricey side, but they have some GORGEOUS original-print fancy-shmancy leather-bound books.  They also have comfy chairs and a space heater designed to look like a fireplace which, while not much use in the summer swelter, will prove unendingly comfortable (and comforting!) during the long chilly months.  Also, they have a resident kitty.

The trail nears its completion down at the USS Constitution.  If there’s one thing that I love as much as used bookstores, it’s old ships.  They make me imagine being a pirate.  Shut up.

Mostly, the afternoon went a long ways towards backing my assertion that Boston is, in

Resident Kitty! (taking a nap)

fact, a great little town.  It still ain’t New York, but what is? (Besides London, of course, that’s a whole ‘nother love affair…).

….p.s. I went back to taking my own photos, don’t steal them!