Jerry Springer: The Opera

You'd think that a cutting-edge opera about American popular culture would have taken less than five years to make it across the pond, but never underestimate the temerity of the American theatre producer, who will use the word "controversial" to describe something that is more ho-hum than, well, a Jerry Springer show segment. For exactly the same reason that it was not created on these shores (we can only make fun of other people, not ourselves), it will never play for more than a couple of nights in a (how dare you make fun of us?) concert version in a city less than 100 miles from an ocean. So: Yay New York.

As someone who has only seen Jerry Springer via clips and videos of chair-throwing brawls (and, yeah, okay, the Austin Powers parody), I laughed so hard during Act One that I gave myself a headache. I don't know about you, but hearing nasty-ass swear words sung like a Bach cantata (would that make it a c*ntata?) on the same stage where Toscanini, Bernstein and Von Karajan conducted the classics? That never gets old. It's like watching the David Mamet version of Rabbit of Seville. I had a slight problem with the three-segment structure (interrupted by hilarious commercials) -- I thought segment two was funnier and more over-the-top than segment three. Until, that is, the KKK danced on stage for their Jerry Springer moment. Which is pretty much the high point of the first half. But then it's easy to laugh at twenty hoofers doing coffee-grinders in sheets and hoods. Easy targets, easy laughs. Controversial? Not really; at least not in this city (yay us twice).

Which means, okay, what constitutes controversy here? Is it just the tinsel? The trimmings? Take away the choral profanities and the Conflict-Resolution-In-Hell between God, Jesus, Mary and Satan, and what do you have left? A first act that is perfectly-pitched satire, and a second act which attempts to (a) redeem a character we don't really care about, and (b) deliver a message that undercuts all the guilty pleasure you feel hearing Satan sing the longest FU coloratura in history.

Sidebar: I ghosted the book of a musical called Hamelin in the mid-80's, and for an act and four-fifths the nasty Mayor and his Wife were wonderfully hissable larger-than-life villains. Until they got to sing the "Where have our children gone?" ballad, after the Plaid Piper has stolen their daughter away. Every night we did it, you could feel the bottom drop out of the show at just that moment, as the audience said "You want us to care for them? Forget it!" and crossed their arms in front of their chests and turned to stone. Stone. It was like a free-fall ride at Six Flags.

There isn't that kind of drop-off here, but Act Two was definitely less sharp than Act One. (Heave a sigh for the lost art of writing the successful second act. It's like the Holy Grail -- there are so many maps with shortcuts to get there, but the true one is impossible to achieve without a daunting quest through despair, humility and sacrifice.) In short, the second act feels like it's controversial for the sake of controversy, instead of organic. But then how do you make satire organic? How do make people care about straw men set up for mockery? Glib answer: the same way you make satire sting -- by going for the laugh that dies in your throat.


Since we're talking about controversy: a word about blasphemy. No -- two -- two words about blasphemy. (1) In much the same way some people use Hitler as the epitome of human evil on earth, I always use Rudy Giuliani as my litmus test for blasphemy. I always ask myself questions like, "If His Rudeness was still Mayor of New York, what would he say about Jerry Springer: The Opera?" If the answer is, "He'd call for removing all city funding from Carnegie Hall for presenting it," then I get out my check book and ask the Carnegie Hall people who I make the donation out to. Bottom line: if Rudy's in favor of banning it, I'm in favor of supporting it. And (2) I believe in a God who is secure enough in Her own divinity to laugh at Herself. I mean, really -- if you don't think God has a sense of humor, then you've never ridden on the L Train.

So yes, even with the usual second-act problems, it was a great show. And it was actually a reunion of sorts, at least for me. Because in front of Carnegie Hall were (I remember you!) the same protesters who were in front of the Ziegfeld 20 years ago protesting Martin Scorsese's The Last Temptation of Christ! With the same banners and everything! And their grown-up kids! I don't know about you, but I can't wait to see them when The Life Of Brian opens at the Shubert.

Hey guys--where you been?

No -- wait -- three -- three words about blasphemy. I would have a lot more sympathy for those who protest when an object of worship is treated like a human being if these same people were protesting whenever human beings act like or are are treated like animals. Doing that makes you a true Christian. Not doing it makes you a Pharisee.

And it's all your fault, Jerry!

Nicole Atkins, Bowery Ballroom 1/25/08

After a go-see-her blurb in the New York Times (but no review? WTF, guys), it was no surprise to me see the Bowery Ballroom totally packed for this sold-out 11 PM Place To Be Seen Show*. But it sure seemed like a surprise to the star performer. "There's a question we've been asking ourselves all week," she said as she came out. "Who are you guys?" Nicole honey? We're you're new fans.

