Andrew Lloyd Webber: The Phantom Of The Opera

ANDREW LLOYD WEBBER: THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA (1987)

1) Prologue; 2) Overture; 3) Think Of Me; 4) Angel Of Music; 5) Little Lotte / The Mirror / Angel Of Music; 6) The Phantom Of The Opera; 7) The Music Of The Night; 8) I Remember / Stranger Than You Dreamt It; 9) Magical Las­so; 10) Notes / Prima Donna; 11) Poor Fool He Makes Me Laugh; 12) Why Have You Brought Me Here; 13) All I Ask Of You; 14) All I Ask Of You (reprise); 15) Entr'acte; 16) Masquerade / Why So Silent; 17) Notes... / Twisted Every Way...; 18) Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again; 19) Wandering Child... / Bravo, Monsieur; 20) The Point Of No Return; 21) Down Once More... / Track Down This Murderer.

Somewhere in the syrupy depths of ʽMusic Of The Nightʼ, there is something sung about how «silently the senses abandon their defenses», which is probably the cleverest line in the entire musical — this is exactly the effect that Sir Andrew was going for here, and I must say, it works. Perhaps my defenses are not as solid as those of the modern day Spartans who eat Henry Cow for breakfast, but why deal in extremes all the time?..

The Phantom Of The Opera was totally huge in its time and still remains one of the epitomes of hugeness. This alone would be sure to generate a big ball of hatred, but there's worse: it is also the epitome of kitsch, a sprawling, «tasteless» simplification of classical music values. In a way, it is the direct predecessor to these sorts of things — from Titanic to Harry Potter — that produce extremely mixed reactions in people: on one hand, they are not overtly «bad» (professional, care­fully crafted, stimulating, exciting, etc.), on the other hand... oh, well. They also divide people like few other things can — provoking either fanatical adoration, or deep hatred; the latter can very easily spread from the «piece of art» onto the people who adore it, so be careful.

First, let us let out some demons. The story behind Phantom, no matter how already textbook-ish before Lloyd Webber decided to tackle it, is silly and fluffy. Gaston Leroux, who wrote the origi­nal novel, was no Edgar Poe and not even a Bram Stoker (actually, it only takes a quick browse through the titles of his numerous novels to realize that). It is, in fact, the silliest and fluffiest sub­ject picked up by Sir Andrew up to that point — at least neither Cats nor Starlight Express pre­tended to adult-oriented seriousness, but Phantom does, and this is reflected in the arrangements, requiring a fully formed symphonic orchestra (which eventually had to be somewhat cut down from the original design for touring purposes).

Nor is the production free from the usual shortcomings of post-JC Lloyd Webber: big, clumsy hooks, simplistically adapted from the composer's musical experience, repeating themselves over and over again until one becomes unsure of the exact reason they stick in one's head — is it be­cause they're so good, or just because you have heard them so many times already? Again, the man was accused of stealing from Puccini (ʽMusic Of The Nightʼ), and, more famously, from Pink Floyd: Roger Waters explicitly stated that Sir Andrew had expropriated one of the sub-me­lodies of ʽEchoesʼ for the main «Introducing The Phantom» theme of the musical. But why didn't he sue? "Life's too short to sue Andrew fuckin' Lloyd Webber", he is supposed to have said, while writing up the subpoenas for his own former band mates. Yet I have a sneaky suspicion that he might have really been afraid of Andrew fuckin' Lloyd Webber choosing a line of defence in which he would scoop up a half-dozen earlier musical scores which would all involve the same melody — it is, after all, a rather trivial chromatic run that anyone can incidentally or deliberately run across. You don't really have to be Andrew fuckin' Lloyd Webber to write the spooky «da-da-da-da-DAAA, do-do-do-do-DOO» bit in Phantom Of The Opera and make it one of the most instantly recognizable phrases of the century. Or, wait a moment — maybe you do.

If, on Starlight Express, the composer's point was to make a head-spinning mish-mash of all the possible «pop» styles, his task on Phantom was more complex — to make a similar mish-mash out of the different varieties of both «academic» and «pop-oriented» classical music. Hence, there is a little bit of everything here. Church organ with baroque flourishes; Viennese court music; light-headed, free-perching Mozartian opera themes; Neapolitan heart-on-the-sleeve pathos; and, of course, plenty of attempts at reincarnating the spirits of Gilbert & Sullivan. No Alban Berg influences, though, for reasons that are easy to understand.

Predictably, the result is a classical music lover's nightmare, but a paradise for supporters of healthy, wholesale «family entertainment». The «scary» elements of the story are reduced to a sparse minimum (so there's a chandelier crashing down and a guy with a partially disfigured face, big deal for an epoch in which Nightmare On Elm Street was already a couple years old), with the romantic parts occupying like 60% of the story and the «comical» parts taking care of most of the rest. Phantom Of The Opera is, indeed, the last step in the gradual transformation of Lloyd We­bber from an ambitious musical rebel that used to have his own point of view on meaningful is­sues — into a calculated commercial hack thriving on the superficial.

