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Broadway-bound this spring once its run downtown at the New York Theatre Workshop ends, Sing Street has been touted as the hope of a musical season that could use a little cheer.  On paper it has a lot going for it. Like Once, which went from being an Oscar winner in 2007 to a Tony winner five years later, it’s based on a musical-ish film by writer-director John Carney, who with Gary Clark contributes music and lyrics to fill out the stage adaptation. Enda Walsh returns on book. Directing is Rebecca Taichman, whose musical-ish staging of the excellent Indecent won her a Tony in 2017. 

But lightning hasn’t struck…twice.

While Once the movie was a crowdpleasing indie hit, Sing Street came and went in the U.S. in 2016. That’s not disqualifying, and in fact not having the burden of “living up to” the source can be a plus. But having the spine of a film, successful or unsuccessful, to build from doesn’t guarantee something fully formed or organic for the stage will emerge. (Case in point: the recent dud musical Scotland, PA, from an even more obscure flop.) What’s so frustrating about Sing Street is that it doesn’t really try. 

The show is set in Dublin in the early ’80s, with teen characters in conflict with a society that has barely changed with the times. Best known for offing Jon Snow on Game of Thrones, Brenock O’Connor here plays sixteen-year-old Conor, whose life is an impasse, what with his architect dad perpetually underemployed and feuding with his mom, his know-it-all if agoraphobic older brother Brendan (Gus Halper) nagging him, and the seductive and enigmatic Raphina (Zara Devlin) seemingly unattainable. Music, at it is so often in this brand of coming-of-age story, is his only balm. Packed off to a strict Christian Brothers school when the family finances nosedive Conor bands with the usual assortment of mildly colorful misfits, all of whom sling guitars and plink their way through New Wave hits by Depeche Mode and Duran Duran. Conor begins to find his voice, and with his mates crafts his own songs. Love ditties like “Riddle of the Model” and “Up” he pitches to Raphina, who starts to warm to him…but a mean priest (Martin Moran) threatens to pour cold water on his aspirations.

If this all sounds familiar…well, it is, and then some. That doesn’t mean it can’t work again, as an adolescent companion to say School of Rock. But inspiration is lacking, from the modestly catchy original music to the uninspired set and projections (were the crashing waves borrowed from The Rose Tattoo?). Leaning against a lamppost Devlin makes the biggest impression singing “Rio” but that bygone hit and a few others woven into the show upstage the new material. Everything works out predictably, as the boys cloud themselves in hairspray and go androgynous for a final rebel yell of a concert. Risk, however, is in short supply here, and other than throwing its 11 o’clock number to a supporting character it’s disappointing that Taichman hasn’t smashed a few staging norms in one of the more pedestrian productions I’ve seen at NYTW, a venue that lends itself to experimentation. (Hadestown began there in New York.) Given iffy reviews more work is promised before Broadway, as Sing Street in its present state of construction isn’t much of a destination.

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The death of any creative person with a long and distinguished body of work — and writer, actor, director and Monty Python co-founder Terry Jones qualifies if anyone does — naturally prompts those of us left behind to catalogue and quantify their legacy, isolating those particular fragments of brilliance that lodge most immovably in our memories. Rhys Darby mentioned a throwaway gag from Monty Python and the Holy Grail (“What, the curtains?”) as “the funniest thing I can always instantly picture in my mind.” Every fan has their own. Yours might be projectile-vomiting Mr. Creosote, nitwit-genius Sir Bedevere, Cardinal Biggles or Mandy Cohen (“He’s not the Messiah, he’s a very naughty boy!”). You may even, as many did, hail him as the brilliant director of Monty Python’s masterpiece, Life of Brian (he shared the job on Holy Grail with Terry Gilliam, an arrangement that didn’t work for anyone involved), the screenwriter of Labrynth, beloved children’s author, insightful historian and so on.

Yet Terry Jones’ legacy is greater, and harder to quantify, than even that. It was not his idea to join with Michael Palin, Eric Idle, John Cleese, Graham Chapman and Gilliam to form Monty Python back in 1969; that impetus came either from Cleese or a BBC producer named Barry Took, depending on whose account you believe. But Jones harbored ambitions that none of the other Python members had. He wanted to make something, you might say, completely different: a show that was not a university revue filmed for television but a new kind of comedy altogether, something that could exist only on television and which turned the medium’s clichés — the visual language of title sequences, montages, news programs, chat shows and man-in-the-street interviews — inside out.

At its best — which it very often was — Monty Python’s Flying Circus was a once-in-a-generation triumph of both content and form, substance and style. The former was the result of the six group members working as equals; the latter was driven almost entirely by Jones, who spent hours working alongside Python directors John Howard Davis and Ian MacNaughton, obsessively cutting and recutting each half-hour episode into a mini-masterpiece of free-flowing comic inspiration.

Having arguably done more than any other single member to shape the Python comedic style, Jones was the most enthusiastic about the group’s potential and the most reluctant to leave it behind. Naturally ebullient and brimming with ideas, his enthusiasm remained the chief engine driving Monty Python throughout the group’s working life. For a group famously distrustful of outside meddling, his capacity to direct was essential in making Holy Grail and, especially, Life of Brian not only possible, but the well-crafted triumphs they are. The unproductive writing sessions for Meaning of Life might have scuttled the project completely had it not been for Jones, who realized how much strong material the group had managed to assemble and essentially pitched the movie’s final concept to his own teammates — and won them over.  

