Edges is a new cabaret song cycle (from where on earth do these hybridized descriptors hail), by Benj Pasek & Justin Paul, precocious young composers that won the 2007 Jonathon Larson Award. Not bad. If you're still young enough to remember a rough initiation into adulthood commonly referred to as adolescence, teenagehood, or coming-of-age, you'll probably relate strongly to the material that comprises Edges: an up-close-and personal portrayal of the the journeys of four troubled youths and their attendant trials and tribs: struggles to love, grow & individuate. But while Edges presents an undeniably robust set of songs, a possible reason for its hesitation to tout itself as a musical becomes evident: it lacks connection between the songs, narrative continuity and the journeys, far from being personal and, thus, carrying authenticity, are impressionistic, imagined and broadly generic. There are certainly veritably universal themes, ideas and feelings brought to the fore, but there's a certain sense of superficiality and contrivance; an awareness that two smart and talented young writers sat down to create this work. In a (yes, let's call a spade a shovel) musical with genuine pathos and disarming sincerity that awareness would not be possible, as one would be thoroughly engaged & immersed in the experience. The light & shade is a little too slick, too, given a pretty uniform sinewave of happy song, sad song.
There are doubtless purists and pedants who would howl me down for my obstinacy in describing this as a somewhat failed musical, as against something quite different: a song-cycle that carries the integrity of that form. But I'll not resile, as I fear this is more your half-baked musical that has been branded as a song-cycle to save its bacon. And that's a shame. It's a shame because, with more development, it could be really kickarse.
Coming to the production in hand, director Benita de Wit has had her work cut out, as this musical, song cycle, or whatever the hell it is, hasn't yet seen the light of day anywhere but NIDA. This is, apparently, the world premiere. Now that's courageous: in effect de Wit and the performers have had to invent the characters (such as they are), as well as and find & feel entirely their own way insofar as interpretation & delivery.
Keegan Joyce, Helena Wehbe, Christie Wykes & George Youakim all deserve the utmost credit in finding the heart and soul in each song and setup. While there were a number of falterings, they all show immense potential, not only as singers, but as charismatic actors. The one big frustration was the mix: the singers were drowned-out by the band which, deep into the season, is inexcusable. And, of course, given the absence of dialogue, it was vital to be able to discern as many lyrics as possible; all the moreso, given the unfamiliarity of the show. This is no real indictment of musical director, Stephen Doorey, or the band who, one-and-all, were slick. The solution was obvious: acoustic rather than electric bass (Steve Dixon) and no mikes for the drums (either that or, say, brushes, to be wielded by Evan Jones). It was a cardinal error, which substantially inhibited enjoyment and successful carriage of the tight, 80-minute work.
The company as a whole opened the bidding, with Become, followed by Keegan Joyce, with Boy With Dreams. Joyce assumed just the right wide-eyed innocence and exhibited a very attractive timbre but, again and alas, was swamped by the instrumental onslaught. Nonetheless, any gen-X or Y Maccas slave will relate all too readily: 'I'm only working at this pizza hut to pay my way through college'.
Be My Friend (The Facebook Song) is, possibly, the highlight, through sheer contemporaneity and well-placed, measured cynicism, cunningly disguised as naive homage: 'whenever I feel lousy, whenever life's a bore, I count my friends in order; I've got 504'. Again, the entire company was on-stage, finally surmounting the band with scintillating harmonies.
Dispensible brought together Youakim and Wehbe, who succeed in spinning a touching, true-ringing tale of mutual misunderstanding and sad parting. This song, like so many in the cycle, really nails the emotional experience. And its authenticity is bolstered by Youakim and Wehbe, who bring it home, with doleful, moist eyes and melancholic vocals. Youakim, particularly, has an inviting warmth and depth to his singing, and for the most part, was able to project over and above the band.
But there is overarching tragedy (much as it pains me to harp & carp) in the fact that this discrete, internal songwriting success is foiled by the lack of links between the songs, meaning there's no real continuity or cohesive wholism. It's a bumpy, disconcerting ride. Still, noone who's loved could really argue: 'what hurts the most is watching you be done with me, when I'm not done with you. What will you tell your friends? Is this how it really ends? You're adjusted and collected; all together, unaffected. You found your solution: you always were so sensible. You never opened up enough to hurt. And dared to be dispensible'. Yes, shed a tear, here, if you must. Electronic paper doesn't go soggy.
Christie Wykes, too, has cut-through; though her voice can be rather sharp, at times. Her take on Perfect, a cautionary tale of the dangers and likelihood of innocents, or not-so-innocents, falling prey to puppeteers, is almost chillingly convincing. 'Listen. You were right. My friends were bad for me. Thank God you help me see how fake they are. I know. And look. Just like you said I should. I cut them out for good, I should have done that long ago.' Yikes, Wykes!
Joyce has his moment with Monticello, another amber light, warning against smalltown, or suburban, drowning: 'Nothing ever happens in Monticello. Let’s give a hand for the land of buried dreams. 'Cause when you hang your hat in Monticello, you end up like your dad and it’s really as sad as it seems'. Again, his wide-eyed, mother-me take does the trick, as he relates local tales in documentary style.
Along The Way sees Youakim return, for a sweetly comic tale, deftly-wrought, of boyhood grief over a deceased gerbil. Yes, you read right. Happily, our protagonist, despite having not met the needs of his pet, finds consolation in the words of Miss Adams, his wisely compassionate teacher: 'oh, life goes on; things will be okay. Though Jorge’s gone, tomorrow is a brand new day. Everyone makes a couple of mistakes, somewhere along the way'.
