SPT conjures a spirit of fun

by Vicki Krajewski

SPT Theatre - An Elizabethan couple chatters away as several long-haired hippies squint behind pink-tinted John Lennon glasses. Meanwhile, a half-hearted vampire scans the crowd for fresh blood while a lonely Goth with a face full of piercings ponders volunteering to be the next meal. Heads turn when a masked Michael Jackson enters accompanied by a girlish devil — and this all happens offstage before the show begins.

Last weekend—yes, Halloween weekend — SPT Theatre offered the latest installment of their Tales from the Writer’s Room series entitled, Dead Moose on the Table, and the entertainment provided was as eclectic as the characters in the audience.

The program explained that the evening’s host was “Edgar Adam Woe” (Adam Witte), though this most fascinating emcee was not much developed as a character (which is a shame because he seemed like an amiable chap). Instead, he simply appeared on stage periodically with a leather-bound volume and, without comment, read pieces of Poe’s spellbinding works, beginning with The Conqueror Worm.

Upon first hearing this poem, I thought that the writers modified it, but then I realized that this selection was just that keen of a match for the occasion. Mr. Woe began:

Lo! 't is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years.
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

The poem ended by explaining that, “the play is the tragedy, ‘Man,’/and its hero, the Conqueror Worm.” In the way that this piece directly addressed the audience and acknowledged that we were watching a play, this opening was almost Shakespearean, reminiscent of Puck’s moment at the end of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, only this was more of a mid-fall evening’s musings. I’d say nightmare, but even though SPT chose a slightly ominous theme and performed on Halloween weekend, their approach to their subject matter remained consistently Puck-like: playful and never too serious, as evidenced by what happened after Woe finished reading the introductory poem. He slammed shut the book and dramatically, yet very properly proclaimed, “Oh mama, I’m in fear for my life from the long arm of the law,” at which point, the band leapt in with their pulsing version of the song, Renegade, which begins with those lyrics.

You can find good, live music in the Corridor area. And you can find good, live theatre, too. But it is rare to find these two things together in the Corridor, or anywhere, and that is one of the special things about SPT. Their music and theatre goes together like so much chocolate and peanut butter, only without the guilt or potential for triggering nut allergies. How everything works so well is something of a mystery, however, because the musicians and vocalists are as eclectic and individual as is the range of scenes, stories and characters typical of an SPT show. Their styles run from lounge-like to bluesy to folk-rock, but, somehow, their voices blend wonderfully. They all demonstrate an ability to balance their contributions to the music, shining in solo moments, and never stealing focus by overplaying or over-singing harmonies. Two reasons I was looking forward to seeing another SPT show were Janelle Lauer’s rich, textured vocals and Bill Heller’s sensitive and interesting song choices. I was not disappointed on either count. This time, though, Greg Kanz also busted out his mad skills in a furious drum solo. The band was creatively lit with multi-colored spots that danced to the music, creating the feel of a miniature (but still bonafide) rock concert. As evidence of this, I offer the following observed behavior: the audience not only clapped, but whooped and hollered after most of the numbers. By the end of the show, I found myself among the whoopers, having uncontrollably abandoned any pretense of my cold, impartial reviewer persona. I felt like a food critic in a fine restaurant with crumbs all over my face, loudly exclaiming, “Mmmmmmmmmmm! Can I kiss the chef?” But I digress.

For the next two or so hours, these sonic treats were woven in-between comical sketches about the grim reaper as convenience store employee, storytelling-type monologues about childhood fears, more readings of Poe, and scenes covering topics ranging from the hazards of drunk dialing to the “real” story behind Grant Wood’s famous “American Gothic.” With few exceptions, the actors commanded the stage and created engaging situations and characters.

A particularly gut-busting sketch was recurring character Professor Peter Pizzle’s plenary address at the American Paper and Pulp Conference entitled, Up from the Cob, which was a lengthy and well-researched academic treatise focused mainly on the virtues of folding versus wadding one’s toilet paper. As Pizzle, Jason Alberty pulled off a perfect intellectual, pompous deadpan while explaining how toilet papering habits connect to personality. FDR, for instance, was a “folder,” while Stalin, he sneered, was a “wadder.” Waxing philosophical, he liberally quoted Robespierre and Nietzsche on the topic as the sketch reached for the heights of absurdity.

