Terry Teachout, the esteemed theatre critic of the Wall Street Journal has gone full
circle, from Louis Armstrong’s biographer, Pops;
A Life of Louis Armstrong, to playwright, Satchmo at the Waldorf, and now director of his own play on the Dramaworks
stage. His biography is a work of prodigious scholarship and intellect while
the play is clearly written straight from the heart. His professional directorial debut is the
confluence of his intimate knowledge and love of Louis Armstrong and years as a
working critic. How can such erudition
not result in a work of art to stir even the most casual theater-goer?
The play not only moves, but informs. Louis Armstrong, for many in the audience, was
a figure from popular culture, holding a horn more than blowing it, usually
singing a song in his gravelly voice, his handkerchief in hand, an overall good
guy in movies and on TV. Teachout’s work
reclaims not only his jazz genius but documents his rise from lowly beginnings,
so improbable for a poor illegitimate child born to a part-time prostitute in
New Orleans (his baptismal card described him as "niger, illegitimus"),
how he was used by his manager, Joe Glaser, and then reviled by the black
community, as represented by Miles Davis in the play, into the public persona
we all fondly remember. This is a testimony
to his indomitable spirit.
One person plays are difficult. They’re usually retrospective accounts of a
life, with little or no interaction and in this case, a play about a musician
who doesn’t get to perform (other than hearing some brief recordings and a few
bars of a song by the actor). But the
absence of live music doesn’t detract from the story of this great musical icon,
as you will easily suspend disbelief and find that one actor, Barry Shabaka
Henley, successfully captures the essence of these three people, each with a distinctive
“take” on Louis Armstrong. His is a bravura
performance which will leave you a good deal wiser and more emotionally
connected to the great Satchmo.
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Barry Shabaka Henley as Satchmo
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There is of course Louis himself who tells his story in
his own unique vernacular, expletives and all, told directly to the audience or
into his tape recorder in an attempt to capture the story of his life. This is delivered in the dressing room at the
Waldorf, his last gig in 1971, only months before his death. A lighting change announces the arrival of
another character, Joe Glaser, his manager who Armstrong dutifully (and
gratefully) obeyed (to keep him out of harm’s way with the mob) and who made
him the performer we most remember, the happy-go-lucky entertainer. But that is the very personality most
despised by the third character (another change of lights), Miles Davis, who despised
what he viewed as Satchmo’s Uncle Tom demeanor.
Armstrong was comfortable in his own skin, but besieged by these two
opposing elements. It is a testimony to Barry Shabaka Henley that he pulls off
this personality trifecta with such ease, allowing the audience to believe the
unbelievable. This internal tension is
why the drama excels.
There is so much revealed in the play about Armstrong,
much of it contrary to his public image, lovingly written by Teachout,
encapsulating his accepting, optimistic personality on the one hand, and his
bewilderment as to how he was used by his manager, one who had ties and debts
to the mob who upon his death left nothing to the very person who made him
rich. As such the play is as much social
commentary about race (Armstrong wore a Star of David to honor a Jewish couple
who were exceedingly kind to him as a child) as it is about the world of a
black jazz-man’s life during those early years and what it was like to work
hundreds of gigs a year while mobsters controlled many of the clubs. Imagine
playing at hotel venues, not being allowed to stay there or even eat at its
restaurant, having to grab food in the kitchen.
Imagine the hours they endured and the drugs that were ubiquitous (Armstrong
himself was a regular user of marijuana).
Nonetheless, it was a two way street, Glaser transforming
him from a jazz figure to a world class entertainer. Perhaps no one song symbolized that
transition more than Hello Dolly. As Armstrong laments in the play, Now just between you and me, “Dolly” ain’t
much of a song. Tell you the truth, it’s
a piece of shit. Tune kinda go round in circles, words ain’t so hot. But Mr. Glaser, he say, “Louie, you go make
the song,” and I say, “Yes, sir, Mr. Glaser” just like I always do. Got to do what the boss man say. So I cut the record, hit the road, forget
about it. Here the lights change as
Glaser’s character remerges, explaining that Louis was doing a gig somewhere in East Jesus, Wyoming, or some shithole like
that, and the audience was yelling, “Hey, Pops, do that ‘Hello, Dolly!’”… Louis
looks over at the piano player and says “What the fuck are they talking about?” So the piano player tells him they want him
to sing this song he cut in New York a couple of months ago. And get this:
Louie can’t remember it! Can you
believe it? Man cuts a fucking record,
they’re playing it on the radio a hundred times a day, and he still can’t
remember the goddamn thing. But that
ain’t the good part. He asks the guys in
the band if they know how it goes…and none of them can remember it,
either! Musicians. Whatta bunch of knuckleheads. This wonderful dialog faithfully imagines
their relationship and does so throughout the play.