The totality of Jones’ legacy beyond Python — the books, screenplays, television series, editorials and articles and more — is too vast to properly summarize here. Instead, it’s worth remembering that Jones’ contribution to Monty Python’s extraordinary longevity goes far beyond the words of his sketches or the characters he played. He saw their potential from the very earliest days and had the ambition and determination to bring that vision to life, shaping the visual language of television comedy in the process. And he proved an able and far-seeing caretaker, insuring the team retained ownership of their programs (as unheard of then as it is today) as well as complete creative control of any project they undertook. In a sense, it doesn’t matter which Terry Jones moment from Python is your favorite: his stamp is on every one of them.

Radio City With Jon Grayson & Rob Ross:  Episode One Hundred Thirty Five

To get away from what could be seen as “routine” or “scripted”, Jon and Rob decided to do one of their well-received/well-loved improvised episodes, where everyone gets to just listen in to a conversation between two good friends.  Except these two have that little extra pizzazz…  But to be fair, among the subjects that come up are the disaster of the latest “Charlie’s Angels” cinematic incarnation; the most recent (and abhorrent) of the endless Democratic debates, Motley Crue going back on tour (?)(!), plus an outstanding “In Our Heads” and even more.

All it takes is a little of your time and comfort – so come join the “Radio City”-verse and dig…

Radio City With Jon Grayson & Rob Ross:  Episode One Hundred Thirty Five 

The podcast will be on the site as well as for subscription via iTunes and other podcast aggregators. Subscribe and let people know about Radio City, as well as Popdose’s other great podcasts David Medsker’s Dizzy Heights and In:Sound with Michael Parr and Zack Stiegler.

Radio City With Jon Grayson & Rob Ross:  Episode One Hundred Thirty Four

This is one of those “you have to listen!” episodes – this 134th installment of Radio City…  is an uplifting, smart thoughtful conversation that just FLOWS.  Rob and Jon dissect the ever-disappearing print media and the disingenuousness of certain “news” outlets online; a highly powerful discussion on the difference between “nostalgia” and “perspective”; the embarrassing circus atmosphere of the impeachment inquiry in our nation’s capital; two New York Mets win baseball’s top honors; a look at the flat television landscape, a wonderfully left-field “In Our Heads” and even more.

Join the boys; you can hear the good vibes and (frankly) the emotion behind this particular show.  It will definitely warm you up and make you smile.

Radio City With Jon Grayson & Rob Ross:  Episode One Hundred Thirty Four

The podcast will be on the site as well as for subscription via iTunes and other podcast aggregators. Subscribe and let people know about Radio City, as well as Popdose’s other great podcasts David Medsker’s Dizzy Heights and In:Sound with Michael Parr and Zack Stiegler.

The idea for this show came around the same time as the Scotland show. I know that the timing of its release looks gauche, like I’m trying to capitalize on the horrific wildfires that Australia is enduring. I’m not; I’ve had a thing for Australia since I first read “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day.” Then MTV happened, and I wanted to move there. Still do, sometimes.

Huge tip of the cap to my friend Cynthia Wang, who’s lived in Oz for a few years now, and sent me about 50 song suggestions. She said she listened to the rewind stations incessantly to give her a better sense of the culture. The show is exponentially better because of her.

Apologies to AC/DC, Rick Springfield, the Bee Gees, the Jezabels, Michael Carpenter, Jet, Men at Work, Oh Mercy, Taxiride, DMA’s, Goanna (remember them?), Pseudo Echo, my beloved Olivia Newton-John, Jimmy Barnes, and the Church, as they did not make the cut this time. Maybe on Volume II.

Thank you, as always, for listening. We are with you, Australia.

Since the announcement of Neil Peart’s death on January 10, 2020, there’s been an outpouring of tributes, obituaries, and other remembrances of a man who valued his privacy over the trappings of celebrity. Being the drummer and primary lyricist for Rush — a band often called the biggest cult band in the world — came with baggage that Peart probably wished was never there. The zealotry of fans, for one. Being fanatical about a band was not something Peart thought was bizarre or strange. As a teenager, he loved The Who, so he understood the power music and lyrics have on a young person’s ears. Despite his single-minded dedication to rock drumming — often channeling the spirit The Who’s Keith Moon — and his deep admiration for Pete Townshend’s lyrics, he said he could never imagine a scenario where he’d stalk them as a teenager. Even when he had an opportunity to meet Pete Townshend in 2012, Peart kept his cool by mostly talking about how much he enjoyed Townshend’s 1985 short story collection, Horse’s Neck.

