A rave review for THE VINEYARD SONGS!!!!!!!!

New Music Collective Concert on April 18, 2014, at Spectrum (NYC Lower East Side) Posted on: April 20th, 2014 by Art Leonard No Comments I was invited to attend the concert presented under the auspices of New Music Collective at Spectrum on April 18 by Glen Roven, composer-conductor-record producer extraordinaire. We became acquainted when Glen was commissioned to contribute a song to the 5 Boroughs Music Festival’s Songbook and I attended one of the presentations of that project. His GPR Records is making an important contribution to preserving and advancing American art song as performed by exciting young performers. So when he invited me to attend this concert to hear the premiere of his new song cycle, The Vineyard Songs, Op. 33, by soprano Laura Strickling and Michael Brofman, I resolved to go despite my unfamiliarity with the venue. Spectrum is a second-story floor-through apartment in an ancient narrow building on Ludlow Street, just a few blocks from where my great-grandfather Jacob Cohen had his tailor shop when he arrived in the New World around 1920. So I get an eerie feeling walking around in this neighborhood, knowing that an ancestor who died long before I was born once walked those streets and, given the age of the buildings in the neighborhood, saw many of the same sights I was seeing as I scurried eastward on DeLancey Street to get there in time for the concert. I was familiar with only three composer names on the program: Glen Roven, of course, Steven Gerber, and Lowell Lieberman. I’d say that of the three Lieberman is the one who has broken through into the more general consciousness of music lovers to the greatest extent, but his inclusion on this program actually seemed a bit out of place, since he was represented by three of the “Four Etudes on Songs of Robert Franz,” charmingly rendered by pianist Miori Sugiyama, which sounded like relatively faithful piano transcriptions of 19th century lieder, not early 21st century creations! First things first: Glen’s song cycle is gorgeous. He has set verses by Judith B. Herman, Justen Ahern and Angela M. Franklin, evoking the experience of spending time on the island of Martha’s Vineyard. I’ve never been to the Vineyard, so I can’t attest to the accuracy of the feelings summoned up by this melding of verse and music, but I know a fine song cycle when I hear one, and this is a fine song cycle, expertly performed for this world premiere. My enthusiasm for American art song dates to my college years, when I fell deeply for Charles Ives’s songs. Ives really invented the naturalistic setting of idiomatic American verse, liberating us from the constraints of England’s folksong and Germanic-Mendelssohnian precedents, and I heard the same sort of freedom in Glen’s songs. Actually, most of the cycle is concerned with Judith Herman’s songs, six out of the eight numbers, and the two by Ahern and Franklin are the shortest songs, so I would consider this largely a Herman/Roven cycle, and the two combine wonderfully to enhance each other in a unified artistic expression. After the concert, I asked Glen whether these will be recorded, since I want to get to know them better, and he assured me that they would be forthcoming. After all, he pointed out, he owns a record label. . . Happy composer who owns a record label.

