Quite a Quartet

Our credo is to be early for everything whether a social engagement or to catch a flight. This time we have overreached and are approximately 3.45 hours ahead of the performers. It was not our intention to languish so long in the excessively warm evening for an outdoor event. But for her, we gladly waited. Ives Concert Park on the campus of Western Connecticut State University is a tranquil space. A watery border defines the stage while rickety chairs sit haphazardly on a small hill. A low fence separates some ticket holders from those who prefer, or weren't able to obtain other billets, spreading out on the grass. Carol and Steve are happily in the latter contingent. They've come with folding chairs and bug repellent. Both are essential this starry night. Rather than looking at the performers live, they'll be gazing at a gigantic screen.

Parking is directed by Connecticut State Police. They're polite but firm. We're able to secure a premium spot easily and join the line of fans who await the opening of the park. Once inside, the alphabet is divided for 'will call' customers and we're delighted to see that the S-Z portion is relatively light. Henry gives his name and a staffer searches for our tickets. Behind us, a tall, early thirties lady overhears him. She asks immediately, "Is your name Henry?" Receiving an affirmative, she says that her son shares the name. Then she suggests that we walk a few paces to his stroller and take a look at his tee shirt. It proudly proclaims "100% Henry." Wow! Cool!! No photo captures this special moment as cameras are verboten at the concert.

With so much time to absorb, Carol and I wander the food circle. Interestingly, it consists of movable kitchens owned by local restaurants. Very impressive. There's even a pizza oven and a bar-be-que pit. We're not hungry but do try the fresh apple cider and pronounce it refreshing. Perhaps its flavor was enhanced by the mini donut samples.

The concert begins 40 minutes late. Nobody seems in a hurry. We are perplexed by this approach and the seemingly indifference shown the audience. People are still arriving long after the posted start time.

All the frustrations evaporate when she takes the stage with her band. Alison Krauss is legendary. Her music melds country and bluegrass as she effortlessly fiddles and sings with a tone so pure it just simply can't be real. Even a tone deaf person such as myself recognizes the clarity and perfection she evokes. We've seen her once before in a casino concert close to home. Is it possible that she's even better this time? People around me float away and Alison commands my whole being. She's Henry's particular favorite performer and he is equally enchanted.



I look at this elfin lady with her tiny black skirt and super tall boots and I wonder if she has a personal battery pack. How can she sing and play so profoundly? Union Station, her band, is immensely talented. Each member is featured as the show progresses. I'm especially fond of the songs from "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" The words and notes are haunting as a bright moon provides an ethereal light for this unique night. The crowd responds enthusiastically to a ninety minute set and is rewarded with multiple encores. We walk into the darkness with lyrics surrounding us. Alison's leaving in a colossal tour bus, trailing sounds as she goes.

They were both young, one still a teen-ager. It was 1965, summer in White Plains. The elder's group was already famous and a favorite of the generation. So many decades later, he's a single, savoring those pristine years with fans who remember fondly. Universal Preservation Hall in Saratoga Springs seems perfect for reuniting the fan with the famous. We've traveled across the country to catch John Sebastian, founder of the Lovin' Spoonful, in solo concert.

The venue is a former AME church built in 1871. Rescued in 2006 by a group of determined individuals, the building was close to being demolished due to its deteriorating condition. Only four elderly African-American ladies remained of a once prospering congregation. Through intensive negotiations, the title to the building passed to a non-profit organization. We meet Teddy Foster (truly, that is her name) who serves as Chair of the group. She gives us a private tour of the edifice and talks about renovations which are on-going. Still needed are an elevator, air conditioning and heating. It's rustic but promising. Below the former sanctuary, a small chapel has been set aside. Here, every Sunday, the ancient congregants worship. Their minister is 94.



A few original pews are placed around the cavernous room. The altar is backlight and resembles a witch's house on Halloween. Whether that is the intention, we don't know. Folding chairs complete the seating options. We're in the front row. Next to us, curiously, is a couple from northern California. He's a nurse, she's a realtor. They're on a musical tour, too. Going to an Irish music festival. Both are performers at clubs near their home. Age contemporaries, we talk 60's music without having to explain any names.

It's hot in here. Windows are closed, no air moves. Soon the man himself is on stage. He has two guitars and a harmonica. More than enough for tonight. Songs are interspersed with stories. Henry knows John's voice isn't the same but the words and notes are what matter.



