Review of Born with the Blues Mayhem Cabaret Productions. Theatreworks.
There is something mystical and dangerous about the blues: its connection with voodoo, myths about midnight pacts with the devil at the crossroads, and its sad roots in the suffering of slavery. Born with the Blues set out to recreate the journey of the blues from its African origins, through the electrified blues of Chicago, to its influence on rock ’n roll.
Ushers greeted us at the door dressed in Stetson hats and old fashion suits. Inside the theatre, tables were arranged at the front of the stage giving the place a juke joint atmosphere. A large rocking chair on the stage created a ‘down home’ southern feel like we were sitting on a porch. The scene was set for an authentic rediscovery of the mournful, seething, sultry sounds of the blues. We needed a bit of warming up after braving the icy Melbourne Winter weather to get to the theatre.
The show started superbly with a traditional South African folk song, the chanting and rhythms later forming the basis for the delta blues style. This was followed by a rousing work song with performers dressed in authentic 1920s costumes. They shouted and wailed in a call and response manner, one of the techniques still used by blues performers. They simulated the sounds of a chain gang by beating the ground with sticks, conveying the monotony and sorrow of their situation with heavy wooden thumps.
At that point I was whoopin’ and hollerin’ and praisin’ the lord. Their mojo was workin’. Then the commentary began. It was crude and uninformative, laced with awful ‘whitey’ jokes. ‘There’s no African in my genes although I’d like to rectify that.’ Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse the comedy act appeared, a supposedly blind black musician with a bad southern accent telling more ‘whitey’ jokes. He, unfortunately, later resurfaced as a cocky Chicago blues singer.
The show was saved, Hallelujah, by two African spirituals sung by ten performers, harmonizing beautifully. One of the songs included a vocal solo by an extremely talented young woman reminiscent of a young Renee Geyer. Her voice showed a mature and soulful quality well beyond her age.
While I understand the company was aspiring towards a vaudevillian style show, in my opinion there is no place for interpretive dance in an exploration of the blues. Nevertheless, the dancing set to a harmonica solo was impressive. Little Walter would be turning in his grave.
The show also included an excellent finger picking acoustic guitar blues number, some bottleneck slide guitar and an electrified blues played in the Chicago style. It finished with a performance of Elvis Presley’s Hound Dog, a pretty unimaginative choice.
With the plethora of musical talent obviously possessed by the company, I felt they should have concentrated more on representing the progression of the music and skipped the shallow commentary and cringe worthy comedy.
Ushers greeted us at the door dressed in Stetson hats and old fashion suits. Inside the theatre, tables were arranged at the front of the stage giving the place a juke joint atmosphere. A large rocking chair on the stage created a ‘down home’ southern feel like we were sitting on a porch. The scene was set for an authentic rediscovery of the mournful, seething, sultry sounds of the blues. We needed a bit of warming up after braving the icy Melbourne Winter weather to get to the theatre.
The show started superbly with a traditional South African folk song, the chanting and rhythms later forming the basis for the delta blues style. This was followed by a rousing work song with performers dressed in authentic 1920s costumes. They shouted and wailed in a call and response manner, one of the techniques still used by blues performers. They simulated the sounds of a chain gang by beating the ground with sticks, conveying the monotony and sorrow of their situation with heavy wooden thumps.
At that point I was whoopin’ and hollerin’ and praisin’ the lord. Their mojo was workin’. Then the commentary began. It was crude and uninformative, laced with awful ‘whitey’ jokes. ‘There’s no African in my genes although I’d like to rectify that.’ Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse the comedy act appeared, a supposedly blind black musician with a bad southern accent telling more ‘whitey’ jokes. He, unfortunately, later resurfaced as a cocky Chicago blues singer.
The show was saved, Hallelujah, by two African spirituals sung by ten performers, harmonizing beautifully. One of the songs included a vocal solo by an extremely talented young woman reminiscent of a young Renee Geyer. Her voice showed a mature and soulful quality well beyond her age.
While I understand the company was aspiring towards a vaudevillian style show, in my opinion there is no place for interpretive dance in an exploration of the blues. Nevertheless, the dancing set to a harmonica solo was impressive. Little Walter would be turning in his grave.
The show also included an excellent finger picking acoustic guitar blues number, some bottleneck slide guitar and an electrified blues played in the Chicago style. It finished with a performance of Elvis Presley’s Hound Dog, a pretty unimaginative choice.
With the plethora of musical talent obviously possessed by the company, I felt they should have concentrated more on representing the progression of the music and skipped the shallow commentary and cringe worthy comedy.
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