ANDY HARDY GROWS UP, the prequel to the NY TIMES Article

Andy Hardy Grows Up by Glen Roven Sugar Babies wasn’t supposed to be a hit. The 1979 Broadway insiders “knew” no one wanted to see two has-been movie stars doing hokey jokes from a long-dead low-brow genre. Yet, it was, a big, fat, lines-around-the-box-office smash. And why? Two words: Mickey Rooney. The show was, however, a disaster in rehearsals. Directors came and went, songs rehearsed in the afternoon were in the trash by 5 PM, the producers kept bringing executives from the movie studio trying to hook them up with the chorus girls instead of paying attention to the show. But most importantly and disastrously, the sketches, those traditional stalwarts of any Burlesque show (meet ya round the corner in a haaaaalf an hour) weren’t funny. To make matters worse, Mickey barely showed up at rehearsal. He’d come in for a few hours, torture whoever was directing the show that day, then simply vanish. Ann Miller would be diligently rehearsing her tap numbers but Mickey was nowhere to be found. The show tried out in San Francisco at the Curran Theater and the technical rehearsals fared no better than rehearsals in New York. Sets weren’t finished, costumes didn’t arrive, the old comics hired couldn’t remember their lines and of course, Mickey was usually MIA. It was with great trepidation that we started the first preview. I conducted the temporary overture and it received tepid applause. Then the curtain went up, a spotlight hit this 5 foot, bald, fat, little old man, but the audience went bananas. They wanted to see him. The needed to see him. The timing of the show seemed to be perfect. The audience remembered him like he was their long lost brother. He wasn’t trying to be young, he wasn’t trying to be a movie star, he was just Mickey Rooney. And that was wonderful. He stood there and the applause was defining. It kept building and building and building. I could see Mickey’s face: he was overwhelmed with the love. Here was a washed up movie star (at 16, the biggest box office draw in the world) whose recent career consisted of doing sex comedies at dinner theater in towns nobody heard of; now he was in a Broadway bound musical and the audience was loving him, without him doing a thing. He couldn’t believe it. I saw it on his face The opening number, where gorgeous chorus girls pulled every old gag in the book (busty nurses wielding enormous hypodermic needs, pants suspenders being cut) was choreographed around Mickey, since he never came to rehearsals; he just had to stand there and the number happened around him. But with this opening applause and his confidence soaring, Mickey took over the number. He was a star reborn and wasn’t going to stand still. He chased the chorus girls, he flirted with them, he looked completely amazed when chorus girls bumped him from the rear, and bumped him again! He did take after take, double take after double take, and the audience was with him completely. That was just the opening number. Then came the first sketch. And miracle of miracles, it was funny. Because of Mickey. He was a natural clown, in the old fashioned sense of the word. His timing was impeccable, his ad libs, hysterical and his facial expressions, priceless. Burlesque is really about dirty old men being lecherous towards pretty young, but busty, girls. Maybe because the audience remember Mickey as Andy Hardy, and we all knew how innocent the judge’s son was, his leering’s didn’t seem all that lascivious. (Remember this was 1979!) He worked the comics on stage, the chorus girls and especially the audience. The old jokes were getting belly laughs. And Mickey was having the time of his life. In a flash, life had turned around. He was a star again. He was in a hit. I have my personal theories about why Mickey was so brilliant in this part. Before he was Andy Hardy, before he was Mickey McGuire, he was Joe Yule, Jr., son of a famous Burlesque comedian whose work has been lost to the sands of time. Mickey wasn’t playing a fictional character who would romp with Judy, he was channeling his father. He was a father (of six) paying tribute to his own father. He was also, in my opinion, a true genius. As he began participating more in the shows development, the entire cast and creative team were stunned as he revealed more and more skills: he could play drums like Buddy Rich, play jazz piano like Gershwin, and of course, could sing and dance with more grace, style and energy, than performers half his age. Perhaps because he was so small, all his talent couldn’t be bottled up in his pint sized body. It had to be released and when it was, it exploded with the energy of an atomic bomb. The creative staff was as shocked by the audience’s reaction as Mickey was. They all thought the show would be Ann’s, probably because she actually had come to rehearsals. But it was clear from the first moment who the real star was and they acted accordingly. All sketches that didn’t involve Mickey were cut, as was a very sweet roller-skating number. The producers thought it wasn’t perhaps the best idea to have their star (and their meal ticket) sliding around on skates when with one wrong bump he could end up on top of the Tuba player in the pit. The biggest change in the show in San Francisco was the addition of the medley of Jimmy McHugh songs. For the first time, Mickey and Ann would come out together and sing. We tried to rehearse this number in NYC (in the toilet of 890 Broadway because there were no walls up yet at the studio) but Mickey never came to rehearsal so we just let it slide. The producers knew that the audience needed Ann and Mickey to do something together. It was still a challenge to get him to rehearsal. He was slated to sing, “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love.” Hugh Martin, the legendary MGM songwriter/arranger was brought in to help. Hugh, who wrote “The Trolley Song” was one of the music coaches at the Little Red School House on the MGM lot where Judy, Elizabeth, Jane, Mickey and Ann all grew up, so he was almost a father figure to Mickey. Around Hugh, Mickey immediately reverted to his fifteen year old self, naughty yes, but respectful. It was Hugh who, trying to get Mickey to focus, (and Hugh told me he had the same problem at MGM), suggested Mickey play the piano and accompany himself. Our stars were terrified at the technical and orchestra rehearsal of the medley. It was finally going into the show and Ann and Mickey felt under-rehearsed. I remember Mickey watching me for all he was worth during that rehearsal, hoping to remember the lyrics, hoping I could prompt him if he didn’t, hoping he’d hear the drums, all those things that go through a performers head when they are nervous. Of course, they had nothing to worry about. The audience went crazy as two legends came out dancing and singing. Together. Although I knew they were still anxious, the rousing applause that began then number gave them the needed shot of adrenaline. I call it “Doctor Footlights.” Mickey broke people’s hearts as he sing “Anything but Love.” The audience (and the orchestra) couldn’t believe he played so beautifully and sensatively, using the most sophisticated jazz chords imaginable. (Who knows who taught him jazz? Ellington?) For the first time in the show, he was introspective and subdued as he quietly serenaded Ann. Annie, channeling Ethel Merman, belted “Ridin’ High” to the last note in the balcony. But, it was the two of them cavorting during “Sunny Side of the Street” that catapulted the audience into show biz heaven. Mickey and Ann were suddenly 17 years old, and the entire audience was transported back to their own childhood movie palaces where they first encountered Mickey and Ann. Of course, everyone knew Mickey and Ann (and the audiences themselves) were much older. But Ann and Mickey could still deliver. They weren’t merely survivors. That still could stop a show. That first performance of the Medley was the best it was ever done. The sound man forgot to turn off Mickey’s mike after they took their bows (and bows and bows) and the whole audience heard Mickey say, “Hey, how about that, Ann. They liked us!” Glen Roven is an Emmy winner who’s new musical, The 5,000 Fingers of Doctor T opens on Broadway next season.

