BALTIMORE - THE HIPPODROME

The Hippodrome. From the Greek Hippos, or horse, and Dromos, or race/ course. I’m not sure why there are so many theatres today named after Greek race tracks, I can only guess that some theatrical entrepreneur somewhere along the line thought it sounded fancy and might attract crowds and others agreed. This particular Hippodrome opened in 1915, and was the creation of the noted theatre designer Thomas Lamb. A Scotsman, I’ll have you know.

This magnificent house opened originally as a movie theatre, then became a popular vaudeville stage in the 30's featuring the likes of Bob Hope, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, Benny Goodman and his Orchestra, Dinah Shore, Milton Berle and the Andrews Sisters. At the end of the decade, as the age of vaudeville came to a close, Frank Sinatra made his debut as a big band singer here on July 13, 1939 with the Harry James’ band. Coincidentally, he also made his debut with the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra here in 1940. The stage was much smaller then, and there were no dressing rooms or other amenities. The theatre started to lose money and interest over the years as the fortunes of Baltimore took a turn for the worse, and it limped along as Baltimore’s only downtown movie house until finally closing in 1990. After a decade of idle decay, the Hippodrome, as well as a bank building on either side of it, was purchased and the block of buildings was refurbished, and made more glorious than ever. The buildings on either side, now joined, now serve as lobby, rehearsal space, administrative space, and dressing rooms. It’s large, roomy, and quite comfortable both front and back of house. And every dressing room has cable, which is great for catching the end of a game while sipping a well-deserved cocktail at the end of a show. (Our humble dressing room bar pictured below.)

The Baltimore Audiences are the most well behaved and subdued houses to date. No trouble with cell phones, candy wrappers, coughing, or other annoyances, but conversely they seem hesitant to respond- erring perhaps on the side of being overly respectful. But they cheer like mad at the end, so who’s complaining? The best house we've had (and will have, we're told) was a matinee for public school students last Thursday. The show has no intermission and really moves along, and really captured their attention. It was v. gratifying and exciting.

WASHINGTON D.C. - ALL GROWNS UP

"When you’re growns up, you’re growns up...
Our baby’s all growns up."
-Trent, in "Swingers"

I have no idea why this quote came into my head, but it’s relevant, if only tangentially. First of all, the character who speaks the line is in his cups so right there; appropriate. Also, the last time I was in Washington D.C., I was in high school and representing Singapore in the Georgetown sponsored North American Invitational Model United Nations. Due to a grandfather clause in the law, the drinking age was still 18, and that was close enough for us. I was walking along with a girl, couldn’t tell you her name, but she was a senior at Sacred Heart Academy and, I admit, there was a crush involved. We stopped to use the restroom at a restaurant called "Au Pied du Cochon" (‘At the Foot of the Pig’ for those of you who don’t parlez, pictured above but no longer around, and, apropos of nothing, where Soviet defector Vitaly Yurchenko had his last meal before redefecting). When I came out of the men’s room, she was sitting at the bar with two Heinekens and an impish grin. The bartender blithely accepted our slightly tampered high school I.D.’s (obviously a stickler for the rule of law) and left us alone. My first beer. Romantic n’est ce pas? Here’s an irrelevant but nice sunset (as seen from the Kennedy Center) to complete the romantic tableau:

Anyway, my point. Georgetown at the time, and Washington D.C. for that matter, was rough and tumble, and we liked it that way. Great bars, great music, cobblestone streets; it had character and elan. These days it’s ‘all growns up’, and it hasn’t aged well. Affluence has bleached every fiber of this once colorful garment, and emblazoned an icon on the front left pocket. M street, the main thoroughfare near the Georgetown campus, has been widened, paved, and invaded by every posh chain you can imagine (Jo S. Bank, Benetton, Ralph Lauren, and other faaaancy clothiers) and the bars of my nostalgic youth, alas, replaced with Starbucks and shoe stores. Refusing to be beaten by "the man", I sallied forth into the enticing night anyway in my quixotic search for a worthy drinking establishment.

