Fathers & theaters

I’ll probably never see Hamilton. Certainly not on Broadway. If you’ve been priviledged to see it - and, yes, if you've seen it, you are priviledged - great for you. I understand why you blog about it and post about it on Facebook and can't stop talking about it at a party: it's a once-in-a-lifetime event, a very exclusive one, there's nothing like it anywhere, there may never be anything like it again, and you've been lucky enough to experience it.

But I’m part of the 99.9% of the country that hasn't seen it, and probably never will. I don’t have an “in” to see it, to even buy tickets to see it. I also live on the other side of the country and can't afford a trip to New York City right now. I’ll probably finally see Hamilton in 10 years or so, produced by a local amateur all-white group of performers that isn’t really sure how this whole hip hop thing is supposed to work, but they will be oh-so-earnest in their attempt to present the magic.

There’s a blog by Joe Posnanski being shared across the Interwebs right now about how he managed to take his daughter to see Hamilton on Broadway. It’s an incredibly sweet piece. His daughter cried a lot and squeezed his arm a lot, because he made her ultimate dream come true. What a gift. He knows what a huge moment he's been able to give her, that they've been able to share together. That’s something she and he will cherish for the rest of their lives. Beautiful. Great for them.

It made me think of my own father. And theater. Very different experiences from his, however.

My father and I didn’t like each other. In fact, most times, I hated him, and he was none too fond of me. He was an alcoholic who ruined most events: Christmas family gatherings, Thanksgiving family gatherings, my high school graduation, or just an evening meal… and he hated that I would refer to those ruined events, to remind everyone of what an ass he could be. He secretly recorded my telephone conversations and drunkenly mocked me with the information he gleaned from such, leaving me confused and humiliated - no teen girl should have her intimate conversations overheard by her father. He would call my friends' parents late at night and tell them, "You think you're better than me, but you're not," and ramble on and on, and I would have to face their children at school the following Monday and apologize. Most of those parents forbid their kids from coming to our house for sleep overs, and seemed nervous whenever I was in their houses. He did some really other humiliating, even abusive things I'm still not comfortable sharing on a blog, and probably will never be.

And then there were our differences in tastes and values. He wanted me to wear dresses and makeup and be beautiful and elegant, but I wanted to wear flannel and listen to Patsy Cline and watch “Star Wars.” He wanted me to be popular, I wanted to disappear. We were polar opposites on most political issues as well. We consistently made each other miserable.

But there was this one thing we did have in common: Theater. Dad loved theater. He loved a live performance in particular, especially if there was music involved. And he knew, early on, that I loved it too.

There was that time in the 1970s when he made me watch The Sound of Music on TV. I did not want to at all. I did not want to because the kids were cute and happy and singing in the commercials and, therefore, I hated them. And I did not want to because he wanted me to watch it. But I watched it. And I loved it. And I watched it every year it was on TV while I lived in our family home.

There was that time when he took me to the Executive Inn in Evansville, Indiana in the 1980s for a weekend matinee of a touring company doing 10 Nights in a Bar Room in the tiny performance space there - I think it was in the basement. And don’t think the irony of an alcoholic father taking me to a campy melodrama about an alcoholic father was lost on me even then. But the company was actually really wonderful. I laughed. A lot. It was delightful. He’d already seen the production with my mother, and he arranged for the lead actress to come to our table after that matinee performance and talk to me about how to work professionally in theater.

There was that time he took me back to the Executive Inn the following year to see a touring company doing South Pacific. It was a terrific little production as well. And he told me how he’d seen it at the movies, by himself, back in the 1950s.

There was the time he took me to see three storytellers that were touring the state, telling a story about a crime. I can’t remember the crime. I can’t remember the story. But I remember being riveted as I sat there in the high school auditorium, watching three men take turns telling a story - no light effects, no sound effects, no costumes, just them, talking.

On all four occasions, he said to my Mom, “Well, I think Jayne would really like this and should see it.” And he was insistent I see all four - the only thing he ever made me do. And I loved all four of those experiences. He was right. Other than when he taught me to drive a stick shift and took me on a very short motorcycle ride on his beloved Gold Wing, both experiences after a few years of sobriety and many years apart, it's the only great times we shared together. But during those experiences, I never grabbed his armed and squeezed it as tight as I could, like the girl in the Hamilton story. I never sobbed. I sat and watched those shows and really liked them, just like my father knew I would, but the awkwardness, the uneasiness, the distrust between us - it never left us, and we barely said anything to each other before or after the performances.

This blog that you're reading now won't go viral. I'm just not that cool. I haven't seen Hamilton. I probably won't ever see it. And I'll never get to improve my relationship with my father - he died in 1996 - 20 years ago. None of that is viral story worthy. But I haven't thought about those four theater experiences with, or because of, my father in decades, and I'm thankful for Mr. Posnanski for that. Theater is an amazing thing. I need to remember that, and enjoy it, wherever I am, more often.

