Oh, What a Night!

 You may have noticed my posts are running few and far between again; part of this is because I don't have a ton of time to sit and write something I feel is worth reading; secondly, my life is actually pretty damn boring. We really don't do much.

But this past week, we finally did something...

We had a great time in Fargo this past Wednesday. I bought tickets for Jersey Boys way back in November 2021 and we waited through five long months of winter for this show. I figured going to an award-winning musical gave us something to look forward to--a little reward for making it through another crappy Minnesota winter.

Timing, as they say, is everything...

Sure enough, one of the biggest blizzards North Dakota has seen in years plowed through the state this week, suddenly putting our chances of seeing this production in major jeopardy. 

Well, this time we got lucky (mark it down because it doesn't happen often) and the snow kept to the west by about 50 miles. I got email confirmation on Tuesday that the show was on!

The show...

I suppose just about everyone knows the story of Jersey Boys: it tells the tale of The Four Seasons (Frankie Valli, Tommy DeVito, Nick Massi and Bob Gaudio); their rise to the top of the music world, their inevitable downfall (and rise to the top again!). When I was a kid I remember listening to the Four Seasons ("Sherry," "Big Girls Don't Cry," "Walk Like a Man") marvelling at their harmonies and loving the songs. About 30 years ago I bought their double CD greatest hits compilation and played it constantly. To be fair, I am biased. I love this group.

But back to Fargo...

We had a great pre-show dinner at Lucky's 13 (superb Bloody Mary's--a bit sweeter than how I make them, but delicious nonetheless). Then we were off to the Fargodome, which had been modified for Broadway into the Gate City Bank Theatre (I have to credit my daughter, Ava, for taking most of the following pictures; I rely on my memory to recall the experience, which I suppose is a bit old fashioned).

A goofy "vacation photo op." Fargo did not disappoint; it was as cold and windy as ever. Spring definitely was not in the air.

It was difficult to judge exactly how many theatergoers were in attendance; the Gate City Bank Theatre has a capacity of 3,500, so my best guess was close to 2,500. I am also guessing that quite a few folks simply could not make it to the show because of the heavy snow and high winds pummeling the rest of the state. Not only that, the interstate from Dickinson to Jamestown was closed. Travel was literally impossible.

Our seats were fantastic: main floor, six rows from the stage... and my daughter (who loves live theater) proceeded to complain because it was too crowded (life with a teenager... argh!). Luckily, once the house lights dimmed she forgot about it.

The show started about fifteen minutes late, but it was worth the wait. The musical itself was absolutely stellar. The four principle actors--all from Broadway--were flawless in their performances (honestly, the entire cast was terrific). And yes, they sang live (yes, I watched closely) and the backing band performed live (yes, I watched closely). I didn't hear a single clam the entire night. 

But one thing I wasn't expecting was the colorful vocabulary, even though we were warned about it before the show started; the language was even described as a "special effect," which made me chuckle: 

We were warned.

"Authentic, profane, Jersey vocabulary" is right. I could hear the pearl clutchers gasp toward the beginning of the show when Frankie's girlfriend berated him for taking a stage name "Vally." 

You can't end your name with a 'Y', Frankie. A 'Y' doesn't know what the fuck it wants. 'Am I a consonant? Am I a vowel? What the fuck am I?' You need to end your name with an 'I'. V-a-l-l-i. That says, 'I'm Frankie Valli. With an 'I'. If you don't like it, you can go fuck yourself." 

And the colorful language just kept a-coming. But I found it actually added to the story, rather than detract. It made the performances more authentic. After all, the real members of the Four Seasons were not exactly choirboys; most of them did jail time (more than once) and they all had ties with shady characters whose names also ended in vowels, if you know what I mean.

A very simple stage design. But with a show this good, an elaborate set wasn't needed. The band performed underneath the catwalk, hidden before the show by the black screens.

I was also pleasantly surprised that the musical didn't focus solely on Frankie Valli. Each member of the group got a fair shake in the spotlight, especially Bob Gaudio. 

Gaudio was the group's main songwriter and I believe his name is often shamefully overlooked on the list of great songwriters of the 20th century. The man was a hit making machine, and Jersey Boys does well to give him his due. (My son told me he was going to look up more music by him. I told him that was an excellent idea!)

In fact, during his final monologue, Gaudio's character says, "I like to look back on it all and think that none of this could have been possible . . . without me." That line got the biggest response of the evening; applause, shouts, hollers, whistles, the whole shebang.

After 2 1/2 hours, the show concluded with yet another huge hit, "Who Loves You" (the whole show was hit after hit after hit... to Bob Gaudio's credit!) and a well-deserved standing ovation. 

