Magical. That's one, succinct way to describe Long Beach Opera's production of Allen Ginsberg's and Philip Glass's 1990 chamber opera Hydrogen Jukebox. Magical was the heart the actors poured into their respective parts. Magical was the interpretation of Glass's music by the in-production ensemble. Magical was the analysis of the themes Ginsberg selected for dwelling upon. It truly was, as LBO Creative Director Andreas Mitisek said the late Ginsberg hoped it would be, "hallucinogenic". Hallucinogenic not in the sense of tinkering with one's brain chemistry through artificial and usually illicit means (an example being the "Ginsberg brownies" my brother, who accompanied me, and I were offered upon entering the warehouse where the show took place. We politely declined, citing full stomachs), but in the sense of warping the universe, of fundamentally altering the way you perceive things through good old-fashioned intellectual and artistic stimulation. This is the best kind of high there is, and it can only be provided by exceptional shows, nay, experiences, like LBO's Hydrogen Jukebox.
I say experience rather than show because Hydrogen Jukebox was just that, thanks in no small part to the talent and effort of the actors. Although the cast included a respectable number of characters, the only one with a clearly defined role was the Poet, a role that didn't so much replace the position of narrator that Ginsberg filled in the original production as it did pay homage to him and his turn in said position. Stepping into Ginsberg's shoes was none other than Michael Shamus Wiles, known to many as the Sam Elliot-esque ASAC George Merkert from Breaking Bad. In what couldn't be a more stark departure from the clean-cut ruggedness of that role, Wiles donned a white robe, kippah, and beard to portray the Poet, although he continued to radiate the impression of authority he brought to his previous role. So effective was he that it was only after the production that I realized that it was him, and only because I perused the playbill. If I had never done that, I might never have realized I had seen Wiles act before, much less that he possessed such an impressive range. For the majority of the play, he remained in an elevated platform made to resemble a loft, from which he alternatively sat at a typewriter and keenly observed the action taking place below on the performance space. There was no shortage of action for him and the audience, for that matter, to watch, as the rest of the cast was constantly active from the moment the wooden platform holding them all was first wheeled in from behind the curtain and onto the performing space.
Ringing them in was Roberto Perlas Gomez, whose stout baritone, central position, and confident delivery of "Iron Horse Part I" established him as the apparent leader of the group, all of whom were clad in black attire. From this point on, the actors' sung, danced, writhed, mimed warfare, rolled out aluminum foil and lay still on it, and whatever else the plot, as inscrutable as it was, dictated. The various activities gave each performer a chance to shine, and the lack of a proper stage allowed for the cast to develop even stronger connections with the audience. This was seen during the second song, "Iron Horse Part II", when the actors slowly walked past the audience and sang Ginsberg's words in the ominous style that is so characteristic of Glass's music. My particular section was passed by Ashley Knight, a soprano, who delivered the cynical lyrics in such a way that they sounded not only menacing, but beautiful as well. Her moving delivery, made even more apparent by the close proximity between us and her, went a long way in bringing the lyrics to life, which is quite a feat when the lyrics in question were penned by the often-abstract Allen Ginsberg. Occasionally, Shamus, in his role as Poet, would interject, whether it be by simply delivering a monologue in "Ayers Rock/Uluru Song" or emitting an ouright-primal scream as he did at the beginning of "Jahweh And Allah Battle". Thanks to changes in action and thus atmosphere like this, the emotional impact of Hydrogen Jukebox was strengthened, a raw testament to the ability of the cast.
Of course, the emotional impact was equally furthered by the music of the production. Under the capable direction of Kristof Van Grysperre, the ensemble provided an engaging, solid foundation for the show's other component elements. The repetitive keyboard passages of "Iron Horse Part II" contributed to the feeling of dread that particular song cultivated, and the fast-paced percussion of "Jahweh And Allah Battle" added a base layer of intensity that suited that piece exceedingly well. The performers themselves were energetic, with the flautist leaving the music pit during "Howl Part II" and switching his flute for a saxophone, with which he gently bombarded the audience as he raced across the performing space. The musicians who stole the show though, were the two keyboardists, who quite literally set the tone of the production. Having selected vibrant keyboard settings, they capably bestowed upon the music that electronic-but-emotional quality that Philip Glass brings to all his compositions. They were not afraid to change gears when the music required it, however. Indeed, these moments were some of the most powerful in the show. The first was during "Ayers Rock/Uluru Song", when one of the keyboardists switched to a contemplative organ setting and played the song's opening notes, establishing the reflective nature of the song. The second took place in "Wichita Vortex Sutra", in which the other keyboardist took center stage - both figuratively and literally - as a piano was moved to the middle of the performing space. She proceeded to play passionately, with the only accompaniment being Wiles just as passionately reciting Ginsberg's lyrics as the platform he remained in moved around the warehouse. In short, these two musicians were, as the kids might say, "beast".
