by Gerome Ragni & James Rado
Directed by Diane Paulus
At the Al Hirschfeld Theatre
New York
Open Run

   Over forty years after its Broadway debut as an American Tribal Love-Rock musical, Hair allows us to see just why it was such a daring, innovative form in musical theatre. Sure, this ground-breaking, non-linear musical came out of a different time and space: things in headline news have changed since those heady, drugged out, drop-out days, but they haven’t changed that much. Instead of the Vietnam War—that unconscionable slaughter-house for a generation—there’s Iraq and Afghanistan, so do I hear “quagmire” trembling out of that long tunnel at the end of which that light seems to be a mere rumour? There’s also sex, drugs, and the Culture Wars that give many Republicans their special loony animus to re-fight the War of Independence, the Civil War, two World Wars and counting, and umpteen attempts to carry the Constitution back to old virginity. And then there’s Obama, their favourite bete noir, with the emphasis on both beast and black. So, the more things change in America, the more they seem to stay the same. Good reason, it seems to me, to revive a spirit of communalism (not Communism) against the multiple manifestations of discrimination, racism, war, violence, sexual repression, and other evils that seem to pass on from generation to generation. And Hair has just the right “gaudy plumage” with which to attract attention, grab the theatre headlines, and absolutely shimmer for countless masses who don’t mind a bit that it has very little plot, a semi-abstract set, plenty of four-letter words, incantations, drugs, explicit sexual imagery, music that doesn’t follow your great-grandfather’s rules and is really loud and orgiastic at many moments, lyrics that don’t rhyme for the most part, and a forward drive that revels in its ability to flaunt its perversities.

   Praise be to Gerome Ragni and James Rado who composed the original libretto and lyrics. Praise be to Galt MacDermot who composed the music. But equal praise, perhaps, to Diane Paulus for taking the musical by its lovely locks and shaking off the dust of ages to reveal their real lustre.  Her production, that began life at the Delacorte Theater in Central Park before making its way to Broadway, has rearranged the material, added to the lyrics, updating them with some contemporary references, and ensuring that the story (such as there is one) of Claude (the young immigrant Englishman who becomes a victim of his parents’ and society’s brainwashing) is a strong strand in a wonderful weaving of themes. With its intense looseness—that is more an illusion than fact—Ms. Paulus’ production reminds us that Hair is a “happening” rather than a conventional play. Hippies are old-fashioned relics now—just as Beatniks are—but their spontaneous, freewheeling freedom, the immediacy of their concerns, the stinging criticism of society that they articulated, and their beliefs in free love and life are not without contemporary appeal. The “ocean of reality” in Hair is love—not a touch-feely kind of creepy love, but a love for counter-culture and the tribe of mankind. Waves of love lap the audience before the show actually begins as characters from the cast mingle with the crowd, indulging in warm repartee, before gathering on stage as Sasha Allen launches into “Aquarius,” the tune that became a hit single all its own in the early days of the first production. The melody and lyrics bathe the auditorium with benign phosphorescence, and from there, everything is a trip into a special universe, rife with anomalies, often an unweeded garden but sometimes fretted with golden fire. I echo Hamlet, of course, and one of his monologues is, indeed, turned into a song for Claude, that Gavin Creel makes a splendid highlight (“What a piece of work is man”).

   Tribe and music: these are two of the strongest driving forces. Ms. Paulus’ large cast seems born for the special temper of her show. Michael MacDonald has costumed them in the iconic manner of the sixties, with dyed cottons, denims, wools, and fringed leathers, and Kevin Adams has cast gaudy glows on their euphoria. The tribe in Hair is a motley collection of anomalies: some sweet, some benign; others bitter or acid. They represent youth, of course, but more than this, they represent a creed. I would have said “philosophy,” but that word implies an articulated system, at once coherent, precise, ramified, and deep. The trouble with so much of the sixties and early seventies generations was their fuzzy thinking that produced a wild, woolly, wanton exaggeration of simple ideas. Those youth were right, of course, about the Vietnam War—as they were to protest other societal ills, but what they offered in return seemed simplistic and often meretricious. However, in the long shadow of time, they now seem prescient in their protest and polemical motive. What this tribe wants, above all, is celebration—not knotty discourse—and it achieves this splendidly. The ensemble has enviable presence, but there are standouts. Will Swenson’s Berger is given to overly-persistent drug-induced euphoria, but he has terrific colour and force. Paris Remillard’s Woof (an understudy for Bryce Ryness) is appropriately inchoate, though his Mick Jagger mimicry needs improvement. The Crissy at the performance I attended was Kaitlyn Kiyan (subbing for Allison Case), who was full of sweet yearning in “Frank Mills.” Megan Lawrence and Andrew Kober as Mom and Dad have a sharp sense of satire, and when Kober gets into a dress, he is funnier than ever. But the most sensitive performance (aided, no doubt, by the libretto) is Gavin Creel’s Claude that turns ambivalence into a poignant existential experience.

   One of the special surprises is the richness of the score. Hair is not just a rock musical; it is a clever, dynamic pastiche of various musical styles and tempi. “Donna” has almost a jive tempo and quality; “I Believe in Love” has a spiritual sound; “Hare Krishna” is pure incantation; “Don’t Put It Down” could be hillbilly; “Electric Blues” is set to a rock beat; while “Easy To Be Hard” (beautifully sung by Cassie Levy) is a marvelous rhythm and blues number. Some numbers are as fast as electricity (“Three-Five-Zero-Zero”), and at least one deconstructs itself intriguingly (the end of “Ain’t Got No”). The songs don’t always end in a traditional way. Sometimes they just stop, and at other times they segue immediately into another number. A minuet or do-wop will suddenly crop up or parody will unexpectedly pop up in an orgiastic chorale. Irony is often built into a song’s structure and sound, so there isn’t a single number that does not serve a point or theme either directly or obliquely.

   Scott Pask’s exposed brick-wall set has minimal dressing, and that is probably how it should be in this case. The musicians are clearly visible—also as they should be—as they let the music flood the auditorium with exuberant sensuousness. They, as much as the cast, seem to be hormonally charged to the nth degree. Their love for the music and the cast’s love for singing it quickly become infectious. Rarely have I seen an audience so enraptured. If nostalgia plays into the equation, what’s wrong with that? But I suspect that genius has more to do with defining and charging this show than nostalgia.

photos; Joan Marcus

pic 1: Sasha Allen and the cast.

pic 2: Gavin Creel (Claude) and Will Swenson (Berger) and ensemble

pic 3: Will Swenson (Berger) and the cast


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