After a recent show we went to Old Ebbet’s Grill near the White House. It’s the oldest saloon in Washington, founded in 1856, though it has moved several times. It has a beautiful big mahogany bar (above), decorated with carved mirrors, antique gas chandeliers, and stuffed animal heads reputedly bagged by Teddy Roosevelt. We had martinis and waited until 11:00pm when the raw bar selections are nightly reduced to half price. We had dozens of oysters (Wellfleet, Thatch Island, Raspberry Point, all delicious) with some clams, shrimp, and lobster in what they modestly call "the Orca Platter". At the end of the feast there were some fine cigars (Fuente Opus) to round out the fantastically opulent evening. Sometimes a little affluence can be a good thing. We would have looked very much the part of lobbyists or beltway politicos, except that we were surrounded by the real deal, and we weren’t on an expense account. Ouch. It is, however, the finest bar/restaurant in the district.


We then took a whirlwind tour of some recommended bars in Georgetown (The Guards, Clyde’s, Mr. Smith’s) but they were a disappointment; overpriced, overcrowded, and under stimulating. Not to be discouraged, I ventured out on another evening and I did enjoy a visit to the Saloun, with it’s great house blues/soul band and dark interior, though a pint of Boddington’s was $7 (a bit dear). I then toddled over to, and then up, the long, steep, stairway featured in the movie "The Exorcist" to "The Tombs" a great little basement bar- very "St. Elmo’s Fire" and comfortable, though the crowd was young enough to raise the question of their actually being old enough to drink. And there it is. Full circle.

WASHINGTON D.C. - THE KENNEDY CENTER

The Kennedy Center, located on the banks of the Potomac River, opened to the public in September 1971. But its roots date back to 1958, when President Eisenhower signed legislation creating a National Cultural Center. To honor Eisenhower's vision, one of the Kennedy Center's three theaters (the other two being a Concert Hall and an Opera House) is named for him, and that's where we perform. It's unlike any other theatre complex in the country in that the government pays for the rent and upkeep of the building, while the Center artistic staff takes care of the programming- the way it should be if you ask me, there should be similar centers in Chicago and Los Angeles, but I digress...

President Kennedy was a strong advocate of the arts, and took the lead in raising funds for the complex while in office. Two months after his assassination, the national cultural center was dedicated as a living memorial to his memory and the outside walls bear several of his quotes regarding the importance of the arts. For example:

"There is a connection, hard to explain logically but easy to feel, between achievement in public life and progress in the arts. The age of Pericles was also the age of Phidias. The age of Lorenzo de Medici was also the age of Leonardo da Vinci. The age of Elizabeth also the age of Shakespeare. And the New Frontier for which I campaign in public life, can also be a New Frontier for American art."

Exhilarating, but sad. Exhilarating in his felicity of expression as well as the in notion that our President could actually feel this way, and sad when put in the perspective of our current leader's grammar and general outlook.

It is a thrill to perform at the Kennedy Center, and you can sense it every night when we arrive at the theatre. I don't know how to express it, but it's evident in how early the cast arrives and how late they stay, in the green room banter and the backstage preshow whispers. It's fun, and it doesn't hurt that we sold out almost the entire three weeks here. V. good.

I have to say, however, that while the outside of the Kennedy Center is monumentally inspiring, the interior is rather firmly entrenched in the 70's. The red carpet is nice, but the chandeliers and lighting fixtures are awkward and unappealing. I imagine it was lovely at the time, but that was an unfortunate decade for, well, most things, and it's a shame that this treasure reflects as much. Not that they should change it, mind you, it's just a shame. If you look at the picture below (though it's small) you'll see what I mean. You'll say "Oh that's pretty", then you'll look again and say "but I kind of see what he means, though the lighting is nice", and finally "Those lights are pretty dreadful."

WASHINGTON D.C. - MONUMENTAL ECHOES OF 1776

It was a gorgeous Monday afternoon, temps in the seventies and not a cloud in the sky. After a quick bite to eat in the highly recommended cafeteria of the American Indian Museum (Buffalo, maize, etc...), I strapped on the Ipod and started my walking tour of the National Mall. Touristy, yes, but you can’t visit the capital and not take her for a quick spin. I had the Ipod on shuffle (the big shuffle of all the songs) and "Cool, Cool, Considerate Men" from the musical 1776 started to play as I rounded the pool in front of the Capitol Building. This is the song by conservative members of the continental congress when left on their own:

"But don’t forget that most men with nothing would rather fight for the idea of being rich than face the reality of being poor, and that is why they will follow us to the right, ever to the right, never to the left, forever to the right..."

