Arts Review

The Sound of Broadway Music


 

Maleah Joi Moon as “Ali” and the company of Hell’s Kitchen on Broadway. Photo by Marc J. Franklin.

 

 

The courtship between rock music and the Broadway musical has not been a smooth one. For the first half of its golden age (roughly 1920 to 1970), the sound of the American musical was the sound of popular American music: jazzy, melodic, driven by dance rhythms from foxtrot to swing. Songs from Broadway shows filled the airwaves and formed the backbone of what we still call the Great American Songbook. But the youth-driven cultural revolution that bubbled in the ’50s and exploded in the ’60s changed the sound of pop music, bringing together a diverse mix of influences to form what can generically be called rock. The songs on the radio increasingly sounded less like what one heard on a Broadway stage. It was a gradual change, of course: Louis Armstrong could still have a massive hit with “Hello Dolly!” in 1964. But by the time “Send in the Clowns” had a moment of pop glory in the mid-1970s, it was a startling exception.
 
Of course, Broadway never lost the desire to be relevant. At first, it joked about the new sounds that those crazy kids loved, in shows like Bye Bye Birdie. In 1968, Hair was a smash and widely seen as the first true rock musical. But the follow-ups to that epochal hit were mostly disappointing, some downright disastrous (Rockabye Hamlet or Via Galactica, anyone?), and rock musicals struggled to find success well into the 1990s. Many successful shows, like Promises, Promises, Pippin, and the work of Andrew Lloyd Webber, did integrate elements of the pop sound of their time: electronic instruments, driving rhythm, a vocal approach that valued rawness over a “trained” sound. But none of the music in those shows could ever be confused with the true rock music one heard on the radio. It was not until the mid-1990s, with shows like Rent, that rock finally began its inexorable conquest of the musical. Musicians like Elton John and Cyndi Lauper began composing for the stage, jukebox musicals proliferated, and soon any show with a “traditional” score was either a deliberately nostalgic throwback or an exercise in winking silliness (cf. Spamalot and The Book of Mormon). Nowadays, the standard Broadway sound is rock, and the music is as diverse as the category lists on Spotify: rap (Hamilton), europop (Six), indie folk (Waitress and Hadestown), bluegrass (Bright Star).
 
Why did Broadway resist for so long? And why do many of us feel that something has been lost over the years? There are many answers to the first question, of course. Inertia, above all, as well as the taste of dominant producers, directors and composers. But something else was at play: many people felt, and still feel, that rock is not an ideal style for musical storytelling, which is, after all, the primary task of the Broadway musical. Rock music, in most of its many forms, prizes sensation, a generalized expression of a feeling. It is generally built around rhythm, pulsing in a manner that is meant to stir the listener in a physical sense. Songs in musicals have a different function. They define the character singing them in complex ways, individuating the various personages in a story through different musical approaches. In Frank Loesser’s Guys and Dolls, Sky Masterson, Sarah Brown, Nathan Detroit and Miss Adelaide all live in the same narrative, but their individual musical styles are very different, all constructed to reveal and shape their characters. Songs in musicals also often take characters on journeys, changing them over the course of the song. Billy Bigelow is a different person at the end of Carousel’s “Soliloquy” than he is at the beginning, and the lyrics and the music define and propel that change. And musical songs convey important plot information to audiences, literally pushing the story forward.
 
These tasks require melodic and especially harmonic richness, characteristics lacking in most rock music. For example, in a classic musical like Sheldon Harnick and Jerry Bock’s She Loves Me, the harmonies in the songs provide subtext that deepens our understanding of the characters. When the heroine Amalia sings “Will He Like Me?,” the alternating major and minor chords point up the otherwise unspoken desperation that underlies her hopefulness. And in that show’s title song, as the hero Georg awakens to his deeper feelings, the little, charmingly awkward hops in the melody speak to how he feels both exuberant and unsettled. And the fact that those little hops keep going higher and higher eventually pushes him to an unabashed declaration of joy—something that would have been unthinkable in his character beforehand. The music literally changes him.

