Theatre Review: Rock of Ages
On paper, Rock of Ages (now playing the Bob Carr as part of Farwinds’ Broadway Across America tour) encapsulates everything I despise about the modern Broadway musical. It’s yet another “jukebox” show cobbled together from a couple dozen unrelated “hair metal” radio hits of the Reagan era, a pop-music period I assiduously avoided at the time by retreating into 60′s classic rock. Its got a writer and director I’ve barely heard of, a list of “producers” longer than my arm (you know what they say about too many cooks), and it even stars a former reality-show contestant for chrissake. So how on earth did I exit this poster-boy for the decline of American theater with a big goofy grin on my face?
Welcome back to mid-early-late 1980′s of MTV mythology, when L.A. was still swimming in sleazy strip clubs and Angelyne billboards, and “Dupree’s Bourbon Room” was the hottest dive-bar on the pre-gentrification Sunset Strip (“It smells like rock and urine!”). Lonny (Patrick Lewallen), the club’s self-proclaimed “sound god” and our salacious storyteller, narrates the well-worn tale of a small-town girl (livin’ in a lonely world) and a city boy (born in raised in South Detroit, Michigan) who come to L.A. looking for love and fame. Sherry (Rebecca Faulkenberry) left home to become an actress, but the only auditions she gets feature fellatio; Drew (Constantine Maroulis) could be a rock star if he wasn’t busy sweeping beer barf off the barroom floor. Their nascent wine-cooler-fueled romance goes off the rails when sloshed superstar Stacee Jaxx (MiG Ayessa) shows up and seduces our slutty heroine. There’s also a subplot involving a greedy German developer (Bret Toumi) and his simpering son Franz (Travis Walker), who are threatening to evict hippie-holdover Dennis Dupree (Nick Cordero) and eminent domain his beloved bar out of existence.
In case you haven’t guessed already, the paper-thin plot is just an excuse to patch together a K-Tel collection of pseudo-classic 80′s rock songs, from Quiet Riot’s “Cum on Feel the Noise” and Night Ranger’s “Sister Christian” to Journey‘s omnipresent “Don’t Stop Believing”. A few of the melodies are allowed to develop, but largely they are sliced and diced into medleys that strain mightily to move the story forward. Mostly, the music serves as a backdrop on which to hang every imaginable 80′s music video cliché, from Kelly Devine’s hilariously oversexed (but sharply executed) choreography to Gregory Gale’s pitch-perfect cheesy costumes: black denim and concert T’s for the guys, day-glo hooker-wear for the girls.
I absolutely despised last year’s tour of Xanadu, the 70′s roller-skating show that shares a similar style and tone with Rock of Ages, albeit in different spandex. So why did I give that show the thumbs down, while this one gets (to my great surprise) a grudging green light? For starters, Rock of Ages has singers and musicians who truly rock. At their worst, when recreating a sonic crime against humanity like Starship’s “We Built This City”, they sound like a really great cover band – unfortunately undermined by awful feedback during opening night’s act one – that even outperforms the song’s still-touring originators (I heard them at Epcot, it was painful). At their best, as in orchestrator Ethan Popp’s ensemble arrangement of Poison’s “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” soulfully led Mother (Teresa Stanley), they transform trash into truly moving musical moments.
When the cast isn’t screaming into the microphone, the admittedly-simple story held my attention, and even made me care a little about the two-dimensional characters, thanks largely to Patrick Lewallen’s flamboyantly funny narration; he comes across as a more fey (and less fat) Jack Black. Also credit director Kristin Hanggi for wringing every last drop of wit from Chris D’Arienzo’s scattershot book, which blends copious cock and crap jokes with winking fourth-wall jabs at jazz hands and double-casting. Finally, I have to tip my mullet to former “American Idol” competitor Constantine Maroulis; along with his authentic rocker pipes, he presents such appealingly natural boyish charm that it’s no wonder he was nominated for a Best Actor Tony on Broadway.
Despite what fellow children of the decade might declare, these 80′s artifacts aren’t immortal: there are more truly classic tunes in the first fifteen minutes of Jersey Boys than in this entire show. And I’ll admit I was on the edge of walking out after the overlong first act. But I’m glad I stuck around until the rousing (if ridiculous) finale, which had the whole Bob Carr audience on their feet and waving their glowing cellphones (today’s Zippo substitute). In spite of (or maybe thanks to) it’s undeniable sloppy silliness, if you can check your brain and taste at the door and let out your inner David Coverdale, it’s hard to come out of Rock of Ages not calling for “more cowbell!”
At the Bob Carr through Jan 16, Tickets $48-$81 at broadwayacrossamerica.com