Interesting. Our current Congress was in session so I couldn't visit the rotunda, and the capitol was made all the more unaccessible due to the post 9/11 security changes which have closed the steps up to the main entrance and barricaded all roads leading to it. We, the winners of the war on terror. And next on the play list, this song from John Adams:

"A second flood, a simple famine, plagues of locusts everywhere, Or a cataclysmic earthquake
I'd accept with some despair. But, no, you sent us Congress. Good God, sir, was that fair?"

These songs made for a perfect soundtrack and gave me the idea of listening to the whole album as I meandered along. I know, I know, show tunes and all that, sounds a bit...but still, it seemed like a good idea. Continuing along, the Washington Monument loomed before me, the Jefferson Memorial was off to my left and the White House to my right as "The Egg", sung by Adams, Franklin, and Jefferson, stirred some conflicted patriotism (where we’ve been, where we are now.)

"America, the birth of a new nation:
We’re waiting for the chirp, chirp, chirp, of an eaglet being born...
And just as Tom here has written, though the shell may belong to Great Britain, The eagle inside, belongs to us, and just as Tom here has written, we say to hell with Great Britain, the eagle inside, belongs to us"

I then passed through the World War II memorial, which provided the most emotional moment of the day. I was standing on one of the parapets, watching the sun infused fountains dancing happily, joyously, and without abandon in the afternoon calm, as a fairly small crowd milled around taking pictures and reading the carved quotations. Just then I noticed a young woman who was trying to cajole an elderly man in a wheelchair (father/daughter I’m thinking) into a picture. He didn’t want any part of it, but after a few more moments he waved her back and started to stand. His wife sidled up to him, but allowed him to stand on his own. Just before the picture was taken he snapped to attention- shoulders back, legs together, arms at side, and both hands in fists. In his right hand he clutched a Veteran’s Cap (the long square hat that you wear off the side of your head). His face became a mask of grim determination, the kind you sometimes imagine when you consider the soldiers of WWII and the integrity of their mission. The flash snapped, and instantly the man relaxed, sat back down in his wheelchair, and allowed his head to slump forward as if the whole thing had taken a good deal out of him. It was an extraordinary moment- false pride can ring hollow but that generation has a lot to be proud of.

I strolled down past the reflection pool and towards the Lincoln Memorial as "Molasses to Rum to Slaves", sung by the delegate from North Carolina, detailed the lurid details of the slave trade:

"Faces at the auctions gentlemen, white faces, African wharves,
put them in the ships, stuff them in the ships, cram them in the ships..."

Awful. Nightmarish. But a good reminder of the importance of Lincoln’s role in freeing the slaves and preserving the union. After reading his inaugural speeches, and noting sadly the underwhelming square tile memorial to Martin Luther King (so subtle that it was frequently trod upon and seldom noticed) I ambled along.

Located off to the side of the mall, as if we needed reminding of the embarrassing nature of this blemish on our international record, is the Vietnam Memorial. Its black granite panels cut into the earth like a scar, contrasted by the healthy green grass and gleaming white facade of all the other monuments. For this the 1776 soundtrack offered "Momma Look Sharp" in which a young and dying soldier waits for his mother to find him on the field of battle. It feels (and moves) like an Irish Ballad:

"My eyes are wide open, my face to the sky
Is that you I’m hearin’ in the tall grass nearby?
Momma come find me, before I do die
Hey, hey, momma look sharp"

So, now, fairly depressed (as you might imagine) and coming back up into the light of day from the Vietnam Memorial, I (de)press on.. There is just one last stop, and that is the visit to the Memorial to the Signers of the Declaration of Independence. Here is a perfect end to the tour and the soundtrack. It’s a small courtyard circled by granite stones into which have been carved the treasonous signatures of the D. of I. for all time. The finale of the soundtrack has the secretary calling the role as each representative rises to sign the Declaration. The bell of Independence Hall tolls in the background, the music swells, and we hear: (West Wing fans take note of the first name)

"New Hampshire: Dr. Josiah Bartlett, Massachusetts: Mr. John Adams, Rhode Island: Mr. Stephen Hopkins, Pennsylvania: Dr. Benjamin Franklin, Virginia: Mr. Thomas Jefferson..."