But as long as we accept that, Phantom Of The Opera is, unquestionably, the master of its own domain. I mean, we can all live with a simple fairy tale, and this one has its own unique appeal. Even the singers sound like they come straight out of a fairy tale, particularly Sarah Brightman, with her voice of such otherworldly transparent clarity, it seems like they polished it with glass-dust for several years before letting her out to sing. (She does not have too much appeal beyond that clarity, but she is well chosen anyway, for a role that demands the character to be a living china doll and little else.) So is Michael Crawford in the title role, playing it so naturally as if he'd come straight off from playing heartbroken Disney villains for decades.

The thing is, there are some «cheap thrills» out there that do not work, and there are some that do. Lloyd Webber may have lost his credibility as a «serious» artist (although he himself would pro­bably deny the existence of the huge gap that lies between JCS and Phantom), but I would be lying through my teeth if I denied the effectiveness of these hooks — the scary ones, the comic ones, the romantic ones. The Phantom-introducing theme may be trivial, or it may be stolen, but it still triggers a little heart-jump every time it appears out of nowhere. The title track, «decora­ted» with a steady electronic beat to give it extra hit-single power, has an unforgettable Gothic glow (which made it into a favorite for various aspiring poppy-Goth-and/or-art-metal bands). ʽMusic Of The Nightʼ and ʽPoint Of No Returnʼ are beauty-and-the-beast romance done as fine as the genre is capable of doing. The vaudevillian interludes during which the theater staff is reciting the Phantom's letters are genuinely funny (including the words of the letters themselves). And the idea of contrasting the «mannered», «wooden» way in which Carlotta begins to sing ʽThink Of Meʼ with Christine Sarah Brightman's fragility-itself performance is, as much as I hate to admit it, a touch of musical genius.

The unavoidable consequence of all this is, as we get to the finale and a devastated Phantom Of The Michael Crawford belting out "it's over now, the music of the night", the evil Sir Andrew will have succeeded where his character has not: make many a listener, including even some ja­ded ones, swoon under his spell, and maybe even shed a tear or two for the poor Phantom. On a purely intellectual basis, the musical deserves, at best, a condescending attitude, at worst, total de­spisal. But on a gut level, I have even known a couple of genuine classical music aficionados who confessed to having enjoyed Phantom, even as they were well aware of its utter fluffiness. And even from a purely reason-based standpoint, there is probably no better way to integrate the old school of opera, the newer school of operetta, and the modern school of Broadway musical toge­ther than the way it has been done by Webber. As for all the corn syrup... well, frankly speaking, there are quite a few remarks here that could be addressed at «serious» Italian opera itself.

Phantom Of The Opera is a landmark that certainly needs to be heard, preferably in the original London cast version (the show shared the usual A.Ll.W. curse of cheapening up with time, and, by all means, nobody really needs to see the Joel Schumacher movie). I doubt that it could ever function as a proper introduction into the «wonderful world of classical music» for «the people», no more so than Harry Potter could ever function as a useful tool for «introducing the young rea­der to the habit of reading books» (practice showing that it only served as a useful tool for intro­ducing them to the habit of reading Harry Potter-type books). But it may serve as one of those bridges on which certain types of people, usually keeping far away from each other, may be ready to meet and discuss things together. Except the «cheap funny fluff» of one listener will be the «amazing, breathtaking musical journey» of another.

My compromise will look as follows: I give Phantom Of The Opera an unflinching thumbs up — and with this, make it my last review of an Andrew Lloyd Webber production. From the bits and pieces I have heard or read about, his subsequent immersion into the world of «show tunes», which I normally stay away from simply through lack of interest, was complete, yet none of his subsequent productions replicated even a tiny part of the brouhaha caused by Phantom. There may be occasional patches of populist greatness left in there, but it just makes no sense reviewing that kind of music instead of, say, Westside Story. On the other hand, the musical journey that began with Joseph and Jesus reaches quite a natural ending here — a thrilling journey, in itself, one that perhaps deserves being turned into its own musical (on the malicious effects of commer­cial success, entitled Phantom Of The Superstar). And who would be the composer and the lib­rettist? That one's easy — Roger Waters, of course!

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Andrew Lloyd Webber: Starlight Express

ANDREW LLOYD WEBBER: STARLIGHT EXPRESS (1984)

1) Overture; 2) Rolling Stock; 3) Call Me Rusty; 4) A Lotta Locomotion; 5) Pumping Iron; 6) Freight; 7) AC/DC; 8) He Whistled At Me; 9) The Race; 10) There's Me; 11) Poppa's Blues; 12) Belle The Sleeping Car; 13) Starlight Ex­press; 14) The Rap; 15) U.N.C.O.U.P.L.E.D.; 16) Rolling Stock (reprise); 17) CB; 18) Right Place, Right Time; 19) I Am The Starlight; 20) He Whistled At Me (reprise); 21) Race: The Final; 22) No Come Back; 23) One Rock & Roll Too Many; 24) Only He; 25) Only You; 26) Light At The End Of The Tunnel.