We learn the history of the most famous tunes with Greenwich Village playing a prominent part. John Sebastian's dad was a famous concert harmonicist. Music measured his son's life and although John once gave up the harmonica (at 5), he relented and mastered the instrument. We're treated to awesome sounds as sweat overcomes his cotton shirt and drips from his face.

There are no screaming fans, no groupies swaying to his spell. We're all older, more sedate, moving and clapping in our seats. I can almost see long hair, tie-dyed shirts and ballooning pants of varying colors adorning bodies with taut skin and eyes focused on the freedom music unfurls. Youth recedes but never surrenders.

We know the words and I joyfully sing along (very badly) to "Do You Believe in Magic?," "You Didn't Have To Be So Nice," "Younger Girl," "Did You Ever Have To Make Up Your Mind?" and "Nashville Cats." Listening to those seminal songs in the 60's I never imagined I'd hear them in person.

Too soon, he's done. Exhausted, spent. We have a poster for him to sign and we buy his latest CD. John Sebastian's in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as he so richly deserves. His iconic music resonates for new generations.



Theatres are stories themselves. Richly decorated, imminently cool, lush and anticipating words or music or sometimes both. Through the years, we've seen memorable plays as well as some so slight as to be easily erased. Often it is the cast that beckons or maybe a revival that struggles to replicate the glory of earlier renditions. Now and then the result is fractured but never is it not worthwhile.

With half-price ducats in hand, we have little time to find our seats for "Baby It's You." Spinning the story of a Passaic, New Jersey housewife who recognizes the talent of four African-American teen-agers and crafts them into chart-topping stylists, the play is rich with tunes.



From the beginning, we realize that the cast is hard-working, fresh and eager. No familiar names grace the stage but these are serious thespians whose renditions of The Shirells's hits enliven the audience. We're treated to "He's So Fine," "It's My Party," "Twist and Shout," "Mama Said," and "Soldier Boy."

Woven into Florence Greenberg's amazing rise as a record and concert producer is her collaboration with songwriter Luther Dixon. The interracial personal relationship between these two artistic people during the 1950's and '60's provides a tension-filled backdrop as the most talented girl singing group ever loses its grip on the feckless public.

We caught Cole in London in 1997. His lyrics remain snappy though some references are likely to be obscure or unfathomable to modern audiences. Madcap mayhem predominates his plays and the story is sublimated by exquisite songs and choreographic feats that leave performers breathless and seem implausibly difficult.



Sutton Foster is a star of brightest magnitude. She's long and lovely, contains no extra ounces, controls her limbs as if there's a tiny computer in each one and the mechanism works flawlessly. She sings. She dances. She acts. She smiles and occasionally, just talks. There's an accent in which I detect a tiny bit of Southern that hasn't been extracted. I decide she's keeping that twinge to remind her of her roots. We're totally enchanted and can't see her enough. This is our third evening with the inestimable Ms. Foster.

Approaching the theater, early as usual, we learn that we're in time for a treat. It's the Tuesday Theater Talk on the mezzanine. While cast members practice in street clothes on stage, we listen raptly as an extremely knowledgeable man discusses the provenance of "Anything Goes." Cole Porter was king in the '30's. He made no changes to his material for anyone. Except, that is, Miss Ethel Merman, who had no vocal training at all. The incubation of the play lasted a long time and with no second act in sight, a cast member remarked that "anything goes." These prophetic words found their way to the title and onto the most memorable music of the play.

This year's version is blessed not only with the divine Ms. F. but also Kathleen Marshall as the director/choreographer. Charmingly unforgettable is the legendary Joel Grey who, at eighty, can teach the youngsters a thing or two. Often there is a standing ovation at the end of Act I and the beginning of Act II. The main character is based on two real people--the evangelist Amy Semple McPherson and Texas Diamond Lil. We're told to watch Sutton's breathing as she sings and dances for what seems like forever. No previous leading ladies have attempted this feat.

Our seats are front row. We can see everything perfectly. Sutton is sensational. Joel is adorable. The story is raffish, the lyrics often wry. We're transfixed and want to stay put for Act I to one hundred. During intermission, the couple to my left remarks that they are not impressed. They're seeing six plays in a week and already think some are better than this one. We are aghast, incredulous. They're obviously mistaken. With two Tonys already, Sutton Foster seems invincible. Ethel who????

A quartet of singular musical performances. Nights to note.