But, then, there is the admonition of Miles Davis. If Armstrong was the black jazz innovator of
the first half of the 20th century, Davis was the leading black jazz
musician of the second half. Although
both were trumpeters, they were as different in their styles of jazz as they
were in their attitudes, Davis being an outspoken social critic. He was partially schooled in classical music
at Juilliard, not on the streets of New Orleans like his predecessor. Armstrong was always sensitive – especially
later in life – as to his standing in the black community. DAVIS:
Ain’t nothing wrong being in business
with no white man, long as you the boss.
But it’s different when the man own everything and tell you where to go
and what to do. That’s bullshit. Plantation bullshit. And that’s the way Joe Glaser treated
Louis. Mobbed-up cocksucker struts
around and says, “Don’t give me no lip or I’ll tell the boys in Chicago to
shoot off your kneecap.” Fuck that. And
that yes-massa shit Louis talks about Mister Glaser this and Mister Glaser that? Fuck that, too. He say, “Oh that Mister Glaser, he just like
my daddy, he’s my best friend in the whole wide world.” Shit. My manager ain’t my friend – he works for
me. He does what I want.
But if anyone got Louis right, it was his mother on her
death bed, her last words recalled by Armstrong: You a good boy. You treat everybody right. Everybody loves you, white and colored, they
all love you ‘cause you gotta good heart.
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| Terry Teachout Opening Night |
This was Teachout’s professional directorial debut. He achieves an impressionistic sensibility,
one that is felt as pure poetry, particularly given the wonderful script and
the heart and soul of a great actor. It was especially revealing to see the
hand of the director through Teachout’s transparent Twitter feeds. As this was a learning experience for him, he
kept his followers informed. One tweet
in particular sums up his approach as a director, “Much of directing is
observing. You search out found objects in the actor's improvisations, then
make the accidental intentional.”
The last production of the show in Chicago starred the
same actor, Barry Shabaka Henley, so he came to his PBD debut well prepared with
his lines, awaiting Teachout’s take on his own play. He had some of his own interpretations, ones
that appealed to Teachout, so he went with the flow.
Indeed, the play broadly succeeds on the astounding
performance of Barry Shabaka Henley, a consummate professional who WILL have
you believe he is Armstrong, Glaser, or Davis. It’s an incredible accomplishment for one
person on stage for about 90 minutes, having to deliver a 13,000 word
monologue, convincingly playing three different characters. He doesn’t have the advantage of having other
actors to feed off (or even to rescue him if he loses his way). The pauses are as important as the words and
their emphasis, and this is where the director and actor worked in close
collaboration.
It takes a team to make a successful play as Teachout
himself acknowledged in his blog article, Putting on the Frosting We long-subscribing and loyal Dramaworks followers know
that this has been the key to making this theatre company one of the best in
the country. It is the constant,
meticulous attention to detail, subtle to the audience as everything on stage seems
to be a moving representation of life itself.
Dramaworks’ technical team takes a great play and helps to make it even better.
Lighting designer Kirk Bookman handles the delicate
lighting changes as Henley segues from one character to another, but making
these changes subtle (other than Davis who has his own unique muted red palette
with a purple backlight), creating a lighting design which helps the audience feel,
not only who’s who or where to look. There are about one hundred lighting cues
in this one person play – it is that important to the production. There is one
point in the play where Armstrong is remembering when the love of his life, his
fourth wife, Lucille, had erected a Christmas tree in their home in
Queens. Armstrong was always on the road
and of course there was no such tree in his childhood. This was his first and he recalls sitting up
all night looking at the lights, Henley bathed in dappled yellow, green, and
red lights, in a heartfelt scene.
Matt Corey’s sound design includes parts of Armstrong’s
beloved songs, either hummed by Henley or heard over Armstrong’s tape recorder,
something he invested in midway through his career at the suggestion of Bing
Crosby (with whom he was friends for many years but was never invited to his
home – a sad commentary). There is one
extended recording of Armstrong’s classic West End Blues, probably the song that established his standing as one of the
great jazz innovators of “swinging and singing.” The music warms the environment and is
evocative of Armstrong’s wide range of musical gifts.
Scenic designer Michael Amico has built a perfect set, creating
multiple focal points – his dressing table, his oxygen tank, the tape recorder
station, a couple of places to sit, so there is always action. The dressing table doubles as Glaser’s
office. Miles Davis appears only stage
left, always in the same spot, kind of a Greek chorus of criticism.
Stage manager James Danford has all the interlocking wheels of these production elements in sync, while
Erin Amico’s costume design places us squarely in the early 1970’s, the time of
this imaginary, but so very real moment near the end of Armstrong’s incredible
career and life.
Teachout said that he approached his first directorial
job as if he was not the playwright.
This objectivity, with the remarkable performance of Barry Shabaka
Henley, freed his inner voice, his passionate hymn to Louis Armstrong, allowing
it to soar. Don’t miss the opportunity
to witness this achievement now at Dramaworks and join in the standing ovation
at the conclusion of the play.
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| From Schleman’s Rhythm on Record (1936) |
