Troy Lowe and Brian Burge were tired of head shops. For years, the two glassblowers made pipes because they were more marketable than pendants and marbles and the odd art piece. But the primary venues for selling their work were stores that specialized in drug paraphernalia, and it didn’t feel like a good fit. “We didn’t like being in there,” says Lowe. “It was kind of seedy.”
Ronn Perea started a roaming comedy club in Albuquerque when no one knew what one was.
But watching Oliver!, aside for a few key moments, isn’t sad. It’s heartwarming, and it’s sweet, and once the plot picks up and all the main actors are introduced, it’s pretty much fantastic. Such is the way of catchy songs and lovable characters—they obscure the grim and the grime.
I know Shakespeare is, well, Shakespeare. Many diehard theater lovers consider him the best playwright to have ever grasped an ink-imbued instrument. Most actors and/or theater companies want to eventually try their iambic-pentameter-loving hands at one of the man’s plays. I realize this will put me on the blacklist of a number of theater patrons in town, but the question I always ask myself before seeing one of Shakespeare’s works on stage is: Why?
I went to Wicked expecting a musical brimming with kitschy costumes, catchy songs and maybe a heartfelt moment or two. That’s exactly what I got, but it wasn’t all. Wicked may be bright and sparkly and big on delivering a high moral message, but it’s also subversive, hilarious and crisp as a freshly minted dollar bill, all the way from the lights to the unbelievably executed, nearly operatic vocal work.