 

The Cast of The Outsiders. The Church Escape, photo by Matthew Murphy.

 

Rock music has a tough time with that kind of storytelling. It can of course convey extraordinarily powerful emotion, but the expression is usually generic, not specific to a particular character in a particular narrative. This difference also applies to rock lyrics, which tend to focus on direct expression. The lyrical complexity in a song like “The Road You Didn’t Take,” from Stephen Sondheim’s Follies, in which a character argues with himself, presents ideas that he clings to but doesn’t quite believe, and comes to important self-revelations that are driven by the music and lyrics, would be out of place in a rock song. Sondheim uses intricate metrical and rhyme schemes to achieve his narrative objectives. Such goals are irrelevant in most rock music.
 
These are massive generalizations, of course. There are profoundly complex rock songs, full of subtext and harmonic indeterminacy. And there are plenty of show tunes that lack plot and character specificity. And my intention is not at all to privilege one style over another; rather, it is about the suitability of different styles for different purposes. It’s also important to acknowledge that rock music, like show music, is not monolithic. Musical style exists on a continuum. For much of the 1970s and ’80s, a sort of easy-listening “adult contemporary” sound remained hugely popular (think the Carpenters and Debbie Boone), and this music was not that different in sheer sound from much contemporary Broadway. It just wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t built to differentiate character and propel narrative. Nevertheless, certain pop genres are more inimical to narrative ends than others: some indie and folk-influenced music works well in the theater, and those types of scores have generally been more successful than ones which rely on rhythm-driven music like disco or hard rock. Rap, primarily word-driven, has found surprising success on the musical stage. When done well, the poetic complexity of the text makes up for the lack of melodic and harmonic sophistication and serves the essential needs of the stage.

 

Kim Blanck as Ruza Wenclawska and the Suffs Company. Photo by Joan Marcus.

 

Grand exceptions carry on the traditions of the golden age: composers like Jeanine Tesori, Scott Frankel, and David Yazbek write in a way that feels modern but is inherently theatrical, using their music to limn character and recount story in sophisticated ways. Their shows are never blockbusters, but they have found success and garnered followings. But musicals with such scores are dwindling. Of the fifteen new musicals that opened in the 2023–24 Broadway season, only three were written in a “traditional” style, and only one of those is still running: Suffs, a pageant-like depiction of the women’s suffrage movement, which led to the passage of the Nineteenth Amendment. With book, music and lyrics by Shaina Taub, and direction by Leigh Silverman, the show centers on the real-life band of young women who surrounded Alice Paul (played by Taub) and constituted the more radical branch of the movement, putting them in opposition not just with anti-suffragists, but also with mainstream suffragists. The show began at The Public Theater two years ago, where it got a mixed reception. Significant rewriting preceded this production, which opened at the Music Box Theatre in April.

 

Nikki M. James as Ida B. Wells. Photo by Joan Marcus.

 

Paul and her coterie, including firebrand union organizer Ruza Wenclawska (Kim Blanck), charismatic lawyer Inez Milholland (Hannah Cruz), dependable worker Lucy Burns (Ally Bonino), and young writer Doris Stevens (Nadia Dandashi), employ aggressive forms of protest, including hunger strikes, as they try to achieve the goals of a movement that was already decades old by the time they joined. The National American Woman Suffrage Association, led by Carrie Chapman Catt (a superb Jenn Colella), looks askance at Paul’s approach, preferring diplomacy and feminine graciousness. “Let Mother Vote” is their motto, and the title of the show’s delightful opening number. “We’ll keep our country clean,” they sing. “We’ve got the recipe / For well-balanced government / Fresh-baked with decency.” Paul and her group also face challenges from Black women in the movement, who have been marginalized to avoid antagonizing Southern Democrats. Ultimately, Paul does not protest this injustice, a frustrating decision that leads the legendary Ida B. Wells (Nikki M. James, also superb) to ask, in a searing song, why she always must “Wait My Turn.” Suffs is remarkably sophisticated in its depiction of the social, economic and personal complexities of a huge political movement. And its score is marvelous, ranging from stirring anthems to charming duets to the rousing, comedic showstopper, “Great American Bitch,” in which each of Paul’s group reclaims the insult as a badge of honor. The variety of music, and its technical assurance, lets Taub portray a large group of distinct characters and to musicalize their stories in dynamic ways.

