A Song About a Dog in Space: "Laika" By Matt Board

This is well worth a listen.

https://soundcloud.com/mattboardcomposer/laika-071121

So I've had this song going round and round in my head for a while and, when that happens, I like to work out why. And I think it's because the song is actually saying something quite profound.

As far as I can tell, this isn't from a musical but it is from a musical songwriter. And it shows. It's a story song but, more than that, it's a song with a great sense of drama.

Laika was the dog that the Russians launched into orbit back in the 1950s, before the first manned space flights, and as part of the technology race with the Americans.

The song starts by framing the story from the singer's perspective ("Sometimes I think...), so we know it's not merely a narrative. There's going to be something here to ponder.

"Sometimes I think

Of a dog on the cold streets of Moscow

Sleeping rough and

Getting by on the scraps of the garbage"

And with those lines, we're immediately on the dog's side. Then the scientists get hold of her:

"Hey, girl, would you like to see space?

And her fur was all curled

She was such a good girl"

That line, "she was such a good girl", which gets repeated later, not only accurately reflects the way that people talk to dogs, it also reminds us of Laika's cheerfully obedient nature. That's significant.

Then the language starts getting a bit colder, more technical:

"Kept her, trained her

Sent her round and round in a centrifuge

Put her in an ever-smaller succession of cabins..."

At this point, the music is still rippling chords and a gentle, lilting melody. So the contrasting language is stark. This is where the drama builds.

Dramatically-speaking, one of the ways to make something more interesting is to let the audience know something that the character doesn't. And this, I think, is what makes this song work so well. You see, increasingly, we realise that we know something that the dog doesn't. It's explicitly stated in the brief bridge section:

"They kissed her nose and closed the hatch

They knew she wasn't coming back"

Turns out those rippling chords and that gentle, lilting melody are far more than a nice bit of music. That's Laika that we're hearing, all playful innocence and charm as she gets strapped into a rocket and thrust above the earth, completely unaware of what's happening to her.

Now, this makes for a great bit of drama in song. But, if I were to get all philosophical and above my pay grade, I'd also say that this expresses a profound truth about the human condition. It's the truth that separates man from dog, even the smartest ones like Laika. It is, perhaps, the defining truth about being human: we know that we're going to die.

But, hey, who needs philosophy?

All you really need is a song about a dog in space.

Early Sondheim and Artless Art

It's been very moving to read all the tributes over the last couple of months to the late Stephen Sondheim. 

A tweet from actor Alex Young particularly caught my attention:

"Do you think that all the normal people know that basically Shakespeare has died?"

She went on to clarify that she didn't mean anything superior-sounding by talking about "normal people" but it does make the point. Amongst musical theatre people, Sondheim is regularly compared to Shakespeare or God (I'm never sure which is meant as the higher compliment). Yet for Joe Public, he's mostly the fella who had a hit with West Side Story and "Send in the Clowns".

Now, despite being a musical theatre fan, I have a lingering affinity for normal people and I've always wondered about this issue. Is it that Sondheim is simply too good for the average man? Too sophisticated, too complex, too intellectual? Is it that he was too ahead of his time and the general public will eventually catch up? Maybe the merchandise just wasn't as good and those Pacific Overtures tote bags couldn't complete with the Cats hoodies. Who knows?

To be honest, I don't. But when I think about my own love of Sondheim's work, there may be a clue. 

In truth, I am something of a topsy-turvy Sondheim fan. My impression is that many Sondheim-ites treat the early, popular, lyrics-only efforts (West Side Story and Gypsy) as something of an overture. The true Sondheim canon only really gets going with Company. And yet, for me, it's those early efforts that I find fascinating. I'm a bit like that alien in the Woody Allen movie who comes down to earth only to inform the great actor-writer-director: "we enjoy your films, particularly the early funny ones".

So, if I had to choose a favourite Sondheim lyric, I'd be tempted to pick this from West Side Story:

"Maria! Maria! Maria! Maria!

Maria! Maria! Maria!"

That is a nothing lyric. No cleverness or craft. No sophistication, no deep thought. Yet it tells us everything we need to know about a young man who is besotted with the girl he's just met. And it takes a certain kind of courage to put aside all your lyric-writing sophistication (and Sondheim probably had more of that than anyone) and write something so simple and direct.  

Then again, I could also choose any lyric from Gypsy which, to my ears, probably has the best set of lyrics of any Broadway show. And, if you really pushed me on the picking favourites front, I'd have to plump for "All I Need Now is the Girl":

"Got my striped tie

Got my hopes high

Got the time and the place and I got rhythm

Now all I need's a girl to go with 'em"

That sudden change in the melody on "Got the time...", from a smooth chromaticism into a bouncy syncopation, along with fresh "rhythm/with 'em" rhyme, is so unexpected, yet so easy-going. 

