It Was Worth All the While

So here's the deal. 

Theatres across America are still struggling with the lingering effects of the Great Plague. Dozens of great theatre companies have shut down. Seasons have been reduced, side series have been cut. Staff has been downsized. We have worked very hard to get New Line through this period, and we're gonna make it! But it hasn't been easy.

I was recently talking to my friend Jennifer Ashley Tepper, who writes very cool books about Broadway history and also runs the New York concert venue 54 Below. Jen's programming is outstanding, but the space had to change to a nonprofit because audiences still haven't returned to pre-pandemic levels, so they need to fundraise now to balance their budget.

So before I go any further, let me ask you for action -- make a donation of whatever size you can, to your favorite theatre company, as often as you can. St. Louis has an extremely vibrant and exciting theatre scene, with new companies popping up all the time, and new work everywhere you turn, and shows ranging from very serious to very silly, from intimate to epic, and spanning the history of the art form. We need to support all our local theatres as much as we can. So pick one, two, or three of your favorites and do what you can.

On top of all those challenges, tens of millions of Americans are still suffering from PTSD brought on by the pandemic and everything surrounding it -- the irrational rage over masks, closings, vaccines, etc.

And it was even worse for us artsy types. Some artists are HSPs -- Highly Sensitive Persons. It's a real thing. Researchers are finding that certain people have supercharged sensitivity, not only to physical senses (which makes them picky eaters), but also to pain and to emotions. An article in Psychology Today says:

Highly Sensitive Person, or HSP, is a term coined by psychologist Elaine Aron. According to Aron’s theory, HSPs are a subset of the population who are high in a personality trait known as sensory-processing sensitivity, or SPS. Those with high levels of SPS display increased emotional sensitivity, stronger reactivity to both external and internal stimuli—pain, hunger, light, and noise—and a complex inner life.

It's probably a safe bet that some people become artists because they are HSPs. Making art helps them understand themselves and provides an expressive outlet for those emotions.

In fact, as we work on American Idiot, it occurs to me that some of these characters are probably HSPs and that makes the upside-down post-9/11 world even harder for them to grapple with. It never occurred to me, before the pandemic, that the "national mood" could so powerfully affect an individual's personal mood. But I'm here to tell you, first-hand, it does. I went on anti-depressives for the first time in my life in 2020, and I still need them.

What's going on today is a big part of the story of American Idiot -- what happens to us when we don't trust any of our institutions anymore? Or our fellow citizens? What happens when we feel betrayed by our own government? What happens when we don't believe what we're told?

It's so interesting to return to this brilliant piece of political theatre in this new time of crisis -- just substitute Project 2025 for the reckless decisions to go to war in 2002 and 2003. The original Green Day album American Idiot came out in 2004, and really, in a lot of ways, 2024 is a lot like 2004, but turned up to eleven.

Billie Joe Armstrong was writing specifically about, and in response to, George W. Bush and the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. But we know, from the Fiddler on the Roof rule, that the more specific a story is (in terms of time and place, context, etc.), the easier it is to see the story's universality. It doesn't seem like that would be true, but it is.

We've done a lot of shows where the greatest challenge was to communicate to the actors what specific historical moments felt like, the social and cultural context around the action of the story. For many of our stories, period and context are very important. Most of the stories we tell take place in the 20th century, but I was born in 1964, so many of our stories take place well before my time. Sometimes, the historical moment is within my lifetime, so I can talk about it personally.

I sort of remember the late Sixties, but when we produced Hair the first time (we did it in 2000, 2001, and 2008), I had to do a ton of research, reading, and talking to people to fully understand what the world felt like in 1967, so I could convey that to the actors -- getting the feel right was fundamental to the immense power and ferocious emotions of the show. At first, it shocked us that at every performance, the finale, "The Flesh Failures" and "Let the Sun Shine In," would have the audience sobbing. But after a few performances, we understood.

It was the fullness and authenticity of the world we had recreated that engaged our audience so powerfully. The audience knew that it was real, that it all really happened. We learned that, when the material is respected, Hair is almost unbearably emotional. Because 1967 was.

The same has been true with many of our shows that are set at consequential moments in our history. Grease is set in 1959 because that's the pivot point between the cultural conservatism of the 1950s and the cultural anarchy of the 1960s. Grease shows us America crossing over. The Rocky Horror Show is set in 1973 because that was the peak of the Sexual Revolution, and Rocky Horror shows us how Americans grappled with the Sexual Revolution.

Company is set in 1970 because that's when it became both acceptable and affordable for people to live alone, at least in urban areas. And that "advancement," along with advancements in mobility, communications, and technology, made it easier and easier to not interact directly with people -- not to "connect" with people in any meaningful way. (Today's Information Age has taken that to the extreme.) That's the whole point of Sondheim's brilliantly insightful song, "Another Hundred People."

So many of New Line's shows are like that, where the feel of that time and place mean everything -- shows like Heathers, The Wild Party, I Love My Wife, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, Atomic, Anything Goes, Hands on a Hardbody, Rent, Chicago...

And of course American Idiot.

Billie Joe Armstrong wrote these songs in direct response to George W. Bush and his wars in Afghanistan and Iraq after the 9/11 attacks. When we first did this show in 2016, almost everyone in the cast remembered 9/11, and American troops were still being killed in Afghanistan. The fierce patriotism after the attacks had quickly turned into bitter, nasty partisan politics. Armstrong was reacting to the PTSD so Americans were suffering with, in the only way he knew how, through his art, an album of songs.

Today as we work on American Idiot again, only a few people in our cast can remember 9/11. Many in our cast hadn't even been born. So how do we convey that awful darkness and distrust and anger and apathy and rage?

The good/bad news is, it's not that hard. Because today's national mood is just as ugly. And America has PTSD again. It's one of the reasons we wanted to bring this show back right now. Storytelling is how humans make sense of our world and our selves. We need this particular story right now. We need to work through these dark emotions, both as individuals and as a nation. We need to understand what's happening. We need to understand our response to it. We need to know how we can drive away the dark.

American Idiot's very ambiguous (i.e., very realistic) ending doesn't offer us much concrete help -- except it kinda does. Our story leaves a lot of details dangling, no question. Not much gets wrapped up. But here's the thing -- all three of our heroes return to each other, beaten up by the world (like Matt in The Fantasticks) and they've all grown up a little. None of them requires an epic, adventurous life anymore. Early in the show, Johnny stands in New York City and says, "This is my city." He thinks he belongs here, but he doesn't; this place can't heal him. But then, at the end, back home again with his friends, Johnny says it again, "This is my city." He knows now that he was on the wrong road. The three boys finally realize (or start to realize) that the Answers aren't Somewhere Out There. The answers are inside. 

And that it's okay not to be the most badass rebel punk. These guys are finally starting to become who they are. They learn the lesson of Pippin -- sometimes the most extraordinary act is to accept that you are ordinary.

The last song in American Idiot, "Time of Your Life," the show's epilogue, tries to give us some direction in how to respond to these times -- and how to drive away the rage and sadness. There's no happy ending here, no tidy resolutions, no coupling! This is not a love story; it's a coming of age story. There's growth. And that's enough.

I can't wait to share this unique show with our audiences again! To buy tickets, click here.

Long Live the Musical!
Scott

P.S. To check out my newest musical theatre books, click here.

P.P.S. To donate to New Line Theatre, click here