By remarkable coincidence, one of the subjects Hydrogen Jukebox concerned itself with was the bestial. In fact, the play opens up with what appears to be an analysis - in that esoteric Ginsberg way, of course - of militarism and imperialism, twin bugaboos of Beat writers like Ginsberg and libertarian bloggers like yours truly. Although the American imperial project appears unstoppable like the titular "Iron Horse", Gomez sings of an apocalyptic prophecy against which we cannot even make war against, the only thing we are good at apparently, and which Shamus laments that it's "too late" to prevent: the Fall of America. The show continues exploring this theme in "Iron Horse Part II", where the cast exposes the senselessness of American foreign policy by ironically posing such questions as "who is the enemy, year after year?" As someone who was born right before the Soviet Union collapsed, watched Rugrats while Bill Clinton bombed Sudan, Afghanistan, and Yugoslavia in addition to enforcing arguably genocidal sanctions on Iraq, saw the planes hit the Twin Towers on TV, witnessed the American-led overthrow of Saddam Hussein and Muammar Gaddafi, the killing of Osama Bin Laden, an aborted attempt to bomb the forces of Bashar al-Assad, the rise of ISIS and a revived Cold War between the U.S. and Putin's Russia, this question really resonates for me, as I imagine it does for others of my age group. Wiles' piercing scream signaled the start of "Jahweh And Allah Battle", which covered similar ground, albeit with a religious twist. Both gods (i.e. Israelis and Palestinians, Americans and Russians, etc.) are "terrible", both are "illusions", yet both are driven to determine which is "stronger" and which is able to give the most "frightening command". Where this leads we do not have to wonder, for the cast tells us that Hitler, Stalin, Ben-Guiron, Nasser, My Lai, Lidice, Buchenwald, and other assorted malcontents and atrocities "sent me here", here being wherever tyranny and inhumanity reign.
But the show did not dwell on destruction and death alone: after "Jahweh And Allah Battle", it explored love in "To P.O.", a paean to one Peter Orlovsky, the love of Ginsberg's life. For this segment of the program, the Poet climbed down from his perch and joined tenor Todd Strange on the wooden platform. The impression of love Wiles projected was palpable, so much so that one could be forgiven if they for a moment believed that Ginsberg himself was embracing his lover one last time. Love was also the subject of "The Green Automobile", in which the lights turned green and the cast lined up behind each other before running across the performing space in unison. They moved in search of love, much as Neal Cassady, the inspiration for the song, once did when he drove Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac and later on Ken Kesey's infamous bus across America. But as is so often the case, the good times did not last. The specter of conflict returns in "Nagasaki Days/Everybody's Fantasy Large", originally written as a hyperbolic reaction to the harnessing of nuclear energy for peaceful purposes but wisely reinterpreted as the aftermath of a nuclear war that reduced New York City, along with the rest of the world, to rubble. The piece was most effective when one of the actresses' sang a haunting, wordless melody to the lone accompaniment of a bass drum as the rest of the cast remained still, lifeless, on the foil sheet rolled out for the song. Although there is no hope for man, we learn there is hope for other forms of life in the next song, "Ayers Rock/Uluru Song". The "lizard people" and the "kangaroo people" manage to survive the cataclysm, although not unscathed, for they have "lost their song", no doubt a result of man's last war. At this point, the Poet once again intervenes, his hand forced by the chaos he has just witnessed and breaks into "Wichita Vortex Sutra". Traveling across the room, he unleashes a stream-of-conscious rant, lamenting his age, his loneliness, the way war has shaped our language, and invoking the holy names of Ramakrishna, Harekrishna, Jesus, Jahweh and Allah, for all their aforementioned flaws, and the "invisible father of English visions" himself, William Blake, in the hope that they will be able to help him make his own "Prophecy". Perhaps this heartfelt appeal will be enough to end the madness.
Sadly, the answer seems to be no, as the next and final song is "Father Death Blues". As noted before, all good things must come to an end, including life, the very best thing. This does not mean we have to raise our arms in despair and go gently into the night. We should come to terms with the finite nature of our existence and make the most of it, as the cast does when they thank Teacher Death for "inspiring me to sing this blues". It was a very beautiful blues indeed, right up until the moment Gomez sang his last solo while the platform the cast rode in on reeled back behind the curtain, locking sorrowful eyes with the Poet and revealing at last that his "heart was still, as time will tell" before disappearing. Even as I write this, I can still feel the sorrow, the love, the magic from that moment, and all I can say in conclusion is thank you Hydrogen Jukebox, for showing us this blues.