Caitlin & Hayley unites Wykes & Wehbe as bickering, jealous, but loving sisters, horns locked in constant competition, exemplified in the two giving everything they've got in an all-out, full-tilt attempt to outsing each other. Unfortunately, Wykes succumbed to the 'seamier', screechier downside of her otherwise utilitarian, musically theatrical voice, resulting in something a little too close for auditory & aesthetic comfort to a shriek. Yes, that was the point of the piece; even so, a little more restraint and control would've been preferable. Having said that, this is a vigorous and visceral delivery overall.
Pretty Sweet Day brings together their male counterparts for an affectionate mocking of young male bonding and the upset that occurs when one of a tightknit team of three ruins the party, dude, by falling in love. Can there be any more eloquent, or accurate, summation of the try-hard, testosterone-fuelled, macho mean streak than 'Jersey Shore, last May, checking out the hotties, drinking Stellas all day; we were tipsy (well, we were drunk), so when that kid shot that beachball and nailed you in your junk, you got pissed, you crossed the line, took one more swig and muttered vengeance is mine, looked at the boy, and said, here’s the deal, you’re a little fucker, and Santa isn’t real' Ouch! Joyce & Youakim have interpolated an obviously painstaking study of mannerisms that typify their gender, at a certain age, and this upturns one's mouth all the more, in amused recognition.
Wehbe relates the familiar narrative of love not quite realised, or met, with all the sincerity it demands. This is a good vehicle for her voice which, at its best, soars. 'I look at you lying there, and I want to love you; I want to sleep, for decades, by your side; but, with you, I'm restless, I'm running on empty; I'm living a life where I've compromised'. Now it's my turn to weep. This is the stuff of tiny, but terrifying heart attacks.
I Hmm You has Joyce & Wykes tentatively & gradually finding the precipitous, unprecedented courage to express their commitment to each other, vis a vis declarations of love; indeed, hmm seems like a much safer subsitute, in all manner of adult, as well as adolescent, circumstances. It's well-executed, while Part Of A Painting, presented by Youakim, is a gift. Speaking of precipitous, it teeters dangerously on the saccharine: not every North American sentiment translates to cynical Australia. Yet it triumphs, by the skin of its teeth: 'it looks like there's a castle, just floating on the water, and all around, the moss-green mountains poke and pierce the sky. And I know if I remember every detail, I can bring it home and paint it all for you'; affecting, in the way of romantic poetry from a bygone era, and beautifully sung, by Mr. Y.
I've Gotta Run also grapples with the c-word, as in commitment, and empathises (I think) with the plight of the 21st-century woman, desperately seeking Mr. Right. But how does she know when paradise is found? Once again, Wehbe does it considerable interpretive justice. 'He took me to my junior and senior prom. We made love like he was being shipped to Vietnam. I even thought of taking yoga with his mum. I thought he was the one. 'Til graduation came. I saw a future that stayed the same. It was a same. I've gotta run!' And you thought it was just nappies that were disposable.
In Short is the tailor-made vehicle for Wykes' striking, sometimes strident, undeniably massive attack. Again, she is almost chillingly convincing. And who hasn't been tempted to well-wish, along similar lines, just occasionally? Oh, go on, you know you have! 'My love affair with you? It’s over; it’s through. We loved; then we lost. And though it came at quite a cost, we’ve both had the chance to grow. I’ve collected my thoughts. And once, before I go, there’s just one thing I want you to know. I wanna punch you in the face; stab you with a sword! I hope you lose all your hair! Get eaten by a bear! Strangle yourself with a telephone-cord. Lean out a window a little too far. Don’t look both ways and get hit by a car. Choke on a Now And Later. Get your shoelaces caught in an escalator.In short, I hope you die!' Ah, parting is such sweet sorrow.
I Once Knew is another high point, showcased by Joyce, who gives just the right reading. (In fact, the more I reflect, the more I realise just how strong the songs are, and the more frustrated I am they aren't joined at the hip, somehow; perhaps the producers should've plumped for the opportunity to finish the musical clever-dicks Pasek & Paul embarked on. Just a thought.) A moving ode to his character's mother, as well as an outpouring of his fear of separation, it plots out the tearing of seams that occurs, as needs must, 'tween parent and teen. 'I once knew a woman who tried to keep going, who made more of life than what she'd been dealt. A woman who raised a city of children; who never got back or got asked how she felt'. And, 'as I’m getting older, I’m finding the holes I never wanted to see. So hold on, hold fast, hold tighter, for me'. Issue a tissue, if you please.
Wehbe & Wykes share the honours of Ready To Be Loved, which marks the completion of the transition from girl to womanhood, and both distinguish themselves in making it palpably believable. 'I think I've worked it out. I think, at last, the cloud has moved aside. I've spent a lifetime waiting. Awoke today to find my arms are open wide. There comes a point when things aren't clear. Then they shift into perspective. All hesitation seems to disappear.' So, you see, tweenies, time will tell.
Like Breathing is the company-strong finale; and in numbers, and with these particular singers, there is Atlas-like strength, at times sounding more like a chorus of forty, or four-hundred, than a paltry four.
As will be, no doubt, abundantly evident, given my gripes, reservations, chidings and doubts, I didn't find either this 'song cycle', or this production, entirely satisfying. To be candid, I even had a sense the people involved had doubts as well. It reflects more on the creators, award-winning or not, who, I suspect, have been a little too eager for runaway success, the irony being a little more time spent on the hard yards might've had a multiplier effect on those very aspirations.
Edges - A Song Cycle
Benj Pasek & Justin Paul
Venue: Parade Studio | Parade Theatres, 215 Anzac Parade, Kensington
Times: Wednesday to Saturday at 8.00pm
Matinees: Thursday, Friday & Saturday @ 2.00pm
Bookings: www.ticketek.com.au | at the door (if available)
Visit: www.edgesthemusical.com.au
