Joanna took us to see Hair on Broadway. I wasn’t expecting the world. I was expecting cheesy stage actors to strip out of their bell bottoms and belt Aquarius.
But then I was moved. It’s allowed, isn’t it? The show itself has aged, but the sick sense of an ongoing war, the death of our once mighty economy, and the growth of the hairy Williamsburg hipsterdom have suddenly thrusted Hair into a bizarre and timely relevance.
And after, as the soapy snow flaked down from onto the cast, as the draftcard props burned in their dry ice kilns, and the audience writhed on stage with the tribe, I imagine we all felt a bit cleansed by it all, by some sad rebirth of the counter-culture love rock activism of it all that we so desperately wanted to reenact…
Flesh Failures / Let the Sunshine In