And yes, my crab apple daughter had a huge smile on her face. 😁

The Halloween Blizzard of 1991: How Wally the Weatherman Changed My Life

 

artwork by Ava Branstner

This week marks the 30th anniversary of the great Halloween Blizzard of 1991. In a nasty hit-and-run, Old Man Winter vomited approximately 1,736 inches of snow (my own rough estimate) on Minnesota. I'm embarrassed to say it took me by surprise.

That Halloween morning was straight out of a 1965 folk song: all the leaves were brown and the sky was gray. I was 22 years old and neck deep in my studies at the University of Minnesota. Also, I was a total putz.

As the concrete sky blanched to the east, I slogged down St. Francis Boulevard in my '77 Ford Granada, radio blasting, making my commute to school. To my irritation, my usual morning show was interrupted by Wally the Weatherman, who blustered on about a "winter storm warning!"

Winter storm warning? Pshhht! I grumbled. I was a native Minnesotan. Snow had never stopped me before and I had classes to attend.

Did I mention I was a putz?

When I walked out of the lecture hall that afternoon, I was greeted by a cold, feathery drizzle leaking from blueberry clouds. Rumbling homeward, Wally the Weatherman was abuzz, spewing phrases from my Granada's radio like "blizzard warning!" and "perfect storm!"

Nothing more than meteorologic hyperbole, I assured myself.

Like I said, I was a putz.

By the time I splashed the Granada into my apartment complex's puddled parking lot, Wally the Weatherman was practically soiling himself with excitement: "Snowmageddon!"

Snowmageddon? That's cute, I chuckled under my breath.

Inside my cozy shoebox abode, I microwaved a cup of ramen noodles and sat the card table in my cramped kitchen.

As I slurped my fake Chinese food, I studied the dying light from my living room window. The afternoon drizzle intensified to pounding rain. Then, like a ninja shapeshifter, the pounding rain quickly morphed into snowflakes.

Heavy flakes. Big flakes. Millions of them.

I breathed a deep sigh, pulled the curtain closed and cracked open my lecture notes. Just a little snow, I yawned to myself.

What a putz.

As night descended, the snow ogres unleashed a frozen tempest over Minnesota.

Next morning, I nuked a mug of Folgers instant crystals and clicked on my stereo. It was time for the Friday Funday show, which I enjoyed listening to before heading to class.

Instead of my program, the hyperventilating Wally the Weatherman (when did he sleep?) poured from my speakers, babbling on about "road closures!" and "record setting snow!" I peered through the curtain, but saw only the inkwell of predawn darkness.

I sucked down my Folgers and went off the seize the day. I couldn't be late for class.

The first sign of trouble was 22 inches of packed snow blocking the lobby door which prevented me from getting out of my apartment building.

The second sign of trouble was illuminated by the outdoor security lights. Through the thickly falling flakes, I could barely make out an ice cream meadow where the parking lot used to be. Interrupting the sparkling smoothness were perfectly rectangular mounds, each representing an innocent automobile buried alive overnight (my precious Granada!).

Good Lord! I gasped, in a moment of epiphany. Wally the Weatherman was right. It's a freaking snowpocalypse!

My lecture started in half and hour. Mild panic gripped my gut.

I corkscrewed my body around the lobby door, only to find myself planted like a scarecrow in white stuff up to my hips. Snowflakes peppered my eyes and a stiff wind sucked life out of my lungs. Like a putz, all I had on my feet were sneakers and flimsy leather gloves covered my hands.

By the time I lumbered to the unmarked grave of my Granada, I was wheezing like a concertina, blinded by snow cataracts and a creek of snot involuntarily flowed from my nose.

Yes, a shovel would have been handy. No, I didn't have one. What a putz.

I had no choice, so I started digging the heavy, sticky crap by hand, but within minutes my fingers turned blue, my Nike-covered toes were numb and I was sweating like Nixon under my jacket.

After ten minutes of battle, the chunky white parachutes pelting down from the cornflower sky won the day. My sleeves were stuffed ice packs, one of my gloves had disappeared into the albino abyss and the sweat from my forehead competed with the frost on my eyelashes.

Clearly this was a job for Superman, but he was probably snowed in as well.

I was defeated. I would miss my class and I would wear a dunce hat the rest of my days. I was a card carrying putz.

I trudged back to my apartment deflated, broken and frozen.

Little did I know at that exact moment, ghostly radio waves high above carried a familiar voice, bringing good tidings for comfort and joy: All classes at the University of Minnesota were canceled for Friday, November 1st, 1991.

Thank you, Wally the Weatherman. I won't be a putz again.