 

Suffs Company. Photo by Joan Marcus.

 

Suffs feels a bit presentational at times, as if it’s been written for a school history project. The portrayal of Woodrow Wilson is too goofy; the oaf we see would never have been a serious impediment to the suffragists. But the show’s all-female cast (and orchestra!) are excellent, and the production, while spare, is effective. I found myself unexpectedly moved in the show’s last act, especially its final minutes which leap ahead fifty years. The show is perhaps the first obvious child of Hamilton’s era-defining success: an important moment in American history, told through the lens of modern, identity-based socio-politics, deftly combining earnestness and a contemporary edge. Suffs lacks Hamilton’s overwhelming electricity and its blindingly brilliant lyrics, but it’s a thoroughly entertaining evening at the theater, and promises well for Taub’s future in the form.

 

The Cast of The Outsiders. Grease Got a Hold, photo by Matthew Murphy.

 

The Outsiders, which won the Tony for Best Musical, is based on the beloved young adult novel by S. E. Hinton, a high school staple which tells a coming-of-age story, set in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in the 1960s. The town is racked by teenage strife between the affluent “Socs” and the disadvantaged “Greasers.” With a book by Adam Rapp with Justin Levine and music and lyrics by rock duo Jamestown Revival (Jonathan Clay and Zach Chance), the show has powerful moments, nearly all of which derive from the source story and from the often-effective staging by Danya Taymor and her choreographers, Rick and Jeff Kuperman. But the score is a case study in the ineffectiveness of rock for plot and characterization. The music is of an incessant sameness, with no differentiation between the story’s warring factions, let alone specific characters. Protagonist Ponyboy Curtis (Brody Grant) sounds much like his dreamy friend Johnny Cade (Sky Lakota-Lynch), and they both sound like their preppy antagonist Bob Sheldon (Kevin William Paul). Characters change and grow over the course of the story, but the music does not reflect this. There are certainly songs with memorable licks and a few standout melodies, particularly the song “Great Expectations,” but the harmonic simplicity and rhythmic sameness do a disservice to Hinton’s original invention. And with a few exceptions, the songs don’t linger in the memory.

 

The Cast of The Outsiders. The Rumble, photo by Matthew Murphy

 

That the show still succeeds is a tribute to the strong production, which opened at the Jacobs Theatre in April. Taymor convincingly creates a sense of period, and the milieu never feels too glossy or pretty. Several climactic moments are superbly realized, most especially the rumble, which takes place in a pounding rainstorm. What might have seemed like a West Side Story rip-off is instead something new: a highly stylized, extremely effective stomping dance, with thrilling, jagged lighting by Brian MacDevitt. The cast, led by Grant with a powerful rock-style voice, is full of talented newcomers. Standouts for me were Brent Comer as Ponyboy’s conscientious older brother Darrel and Emma Pittman as Cherry Valance, the beautiful Soc who crosses lines to engage in a forbidden friendship and quasi-romance with Ponyboy. Truth to tell, much of The Outsiders actually is a West Side Story rip-off, especially in its first act. Entire songs are placed and serve the same purpose as their Bernstein/Sondheim counterparts. But Leonard Bernstein’s music gave those characters a nervous, charged interior life, and Sondheim’s lyrics delineated their specific needs and desires. Jamestown Revival’s generic work does not do the same for the new show’s individuals.

 

Maleah Joi Moon as “Ali,” Chris Lee as “Knuck” and the company of Hell’s Kitchen on Broadway. Photo by Marc J. Franklin.