It was V. patriotic, hopeful, and a welcome/well overdue positive note. I walked back to the Potomac and then along past our temporary home in the Kennedy Center. It was now a lovely late afternoon and I stopped for a few drinks at an outdoor bar along the water. The sun was going down and Georgetown crew teams were practicing in eight man, two man, and single shells on the river. The boardwalk was well populated with friendly, lovely ladies and gentlemen. The beer was ice cold. God was in his heaven and all seemed right with the world.

PHILADELPHIA - ON THE TOWN

I'll play first, third, left. I'll play anywhere - except Philadelphia.
(Richie Allen, oft quoted ball player)

Attended the Phillies vs. Astros baseball game at Citizens Bank Park. The Phillies lost, but a truly great ballpark fashioned in the intimate and classic mold of PacBell in San Francisco (Now AT&T) and Jacob’s Field in Cleveland. Early in the game the "Fan-Cam" came across an unfortunately comical looking fellow with a huge bushy mustache, a large main of curly hair, and a loud yellow blazer. The crowd laughed a good deal, even to the point of booing all the other fans shown until the huge video screen showcased the goof again, which elicited tremendous applause. This happened over a dozen times. Each time he was featured, the man would stand and raise his arms over his head like Mussolini acknowledging the throngs. When the Phillies were rallying in the seventh, they again went back to an extended shot of the crowd-appointed favorite to fire up the faithful- they've a good sense of humor. At another point in the game there was a 'wave', started by the gentlemen and ladies in the section to our left, going around and around, growing, and eventually involving all four levels. Later, after a Philly home run, the large neon liberty bell in right field lit up and swung back and forth, tolling in celebration. It was baseball as it should be, I haven’t had as much fun at the park in years, but then again, I’m a Cubs fan.

After our opening night party at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse (so near the theatre that the smell of butter-steaks occasionally wafts through the stage right wing.) I ambled over to Fado to watch a tape of the Celtic Champions League Match and enjoy a Smithwyck’s or two (Celtic won). I started talking to a Russian Graphic designer named Yana who was on her third glass of wine or so and celebrating the end of a project. She was beautiful but crazy (I’m serious about both, I wouldn’t lie to you). We ended up at an after hours private club called Pens and Pencils. The good thing about being an after hours bar, evidently, is that you don’t have to worry about the amenities that would entice you to a normal bar; the decor can be neglected-basement chic, the beer doesn’t have to be cold, and if the cigarette smoke is as thick as fiberglass insulation, no worries- you serve drinks after closing and that’s all that matters. It was fun, but mostly because her dialect was so thick, and the surrounding so foreign, that the whole night seemed surreal. For the record, there has never been a good translation of Chekhov, Nabakov’s translations of Pushkin’s poetry is the closest to capturing the beauty of the writing, and America is stupids. Thought you’d like to know.

On another evening we went to the City Tavern for beers brewed from the original recipes of Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin, and George Washington. Although rebuilt after a few fires in the 1800's, the building is an exact replica of how it looked in 1776 (the staff wears period costumes and actually seem to enjoy it), and the floor is the original brick.

"The most genteel tavern in America"
(John Adams, 1776, regarding the City Tavern)

After our not too brief visit there, and as the soft late-afternoon glow faded into a moody early evening gloaming, we strolled (tripped? careened?) across the cobblestone alley for an outstanding dinner at Old Original Bookbinder’s which has been serving fresh oysters, chowder, lobster, etc... since the late 1800's.

There was also a great night in south Philly watching the Bears victory at Tony Luke’s sports bar (he enjoyed seeing our show and invited a few of us down, the whole night on him; v. generous). He personally made our cheesesteaks (his being third in popularity to Pat’s and Geno’s, but first in quality I think), proffered some Philly microbrews , and introduced us to his friends who manage strip clubs and "do a little bit of this and that". They were very nice, but we were still very careful and only occasionally did we steal sidelong glances when they muttered particularly Soprano-like euphemisms.

All in all, there were some great nights on the town in this friendly, clean, charming city. The show continues to be received well, although there was one night that the audience didn’t stand - I can’t imagine why not, the philistines. The week flew by, and our time here seemed way too short. But we’re on the bus now and headed to D.C. for our opening at the Kennedy Center tonight, and everyone’s pretty excited.