“What does toilet paper have to do with Halloween or Edgar Allen Poe or an expired moose?” you may ask. Not much, as far as I could tell, but it was so funny that it didn’t matter. One of the charms of SPT’s approach is that they aren’t heavy-handed or overly literal. For their Writer’s Room scenes and stories, they’ve been choosing loose themes, but then following their ideas down divergent paths, if that’s where they’ve led. The same is true of the song selections. Some pieces, like Frankenstein and Witchy Woman, very clearly connected to the theme or the sketch they followed, while other pieces just sounded great or gave the band a chance to showcase a particular, talented individual. Because you’re not beaten over the head by a one-dimensional idea, it’s easier to let your mind wander and engage yourself in finding connections between the disparate flurry of scenes, characters, and songs. So while everyone was having great fun, the evening as a whole was busy adding up to a sort of meditation around fear. How is it part of the human experience? How do individuals experience it differently—and in the same way? What is at the root of it?

Nowhere was this more evident than when Woe’s reading of The Raven was followed by Janelle Lauer’s rendition of Hurt, the pained song’s refrain repeating itself:

What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end

The Raven is one of the first pieces of literature that I was exposed to—before I could even read by myself. I remember sitting on our basement couch in pink cotton pajamas while my father cracked a book and read it to me. I remember being struck by the spell that words could cast. I remember, even at that age, knowing that this poem was “scary.” But at that time my fear arose from the dark and foreboding imagery, and from the ominous tones of my father’s voice. Fear, at a young age, is made concrete, given form: there is a monster in the closet, there is a phantom in the dark. But even then, what we are actually afraid of is not the monster or the phantom, but the possibility that they might hurt us.

We are all, from a very early age, simply afraid of getting hurt. And that is so often the "Dead Moose on the Table;" the reason we do the crazy, irrational or even hurtful, defensive things we do; the one thing we try to protect ourselves from; the primal fear we flirt with and try to turn upside down on Halloween. The drive to avoid pain, whether physical or psychic, is something that unites all of us.

Listening again to The Raven as an adult, I understood the narrator’s darkness anew. This is a poem about our deepest, most central fear: the irreversible and inevitable pain of death and loss. “Everyone I know/Goes away in the end,” Woe repeated after Lauer’s song ended, and I could smell the dead moose on the table.

Then I thought, “Hey, how did I get from laughing about bum wiping to pondering the nature of human existence inside half and hour? Should I be upset by this dramatic change in tone?” But I wasn’t upset, because, before I knew it, a new scene unfolded and we were watching something that felt like a fairy tale, or a Jungian dream. When SPT tackles a theme, they include the kitchen sink, the yin and the yang, the long and the short. And it’s fun to not know what’s coming next and to be constantly surprised.

Of course, it wasn’t a perfect show. There was a wigged out doorbell and some awkwardly fumbled lines. Some scenes were stronger than others. One or two felt a little too short or undeveloped. However, none of these minor flaws stopped the performers from quickly recovering and jumping right back into the moment.

Unfortunately, I can’t recommend you go see this show, as there were only two performances. It is a testament to these artists’ creativity that instead of using the same material for a long run of performances, they present their work, and then move on to a new project—which is exactly what they’re doing now. So, while the Dead Moose has been laid to rest, you can plan to attend the next installment of Tales from the Writer’s Room, which is called Bless Your Heart and will be performed February 12th and 13th. This is no trick; it’s sure to be a treat.

Check out the rest of SPT’s season, or even buy their first CD here.

Vicki Krajewski has acted and directed with theatre companies in Chicago and Iowa including the Prairie Center for the Arts, Sandcastle Productions, Dreamwell, Catalyst, Iowa City Community Theatre and City Circle. Several of her short plays and monologues have been produced in Iowa City and Cedar Rapids. Along with her performance pieces, she does occasional newspaper reporting, freelance feature writing, technical writing, personal essays and even some poetry.