 

Hell’s Kitchen, with music and lyrics by the talented Alicia Keys and a book by Kristoffer Diaz, is a dynamic, beautifully performed show that never really lands, due mainly to a hackneyed scenario and clichéd dialogue. Another coming-of-age story, this time set in the titular neighborhood in New York City during the 1990s, the show is lightly fictionalized autobiography, focusing on teenage Ali (Maleah Joi Moon), a budding songwriter, and her fiercely loving mother (Shoshana Bean). The usual complications ensue: issues with boys, a broken family, the tension between protecting your child and letting her establish her independence, the ineluctable call of the artistic muse. Unfortunately, Hell’s Kitchen, which opened at the Shubert Theatre in April, shows us nothing new, and Keys’s music here, while lively, is not memorable enough to fortify the evening. Moon won a Tony for her leading performance, as did Kecia Lewis for her supporting turn as Miss Liza Jane, Ali’s neighbor and mentor, and both women, along with Bean and the always excellent Brandon Victor Dixon as Ali’s father, wield powerhouse voices and compelling stage chops. You can have a good time at Hell’s Kitchen if you’re not looking for something new and if you’re okay with generic expressions of exuberance and passion. Those looking for something more narratively and psychologically complex will be disappointed.

 

Kecia Lewis as “Miss Liza Jane” and Maleah Joi Moon as “Ali.” Photo by Marc J. Franklin.

 

Narrative and psychological complexity, and character and storytelling specificity, is possible in new works—and the most successful new musical this season delivered on all fronts. This was Illinoise, which began as a limited run at the Park Avenue Armory in March and then quickly transferred to the St. James Theatre in response to rapturous reviews, where it ran through August 10. And, despite my proselytizing for traditional show music, this was a work that succeeded with contemporary pop music—none of which was sung by the characters, and none of which really connected with what plot there was. In truth, Illinoise shouldn’t even be called a musical—at least not as musicals are commonly understood. It is actually a dance theater work, choreographed by Justin Peck to a preexisting 2005 concept album by Sufjan Stevens. Sung by a formidable trio of vocalists, Elijah Lyons, Becca Stevens, and Tasha Viets-Vanlear, standing on platforms at the side of the stage, the songs suggest a loose narrative, which is enacted by a company of dancers who never speak. Broadway has seen similar shows in the past—most obviously the 2002 Twyla Tharp work Movin’ Out, which was set to Billy Joel music. Like that work, Illinoise is a powerful, intensely emotional creation. It doesn’t operate like a traditional musical—the songs don’t delineate plot and character. Instead, those functions are taken by Peck’s intricate, constant dance. The music, meanwhile, acts as a frame, a structuring atmosphere.
 
The first half of the show consists of a series of character vignettes, told by a group of friends who have met around a campfire in a small town in Illinois. Gradually, one of the characters, Henry (Ricky Ubeda), emerges as a point of focus, and the plot coalesces around his childhood crush Carl (Ben Cook), their friend Shelby (Gaby Diaz), and his eventual relocation to New York City, where he meets and falls in love with Douglas (Ahmad Simmons). Love and tragedy play out in a series of dances that have real narrative cohesion, and with surprising quirkiness and personality that avoids cliché, thanks to the scenario created for this show by playwright Jackie Sibblies Drury. Illinoise exquisitely captures the intense emotions and passionately thorny friendships of late adolescence, as well as the mix of elation and fear that characterize early adulthood. And it does so with richly specific psychology, creating a set of memorable characters, each of whom move in ways that tell us everything we need to know about them. Peck’s work for the theater has been erratic in the past, but here his staging is masterful, abetted by brilliant lighting by Brandon Stirling Baker and an effective set by Adam Rigg.
 
Art must evolve. The Broadway musical is now irrevocably a home for the popular music of today—an inevitability if it wanted to remain popular and current. The challenge of finding a way for that music to be theatrical, to embody character and story, has not generally been solved, but smart composers and writers will find that way. And meanwhile, artists like Peck will create works in the great tradition that break all the old rules, that redefine the very definition of the genre, all in the name of moving and stirring audiences. It is, perhaps, this breaking of the rules that will point the way forward.