The Magic of Motown Lacks Versimilitude

 

The Magic of Motown

Academy of Music 

June 22, 2024  

 

 

Back when we both did freelance work at a local arts paper a friend and I had a friendly debate over how to judge a performance. He was always more charitable, so I accepted his assertion that it wasn't fair to hold novices to the same standards as seasoned pros. In essence, you shouldn't review a community theater production the same way you would a Broadway cast doing the same show. 

 

Back then we had an A/B slant on things, but I wonder if maybe we sliced that too neatly. Is there anything between an amateur and a professional? This thought occurred when I saw a stage show titled The Magic of Motown. It had some wonderful highs but also several lows. 

 

It's a great idea to honor Motown. In 1959 Berry Gordy opened a studio in Detroit soon dubbed Hitsville U.S.A. If you didn't live through the 1960s it's almost impossible to explain how much Motown and rivals like Stax meant to young people. At a tense moment in time, Motown bridged the gap between black and white kids better than any demonstration, manifesto, or politician. Gordy had a genius for spotting and cultivating talent.   

 

At the beginning of the 60s the early promise of rock had stalled. There was always great music to be found in city subcultures, but if the radio was your doorway to the world the airwaves didn't sizzle, they recycled–crooners, teenybopper death ballads, doo wop, over-the-top fading celebrities, and an endless parade of “girl groups.” (That was actually the term!) Were it not for Dylan, The Beatles, and Motown I don't know how we would have made it to acid rock and the Summer of Love. 

 

Motown wasn't good; it was spectacular! Gordy recorded one sensation after another: The Supremes, Aretha Franklin, The Temptations, The Four Tops, Martha and the Vandellas, Gladys Knight and the Pips, Stevie Wonder, Smokey Robinson, and many others. 

 

As for The Magic of Motown, pros or amateurs? Aye, there's the rub. What is it if a show costs half as much as what you'd pay to see a 1A  act? How do we classify a cast that is somewhere between cosplay and a tribute band? The Magic of Motown show was also running on the cheap. There was supposed to be a six-piece band but, depending on tells it, illness forced it to cancel or there was a dispute in the ranks. There were supposed to be 18 singers, but only half that many were in attendance. Nonetheless, some of the ticket prices hit three figures. 

 

 Most of the performances–despite occasional technical glitches–were fine, but the overall effect was that of a group of impersonators trying to make us think they were channeling the past. That's pretty difficult to do with pictures on the Real Deals projected on a massive screen behind them. I'd listen to any one of the show performers sing, but don't ask me to believe that the beefy woman with bad white eye shadow is comparable to Aretha. (Who could be?) And for heaven's sake don't try to pass off a boa-wearing giggling granddaughter as Diana Ross or ask me to imagine that the same singers were Stevie Wonder, David Ruffin, Marvin Gaye, and Al Green. Ironically, a highlight was when the same granddaughter did a dead-on impersonation of Michael Jackson from his “ABC” days with The Jackson 5. That choreography was crisp and energetic . 

 

As the night wore on, I got the sense that the cast was valiantly donning one costume after another and soldering on, but knew they were treading water. The audience was polite and several were wildly enthusiastic, but the latter fell short of what I'm accustomed to seeing at the venue. I wonder if everyone would have felt better had they paid half as much. I worked the show and paid nothing, but my brightest spot was playing some old Motown at home.

 

If Magic of Motown has a reboot, a good starting point would be to keep the biggest icons on their pedestals. To paraphrase an old Motown hit, there ain't no mountain high enough to inhabit the talents of Diana Ross, Aretha, Smokey Robinson, or The Temptations. We’re talking diva, the Queen of Soul, the premier male group of the era, and a singer whose voice was like being massaged with velvet. It’s fine to call the show an “interpretation,” a “remembrance,” or a “cover,” but don’t try to step into the skins of giants.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

 

Easy Summer Reads: Robert Parker

 

 

I noticed that most of the books on the summer bestseller list are romances. I didn't take them seriously when Janice Radway told us we should in 1984, and I don't take them seriously now even though they have their own academic journal. Occasionally I read one just to see if they're still mindless pap. They are.