The reason I was there was because my friend Kathleen saw her open for Chris Isaak at the Beacon this summer and has been following her across small concert halls ever since. "Wait till you hear her," she said. "The CD doesn't do her justice." And it doesn't. Her voice is muted on the disc, but live? She has a voice like cream on a steak knife.


She did a song called "The Way It Is" that was just. Jaw-droppingly. Gorgeous. The CD version doesn't do it justice, but the video below from Letterman last October will give you an idea of what it sounded like Friday night:


Gives you shivers, doesn't it?

How was the show? I'm guessing a lot of people came to see a Local Girl Makes Good Show (Atkins hails from Asbury Park) and were more than pleasantly surprised to realize it was a Local Girl Kicks Ass Show. I know I was. It opened with the theme to Twin Peaks (I'm guessing Ms A is a Julee Cruise fan); was filled with a choice mix of upbeat and gloom 'n' doom, a Doors cover (don't quote me on this but I think it was The Crystal Ship), another cover of a Sixties song that I know I know but can't remember (don't you just hate that?); and ended with a rousing, let's-bring-on-everyone-from-the-opening-acts encore of Fleetwood Mac's The Chain (I'm guessing Ms. A is also a Stevie Nicks fan). And that's probably a good description of her voice: two parts Stevie Nicks, two parts Julee Cruise, and one part Jim Morrison, all mixed together with a shot of Wild Turkey for that raspy Janis Joplin edge.

Bottom line, I learned three things: (1) Trust Kathleen's taste in music -- it's like the Federal Reserve without the condescension. (2) Asbury Park is to music what Xavier's School is to mutants. And (3) When Nicole Atkins records a live album, she'll conquer the world the way she conquered the Bowery.

*Of course, it wouldn't be a Place To Be Seen Show without the bearded poser behind us telling his poor girlfriend how stupid her taste in music is. And talking during every song. Kathleen gave him the hairy eyeball, the guy beside her gave him the hairy eyeball, and he still kept talking. Kathleen asked him nicely to be quiet, and he still kept talking. Finally the guy next to her told him to STFU and the poser stopped talking only long enough to lean forward and yell "BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH!" into Kathleen's right ear. By the end of the evening, girlfriend had dumped poser boy and moved closer to the stage. Poser boy is probably online right now telling all his Facebook friends how Nicole Atkins shows are full of losers. And you know what? He can file me under L with the rest of them.

Weekend Update

Nicole Atkins at the Bowery. Whoever produced her CD should be tried for strangling this woman's wailing voice, because live? It goes right through you, bounces against the wall behind you, and then goes back through you in the other direction.



I'm with you, Jessica:

Charles Bock, whose first novel, “Beautiful Children,” comes out on Tuesday, used to be one of the horde of struggling, would-be writers who still flock to New York, even though novel-writing isn’t what it used to be. They hang on because every now and then a first-timer — a Colson Whitehead, a Zadie Smith, a Gary Shteyngart — hits the jackpot and makes the game seem worth staying in for just a little longer. You can spot them in coffee shops in Brooklyn and the West Village, clicking away on their laptops — when they’re not wasting time on Gawker, that is. You also see them at readings at Housing Works, KGB Bar and the Half King, dressed in black, leaning forward intently and sometimes venturing to ask a probing question. They idolize Lethem, Chabon, Eggers. They study The New Yorker religiously so that they can complain about how predictable the fiction is.

Wow, Charles McGrath. You just destroyed every single shred of interest I had in reading Beautiful Children in one paragraph.


The Simpsons Movie. On the big screen? Laugh out loud funny. On the small screen? Season 15. At best.

winter in massachusetts

Downfall of the Cowboys

This week's moral dilemma

A friend of yours is performing. You know this because you check the website of the group to which this person belongs. Ordinarily you get an invite, or an e-mail saying “Hey, I’m doing this here then.” But you’ve received no e-mail for this show.

Do you go to the show, even though knowing about it is a minor form of stalking? Or do you say: “If my presence was requested, I would have gotten a request,” and make other plans?

Corollary question: how much of a friend is this friend? And what are you saying by going: "I support you," or "Here I am--look at me?"

Stupid Rule of Threes

Weekend Update

Wells of the Antarctic. It is so frakking cold my fingers are leaving skin on the keyboard when I type.

Dave Doobinin at the Living Room, 01/17/08.

I don't think I've ever seen the place so packed, which is why I wasn't able to get close enough to take a decent picture. (Sorry, Dave.) I also don't think I've ever heard a performer other than Springsteen or Elvis Costello who had me singing along to his songs after hearing them only once before.

Doc Holliday's. Still one of the best dive bars in town.



Oh yeah. Ava's in town.

Online You-Know-What

Oh baby!



OH BABY!!!!!



Uh-oh baby -- I had an accident . . .



So wrong in so many ways:

the sun goes down on coney island