By Lauren Smart
By Jane R. LeBlanc
By Lauren Smart
By Elaine Liner
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
Knowing some of the history of Hair and how radical and unsettling a piece of musical theater it was in its time makes watching Uptown Players' ecstatic and provocative production even more meaningful. How easy it would be to package this show as a quaint and cutesy wink at the Age of Aquarius, like an American Idol tribute to the tunes of yesteryear. Director Cheryl Denson doesn't do that at all. She's kept her interpretation smart and true to the period Hair was born in, but she gives it fresh resonance. Watch that upstage screen for the constantly shifting projected images (designed by Chris Robinson). Gradually, Vietnam becomes Iraq. LBJ morphs into GWB. And we become aware that state-of-the-world-wise, it's déjà vu all over again.
Hair makes big and often deeply cynical statements about politics, religion, sex and drugs. Broadway musicals weren't supposed to go there in the 1960s. Some still don't dare (cough, Mamma Mia!). Hair also comes with full-frontal nudity (look quick or you'll miss it), simulated drug use, a hymn to sodomy (with a wistful reminder that Mick Jagger wasn't always the "wrinkly rocker") and flagrant use of the N-word and other verbs, nouns and adjectives that still aren't polite to say in public unless you're the star of your own cable comedy special.
Doing theatrically what nobody had done before was what Hair was all about. The show grew out of an acting workshop, debuting in 1967 as the inaugural production at the brand-new Joseph Papp Public Theatre in Lower Manhattan. It moved to a discotheque called the Cheetah before being extensively reworked for Broadway (with Diane Keaton in a small role) in 1968. It did boffo business, despite mixed reviews, drawing an audience profile producers hadn't seen before. Lined up around the block were young hipsters from uptown and down who wouldn't be caught dead at Plaza Suite or Promises, Promises. Nothing else so sexy, raucous and freewheeling was lighting up the Great White Way at the time. Many imitators would follow (naked bods became de rigueur for several seasons), but there wouldn't be anything close to Hair in popularity with young theatergoers until Rent came along in 1996.
Hard to believe, watching it at Uptown's tiny Trinity River Arts Center, that a musical that aspired to offend and was held up as a threat to the moral fiber of America's youth and an example of the decline of Western civilization would, 40 years on, seem so sweet and tuneful. Composed by Galt MacDermot and billed originally as a "tribal love-rock musical," now it sounds about as hard-driving and out-there musically as the ballads of James Taylor (the 1960s' version of John Mayer). It's downright innocent, too, in depicting the simple hopes and desires of young adults of that period. All they want is to stop the war, clean up air pollution, fall in love and get along with their folks. This upset the status quo?
The story—and there's only a scant suggestion of one in the book by Gerome Ragni and James Rado, who also wrote the lyrics—presents a commune of gentle dropper-outers loitering in a Greenwich Village park.
Claude, a bright, sensitive kid (played by Sean Patrick Henry), is about to be drafted into the Army and shipped off to Vietnam. The first act introduces each member of his "tribe." The second plays out Claude's acid-induced nightmare revisiting key moments in American history, including a doo-wop version of the Gettysburg Address sung by a black chick in Abe Lincoln drag. Trippy.
By day the merry longhairs protest the war and panhandle for change. By night they roll up joints and roll around with each other. They also sing and dance a lot, much like those cleaner-cut gangs in West Side Story, which takes place 10 years earlier and about 100 blocks north of where the Hair crowd hangs out.
Dancing is a big part of the show. At Uptown, the choreography by Vicki Squires recalls the loose-limbed, sensuous moves of Twyla Tharp, who created the dance sequences for Milos Forman's bad 1979 movie version of Hair (starring a too-old Treat Williams). Squires concentrates on stirring up undulating torsos and wavy arms, with the occasional frug or pony step thrown in for fun. The ethnically diverse cast of 21 (many of them under 21) features some hot dancers, including Henry (who's also a fine singer), Tyler Donahue (playing several roles), Chad Peterson (as Woof), Carrie Slaughter (Crissy) and Crystal Hannah (Dionne). Dig how they shimmy in those tie-dyed dashikis by costumer Robin Armstrong.