To be a slobbering fanboy in front of one of his rock idols was not in Peart’s hard wiring. So, he found it odd and unsettling that his fans often had no sense of boundaries when it came to his privacy — which is probably why he traveled with a security detail during Rush tours. As he wrote in one of his seven books, Roadshow, it gnawed at him that people thought he was a dick because he valued his privacy outside the Rush Machine. How could people who didn’t know him at all think so badly of him? Instead, he summed up his relationship with his fans with a quote ascribed to Humphrey Bogart:  “The only thing I owe the public is a good performance” — which, if you ever saw Rush live, you would know he lived up to that promise every night. Later in his career, he’d remind people that he’s actually a very shy person. Talking about himself or the importance of his work with fans made him feel awkward, uncomfortable and looking for the exits. He added that if you met him in a small town diner somewhere in North America — and had no idea who he was — he’d be incredibly social and talkative. However, the moment when someone does recognize him is the very moment he starts to shut down and put up defenses to protect himself from guys (and it was mostly guys) who would tell him how much this or that song meant to them or wanting to be pals for life. When Peart wrote the lyrics for ‘Limelight” — and most notably the line “I can’t pretend a stranger is a long awaited friend” — it was before the band’s fame and fortune really took off. If he was feeling leery about fanboys in 1980-81, that feeling of dread was certainly far worse after the Moving Pictures Tour made Rush rock stars.

I note the great lengths Peart went to protect his privacy to illustrate another reason why:  the guy loved experiencing the beauty and awe of the world — without feeling like he was the center of it. From the grand, to what some would consider the mundane, Peart’s adventure travels were chronicled in his books. Whether it was cycling through three West African countries with a group, riding over 55,000 miles on his motorcycle after the deaths of his oldest daughter and first wife in the 1990s, his love of snowshoeing, bird watching, cross-country skiing, stamp collecting, hiking, swimming, and reading, it was clear that he found incredible joy and a sense of healing while being an active participant in the world. After he remarried and eventually had a child with his second wife, domestic bliss rarely meant retreating from little and big adventures. In more than one interview, Peart often said that he lived by the motto: “What’s the most excellent thing I can do today?” That, to me, is a guy for whom experiences were an integral part of living a life where — to quote a lyric from “Headlong Flight” — he wouldn’t trade tomorrow for today. 

Much has been made of Peart’s professed atheism — especially after his older daughter Selena and first wife Jackie died in 1997 in and 1998. I used to belong to a couple of Rush online groups during that period, and a good number of fans noted that while they knew Peart was an atheist, they hoped the deaths of his family members would get him to believe in God. Well, that didn’t happen. In “Faithless” he was quite upfront that his own “moral compass…beats a spirit in the sky.” Rather than engaging in polemics, though, he asserted that clinging to hope and believing in love is enough for him. I’ve often wondered what hope meant for Peart. It’s a word that conjures a sense that something will turn out favorable in the end. But there are other interpretations that run deeper than that. I don’t know if Peart ever read anything by Cornel West, but West often says he’s “prisoner of hope.” It’s not hope borne out of optimism, though. Rather, West says that hope is the refusal to succumb to despair and nihilism. Considering the kind of tragedies befall us all in life, sinking into despair and even nihilism are clearly things one wants to avoid if you’re living an engaged existence that celebrates the sheer force of life. Losing family members and friends is something all of us experience. Some of us find solace in religion. Others, even with words and deeds meant to comfort, may fall into despair. Peart certainly felt those things in 1997-98 — and found that only through the motion of travel on a motorcycle could his wounded “baby soul” find comfort among the wonders of the world. And so it was with love. Peart met Carrie Nuttall in 2000 after the band’s photographer (Andrew MacNaughtan) played matchmaker for his widowed friend. The couple married a year later and Nuttall gave birth to their daughter Olivia in 2009. After realizing that he spent little time with his first daughter — partially because of Rush’s relentless touring and recording schedule — Peart vowed not to repeat what he did in the past. Though he was pulled back to work for three more tours and one album (Time Machine in 2010, Clockwork Angels in 2012, and R40 in 2015), he was reluctant to leave his daughter for extended periods of time. So, while Rush calling it quits in 2015 was very sad for fans who had become used to the band being active since their “comeback” record Vapor Trails in 2002, Peart must have felt relief that he was finally free of the itinerant life of a touring musician. 

Alas, those post-music years came with a cancer diagnosis — which Peart kept private right up to his death on January 7, 2020. Most reports say he was battling cancer for 3 ½ years, but The Guardian suggested a longer time frame of five years. Whatever the case, Peart’s retirement probably did not mean he retired from life. Certainly, the aggressive form of cancer he had amplified the limitations of time. It’s that limited time Peart probably took advantage of with his wife, daughter, parents, sisters, brother, and friends — while an invisible countdown clock ticked down. 

How he spent those last years of his life is entirely a private matter. 

Publicly, Peart leaves a number of books that detail his experiences both with Rush and on his own — ironically, often told in a personally revealing manner. However, it’s the music he created with Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson under the band name Rush that will stand as an example of how talent, hard work, chemistry, and artistry led to a unique form of musical excellence in rock music. Those moments are preserved in recordings that can still motivate, inspire, or be a catalyst for just rockin’ out. 

The treasure of a life is a measure of love and respect
The way you live, the gifts that you give
In the fullness of time
It’s the only return that you expect — “The Garden” lyrics by Neil Peart