TAKING A TAXI! My article about Mickey Rooney from the NY TIMES!

ArtsBeat - New York Times Blog SEARCH ‘Taking a Taxi’: Remembering Mickey Rooney on Broadway By GLEN ROVEN APRIL 8, 2014, 12:25 PM 11 Comments E-MAIL FACEBOOK TWITTER SAVE MORE Mickey Rooney in "Sugar Babies" at London's Savoy Theater in 1988. Express Newspapers, via Associated Press Mickey Rooney in “Sugar Babies” at London’s Savoy Theater in 1988. Glen Roven, the original musical director of “Sugar Babies,” shared this reminiscence of working with Mickey Rooney on Broadway in what became the actor’s late-in-life comeback triumph. Mr. Rooney died on Sunday at 93. After bumpy tryouts in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Detroit, Chicago and Philadelphia,“Sugar Babies” opened on Broadway on Oct. 8, 1979. The show — a celebration of burlesque starring Mickey Rooney and Ann Miller — finally settled down for nice, comfortable long run. Except with Mickey it was always a roller coaster. As the person who conducted the show every night, I was along for the ride for almost three memorable years. I remember meeting him for the first time. I was taller, but not by much, and we could look each other in the eye. I was 19; I said I hoped that my being young didn’t bother him. “Kid, when I was 16 I was the biggest box office star in the world,” he said. “You’ll do fine.” Our rapport continued during the run. When the spotlight first hit Mickey during each performance at the Mark Hellinger Theater, if he didn’t get the gigantic ovation he had gotten used to, he looked at me and would whisper, “Taking a taxi tonight, Glen.” That meant he would take all the numbers at a breakneck speed no matter what. He would still give a brilliant performance, just faster than usual. A lot faster. I was able to keep up with him, barely. But I enjoyed the challenge. Things would be fine in the solo numbers, but in the duet with Ann, it was a bit trickier. He would be “taking a taxi” and Ann would do it at the exact same tempo every night. Conducting a duet at two different tempos was something I never learned in school. One night, I remember, there was a particular sporting event that Mickey wanted to watch on pay per view. But the show was 10 minutes too long and he wouldn’t make it home in time for the start. We had a juggler in the show and he was doing so well that the producers gave him two spots. Mickey offered him $10,000 to cut 10 minutes off his routines — a thousand for every minute cut. Mickey saw the beginning of the game. I once got a page on the intercom during intermission. “Mr. Roven to Mr. Rooney’s dressing room.” I panicked, quickly running through the first act in my head. Did I do something wrong? Was a tempo too fast, too slow, did I miss a cue? I gently knocked on his dressing-room door. There was Mick (as he liked to be called) in his underwear, jumping around. “Glen, I just thought of this great movie. I want to do it for you.” And Mickey Rooney then proceeded to act out this entire movie musical in his dressing room — all the parts, all the songs, all the choreography. I was 19 and there was Mickey, performing just for me in his underwear. My favorite bit of his in the show was the end of the first act when he was in drag playing Francine. (“Someone just asked me if that was Hortense? I said, ‘Why no. She looks perfectly relaxed to me.’”) Mickey knew I loved it, so he would do anything to crack me up, and of course the funnier he was the more the audience laughed. One inspired evening Francine, completely out of the blue, took an improvised world tour, announcing she had gotten a group rate from the Hadassah girls. I nearly fell off the podium. I remember the night after the Oscars, the year he was nominated for “The Black Stallion.” We had canceled a performance so he could attend. After so many decades in show business, he was the favorite, but he ended up losing to Melvyn Douglas for “Being There.” The night he returned, when the spotlight found him as usual, he received the biggest ovation ever, bigger than the first preview in San Francisco, bigger than opening night in New York. It simply wouldn’t stop. He tried to start the show but the audience wouldn’t let him. Finally as the applause begin to die down, one woman shouted out, “You should have won!” And the applause started up again. Mickey start to tear up. I started to cry. I saw the entire company crying. That’s the performance I will always remember.