It’s that time of year again when the staircases are rainbowed up, the walk from my dorm to Frist smells like lilacs, and supposedly, hidden somewhere in the nooks of Princeton campus, are over 1,000 gay alumni ready to party.
In his Baltimore basement, Edan has carved his name across the forty-year span of rock and hip-hop. “Rock and Roll” melds Velvet Underground and Black Sabbath into feedback-frayed banger that would play comfortably in Queens circa ’88, or the Filmore East circa ’68. This kind of mad-scientist approach embodies the best of rock and roll.
After The Pillowman’s last show, I spent the night in a bed on the Intime stage. This was not my plan. Rather, my play was over: the actors were drunk, the set would soon be struck, and I, a tiny Atlas, newly liberated and upright, had merely intended to lug my mattress from its place on the stage and return it to my little bunker in the Witherspoon basement. But by the time I reached Intime – from Terrace, at 3:30 am, giddy with the removal of a gargantuan weight and hugely exhausted – I couldn’t do it. I curled into a ball and fell asleep.
The thirtieth anniversary edition of Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run came out a few months back. For better or worse, we have all chosen to spend four years in Springsteen country, and truth be told, he’s kind of hard to avoid
I love this show as much as FOX hates it, which is a lot. I mean, running the last four new episodes all at once, up against the opening ceremonies of the OLYMPICS?!