 

Yet, it would be churlish to tell anyone they should read serious literature instead. I'm happy when someone actually reads a book of any sort in the age of Dumbing Down America. Plus, I love mysteries and detective novels that a lot of literary snobs would call pap. They might be right, but I’d much rather read Tana French or Louise Penny than James Joyce or Jane Austen.

 

Plus, it's beach time and who wants to get sand in their first edition of Dickens? Read a romance if that's your thing. If not, perhaps you'd like to try some of Robert Parker’s Spenser series. Where to start if you’re a newbie? Parker penned 39 of them before his death in 2010. If you’re not a completist you might be tempted to read whatever comes your way. That's not the best strategy because the characters evolve and you’ll be dazed and confused.

 

It makes more sense to sample Parker by decades to get a handle on things. Confession: I'm not overly fond of his novels from the 1970s. The ‘70s were a tacky decade to live through–doubt knit, wide ties and trousers, bad hair, stack-heeled shoes, gas guzzlers, stagflation, and disco–so why relive it? The best reason is to learn about key players who appear in better novels from the 1980s on.

 

The Spenser novels are like Star Trek: character-driven. Plotting was never Parker’s forte, which is why he could crank ‘em out. Many of the stories are formulaic and involve improbable resolutions, but the fun comes from seeing how the characters grow, laughing at the wisecracks, and marveling over how such a macho guy is remarkably sensitive about race and gender. He’s stuck on himself, as prone to violence as you’d expect an ex-boxer to be, and eats and drinks like a starved hog, but he’s also surprisingly erudite and settles into being a one-woman guy. Once you learn about his inner circle–Susan Silverman, his lover; Hawk, his African American friend who marches to his own drummer; and law enforcement allies Healy, Belson, and Quirk, it scarcely matters if you lose a Parker on the beach; you can just grab 

 another book. 

 

 

For the 1970s, I suggest starting with God Save the Child (1974), the book in which he meets Susan. She’s a high school guidance counselor in this one, though she’ll soon climb up the psychology ladder. She’s also a semi-liberated woman, but that too will change. Hawk is present, though he’s not yet Spenser’s partner in crime. That’s the correct term. As a private investigator Spenser gets results because he bends, breaks, and ignores rules. (Hawk never bothered with them in the first place.)

 

The plot centers on the dysfunctional Bartlett family: Roger, a rough-around-the-edges construction contractor; Margery, a bored housewife who fancies herself a “creative person;” and their identity-confused son Kevin. The latter goes missing and Spenser has to sort through everything from an obnoxious local cop, serving as the insufferable Margery’s bodyguard, being threatened by a body builder, visiting a gay bar, psychobabble, a possible kidnapping, extortion, and a dead lawyer. Read it for background, but for heaven’s sake don’t stop there as far better novels lie ahead. If you want more from the 1970s, Mortal Stakes (1975) is pretty decent and involves the Red Sox.  If you missed, the link will take you to an earlier review. 

 

Once you’re grounded, jump to Ceremony (1982). By then, Spenser and Susan are joined at the pelvis and Hawk is integral to the series. You’ll meet April Kyle who appears in two future novels. Her father wants Spenser to find her, as he’s furious that she’s working as a prostitute. You will learn that Spenser seldom sees himself as a save-the-world social worker. He will cut deals with organized crime figures as long as they keep their word and reckons it’s nobody’s business if a person’s chosen life offends moralists or busybodies.

 

As it transpires, April might indeed be in jeopardy. Ceremony takes us inside a very seedy world of non-consensual pornography and dangers on the street. It takes place in various Massachusetts locales, Boston’s Combat Zone, Rhode Island, and New York City. In the latter you will meet Patricia Utley, the madam of a high-class stable of prostitutes. She’s another person who reappears later. Ceremony has real grit to it to go with the wisecracks. Plus, who can resist the prescience of having a street pimp who calls himself “Trumps?”

 

Those three will get you started and I’ll post a few more suggestions in future columns.

 

Rob Weir