Frampton!

More than 35 years after the first time I saw him in concert, I went to see Peter Frampton again at long last - in March. We’ve both changed! We’re both old!

It was a terrific show, in support of his Acoustic Classics album. It was Peter Frampton unplugged, just him and, for much of the show, Gordon Kennedy. That's it. I know I’ve heard other people playing Frampton's songs acoustically, but never Frampton himself. And he seemed to enjoy playing his songs that way as much as we enjoyed hearing them. He played for two solid hours, his own stuff and some excellent covers, and it was a delight. It felt like he was in a living room, and not just because of the carpets and the lamps. He joked, he laughed, he even teared up at least once. Very sincere show - it's been a while since I saw someone performing who seemed to really want to be there.

The show wasn't quite sold out, but the audience was super-enthusiastic - at times, a wee bit too much. I love an excited audience, and I mostly loved the people around me, but people trying to talk back to performers, to put themselves into a show, get tiresome. But I admit that it was fun when Frampton's son, who opened, introduced his keyboardist, and said he had met him at Starbuck's - he was the barista - and the crowd started chanting the keyboardist's name. Between him and his father's performance, there was a short intermission, and Stefan went out for a smoke - and met a fellow smoker that turned out to be the keyboardist's father. Very nice man.

Frampton talked as much as he sang, and it was wonderful to hear his stories. Like about going to school with David Bowie, how Bowie and Frampton’s father remained especially close all their lives, and how Bowie invited Frampton to tour with him in the late 1980s, helping him to be seen as a musician again, after seeing his career get turned into teenie-bopper fodder - and then seeing it crash. He talked about the first instrument he learned to play: it was not the guitar, but a four-string instrument, the size of a guitar but more like a ukulele. Or how, whilst in Portland, he'd had the best fish and chips he'd ever had outside of England, from "a Scottish guy" he quite enjoyed imitating (after some digging after the show, I found out he was talking about The Frying Scotsman).

He also talked about his association with the Buddy Holly Foundation - Frampton is one of the Buddy Holly Foundation Lifetime Legacy Ambassadors - along with Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Brian May, Graham Nash, Peter Asher, James Burton, Dave Stewart and Pete Townshend. Each received, or will receive, a “lifetime loan” of a replica of the acoustic guitar Holly wrote so many of his hits on, and each replica includes a fret from Holly’s original guitar. Frampton was given the “Peggy Sue” guitar, and he told a hysterical story of how he has it instead of Paul McCartney, who also wanted it. He followed this story with playing “Peggy Sue,” of course, on said guitar.

Kennedy also told stories, including that he’d received one of Jerry Reed’s guitars from his widow upon his dear friend’s death, and after it sat in his closet for a long while, he decided the person that should have it, that would appreciate it, that deserved it, was Peter Frampton - and Frampton brought out that guitar and played. Why do I love the idea of Peter Frampton playing a Jerry Reed guitar so much?

The show was in Revolution Hall, in the former Washington High School building in Southeast Portland (Oregon). What a fantastic space - just 850 seats, including the balcony, and it feels even smaller. It was built in 1924, and after the building ended its life as a high school, plans were to convert it into housing, and its central auditorium would likely have become a light well. Somehow, people realized that wasn’t the right direction so, instead, a $20 million renovation transformed the building into a mix of office and retail space, and preserved the auditorium as a performance space. The campus used to have even more buildings - it’s such a shame they are gone, because that was a great time for American architecture. But thank goodness the historic high school building has been preserved. The former classrooms are now offices of various small companies, and the hallways are still lined with lockers. There are two pubs in the building, one on the ground floor next to a vast field that’s an unofficial dog park - you have fun with your dog then all walk over and sit outside and have a beer. How awesome is that?!

Big kudos to Stefan for being so sweet and patient as I squee'd and bopped and even teared up a few times - though I was vastly better behaved than I'd been in Evansville in 1979. I was 13 then. To say a lot has changed would be the understatement of the century.

We drove to the Sunset Transit station from Forest Grove, then took the red line into town, then a bus to near the venue. But for the trip home, the timing was right to take the #20 bus a few blocks from the venue that took us right back to Sunset - no transfers needed. If there was a quick way to get to Sunset from Forest Grove, I could totally work in Portland, sans car....

A pox on the two drunk women trying, from the balcony, to recapture their 80s wild child days and get Frampton to notice them - being loud and drunk wasn't as cool as you think it was, "ladies."

But ultimately, the night was all about fabulous Frampton. And the next day, I sent a tweet... and look who responded!