My appreciation for musicals about matches my affection for dogs; I hate them! Don’t misunderstand me, as I love music of almost any other stripe. 

Growing up in the “Swinging Sixties” in London assured me of an early and prolonged exposure, not just to pop music and the Beatles but Ska, the precursor to Reggae, and Blues as imported in the early days by The Rolling Stones from the depths of New Orleans and Chicago. My twin brother and I used to go to a working-men’s club (read – cheap beer and cigarettes) on a Thursday evening to watch new bands come along and jam for the practice and tips in a jar at the edge of a miniscule stage. The list was impressive; The Stones, The Who, Dave Clark and The Yardbirds (who included Eric Clapton in those days). They all went on to greater things.  “Music Appreciation” was a compulsory subject at school and provided an introduction to some (light) classical music, with fascinating insights provided by Percy Taylor, our music teacher and choirmaster.

Moving to America – to Music City USA, having had no idea that Nashville was the home of Country Music, we were plunged into the middle of it with the connections of the previous owner of the Nashville Auto Auction, Eddie Arnold being one of his best friends. So over the years I’ve accepted most forms of music. But not musicals. I was recently dragged kicking and screaming to a regional production of “Chicago” only on the premise of spending some social time with our splendid neighbors, for whom I would walk on fire! Come to think of it, that would have been less painful! 

I know that the skills of the cast were unquestioned, all very talented folks at what they do. It’s just that I can’t warm to what they do! There were some comedic interludes but they did nothing to enhance my experience including imitations of a Screech Owl and caterwauling duets in competition with one another. Some respite was provided by the intermission, when I dulled my senses with ‘a couple of large ones’.

Dinner afterwards with the neighbors did, however, make up for the ordeal – any time spent with them is easy-going social intercourse, with humor being the common factor. This wasn’t a one-off situation – Terry and I were invited years ago, to a performance of “Wicked” in New York City and dare I say it was, for me anyway, an excruciating percussion of crescendos and solos, more pleasing to the players than the audience. We looked forward to the reward; dinner at Bobby Flay’s Bar Americaine which turned out to be equally disastrous.

The wait for drinks, let alone the food, was interminable and the food, when it finally arrived at intervals instead of all together, was inedible and I spent a visit to the bathroom like a Roman in a vomitorium! On this occasion, I didn’t return for more. Seriously, there are better ways to share social time than to go to a musical – a flogging perhaps or being dragged naked through a hedge backwards! Next time, I’ll yank my fingernails out with a pair of pliers after having scraped them down a blackboard for entertainment.

In fairness, the only musical I really enjoyed was “Cats”, seen in London in the ‘70s, enjoying front row seats (a wait of 8 months to obtain tickets) with a revolving stage.

The actors, dressed as cats, crawled over the audience in pitch black darkness except for the twinkling of their illuminated eyes, at the beginning of Act 1. 

Now that’s entertainment!