And that's not even my favourite bit of the song. That comes when the young hoofer, Tulsa, is enthusiastically showing off his choreography to Louise and starts shouting out his own commentary:

"Astaire bit!"

Then he starts humming:

"Ya-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-dah"

Did Sondheim write that? Perhaps it was the book writer Arthur Laurents or director Jerome Robbins or maybe it was just the actor ad-libbing in rehearsals. Who knows? Who cares? It's one of those beautiful moments when all the theatrical elements of a musical blur into each other so that you simply can't tell them apart. And it's so natural, it doesn't even feel like it's been written. More like a spontaneous outburst.

This is the kind of artless art in musicals that I find astonishing. Moments that feel so natural, so unself-conscious, and yet are, in fact, complicated and highly contrived bits of a theatre. And I wonder if it is this feeling of artlessness that gives these early shows more popular appeal than later Sondheim works. 

To be honest, I'm not sure.

But sometimes it's worth listening to the normal people.

Why The Band's Visit Should Really Be A Classic British Musical

Now I'm generally not that up to date with contemporary Broadway shows, or anything, really. (I'm still using Blogger, for heaven's sake.) Which is one of the reasons why I've only recently caught up with The Band's Visit. 

If I'm honest, a lot of modern Broadway doesn't always float my flotilla; generally speaking, I prefer the older stuff. And I'm also getting very parochial (blame it on Brexit) and tend to be more interested in musicals from this side of the pond. But The Band's Visit feels very different. For, despite being both modern and Broadway, The Band's Visit feels more like a classic and, frankly, just a little bit British.

I should caveat the following by saying that I've never seen the show. For reasons unfathomable, I don't think it's ever been performed in the UK. I'm going by the cast recording, a few video clips, podcasts, reviews and whatever else I could find. I still haven't quite grasped the plot and only have a vague idea of the staging, so I could be barking up the wrong lamppost here.

But bear with me.

Firstly, the British connection. I appreciate it's not obvious. The show is based on an Israeli film and that the story is set in Israel. It was written and produced by a bunch of Americans and the eclectic score uses Arab instrumentation, Jewish scales and jazz harmonies. (By the way, how does that score hang together? I mean, it does, but how?) In fact, as far as I can tell, there is zero British input or influence.

But bear with me.

You see, it has emotional reticence and emotional reticence is, traditionally, a very British trait. The whole 'stiff upper lip' understatement thing is part of our national stereotype and, like all good stereotypes, contains at least a smidgen of truth. And that emotional reticence is the opposite of what we often get in modern Broadway musicals where characters tend to express their emotions fully and openly. In the Band's Visit, the emotions are bubbling away under the surface.

It's a bit like whale watching. 

Unlikely analogy coming up.

But bear with me. 

I once went on one of those touristy whale watching trips. It was memorable, even though you never actually see a whale, only part of one. What you see is the arch of their back whenever a whale surfaces. Then, as they dive, the tail fin rises out of the water and, for a moment, you get the sense of their size and beauty.

This is what it feels like listening to The Band's Visit. Often the emotion is below the surface. When it breaks the surface, you get a glimpse of what is going on inside. It's only a glimpse but it's enough to get a sense of the whole. The effect is to work on our imaginations. Like the whale, we don't see everything but we can imagine the whole.  

Take the big song from the show, "Omar Sharif". 

The emotion is obviously there with that beautiful minor melody. But it doesn't really burst through until the bridge where the words turn more abstract and poetic:

"And the living room becomes a garden

And the TV set becomes a fountain

And the music flows in the garden

And everything grows"

Then, as soon as its surfaced, the emotion recedes. And I love the way the actor playing Tewfiq (Tony Shalhoub) just sits through the whole thing with a contented little smile on his face.

This all reminds me of a story about the Gershwins. 

Tangential anecdote coming up.

But bear with me.

The Gershwins were introducing their new song "They Can't Take That Away From Me" to a potential producer. They started singing - "The way you wear your hat / The way you sip your tea..." - but only got as far as the second line when the producer called them a halt. "This is a love song, right?" he asked. 

You see, in those days, love songs sidled up to you and gently murmured something about hats. Nowadays, they tend to deafen with Celine Dion-volume vocals. I wrote something about that difference in an old post with click-baity title of Everyone Says I Love You (Oblique and Declamatory). 

The point is that the old songs had more emotional reticence and perhaps this is why The Band's Visit feels closer to a classic show than a modern one.

Now, if you're still bear-ing with me, then you're probably expecting Goldilocks to turn up any moment. So I'd better leave a bowl of porridge and wrap things up.

Basically The Band's Visit is one of the most exciting things I've heard in a long time and I'm still trying to work out why.

It's experimental but feels old-fashioned. 

It's full of foreign sounds but feels oddly British. 

In short, it feels like something different.

Definitely worth bearing with.