I have never read a single book of the Rev W. Awdry's Railway Series, so I do not have the faint­est idea if Rev Ll. Webber's musical interpretation of these oeuvres matches the vision of their li­terary creator. I am pretty sure, though, that the Railway Series did not as thoroughly explore all of the clichés of popular literary genres as Starlight Express does it with popular music — and, therefore, deduce that, for Lloyd Webber, the cutesy stories about anthropomorphic trains were mostly just an excuse to write something lite — for the «young adult» or whatever that species is called — and indulge in a bunch of simplistic pleasures.

Simplistic, but genuinely fun. Like Tell Me On A Sunday, Starlight Express sort of got lost in between the hugeness of Cats and Phantom Of The Opera, but it is exactly because of its rela­tive lack of ambition that I can easily see how the talking trains could be more sympathetic than the talking cats or the talking ghosts. However, there are two things one has to accept before pro­ceeding: (1) the storyline, the train characters, and their life problems sound very silly, so if you cannot stand silly, get outta here; (2) the music is as derivative as it comes — derived from all over the place, but with barely a finger lifted to write a strikingly original melody. (Oh, and the actors are all supposed to be roller-skating throughout the show, but, fortunately, the original cast recording has no whirring on it, so I suppose the singers were skate-free in the studio.)

This strange bout of «laziness» resulted in the album having no big hit single, no ʽMemoryʼ to flood the airwaves, but that is hardly a reason to complain: despite the overwhelming diversity of styles, Starlight Express is sternly coherent, and does not really need a big cathartic statement. It's just one for the kids, really, and it works well from that point of view. The real downside is that, having temporarily re-oriented himself on the pop/rock idiom, Sir Andrew also got entang­l­ed in 1980s production — replete with generic synthesizers, big bashing drums, programmed rhythm tracks, the works. It does not occur on all of the tracks, but about 70% are contaminated, and you have to bear with this, too, or hunt for newer versions of the musical (which I would not recommend: given the fact that Lloyd Webber's sense of taste seems to have been worsening ex­ponentially with each new decade, I can only hope that his heirs will return him the honors that he seems to be unable to bestow upon himself in person).

Anyway, lower your expectations, grab the popcorn, and Starlight Express is really a delight­ful little ride. As I said, the story is nothing to write home about: there is, naturally, a love element, an array of various «train personalities» in a mish-mash technically (but not musically) similar to the character array of Cats, and a shaky subject line concerning a train race, which Andrew re­gards as a good pretext to stuff disco elements into the pot — because, naturally, what other sort of music would better correspond to a train race? (Thrash metal, perhaps, but something tells me Sir Andrew was not a big fan of Show No Mercy at the time... yet).

The songs are harmless fun, though, particularly when they emulate older genres. ʽRolling Stockʼ sounds like bulgy disco-era ELO (à la ʽDon't Let Me Downʼ), with an extra touch of classic glam. ʽA Lotta Locomotionʼ is girl-pop with a Caribbean flavor (and a bit of pre-pubescent Michael Jack­sonism?). ʽPumping Ironʼ is pedestrian, but startlingly arrogant boogie; ʽPoppa's Bluesʼ wise­ly imitates pub-style, drunken blues-rock rather than «reverential» blues-rock; the vaudeville of ʽBelle The Sleeping Carʼ goes down easy due to P. P. Arnold's powerhouse vocal performance (best on the whole album, I'd say); and by the time we get to the closing fast-tempo gospel finale of ʽLight At The End Of The Tunnelʼ, many more of these short genre-honoring nuggets will make their appearance, way too many to waste time on their descriptions.

Every now and then, of course, the composer delves into the «now», usually with abysmal results because such words as «underground» or «non-commercial» are not in Andrew Lloyd Webber's lingo: his idea of keeping up with the times is best exemplified on ʽThe Rapʼ, which is more or less what it says it is and wastes five minutes of my time on having to listen to a bunch of trains arguing between each other in a «rap» fashion. There are also a few numbers like ʽAC/DCʼ that tend to drift way too far into the synth-pop realm, and seeing Lloyd Webber work in a Depeche Mode state of mind is not the happiest of choices. On the other hand, ʽThe Raceʼ, which takes all the individual train themes and sets them to disco beats, is seductively cheesy in much the same way as the disco «experiments» on Saturday Night Fever — there is something deeply embar­rassing about the experience, but it carries about a sense of silly happy giddiness that hooks you in regardless of, or maybe due to the silliness.

Derivative, but at times insanely catchy; silly, but unpretentious; lightweight, but cute; inconsis­tent, but diverse enough to justify the inconsistencies — Starlight Express is Webber-fluff at its absolute best, and all the lovers of solid, patented fluff should join me here in my thumbs up. But if you have kids, just give them the record: do not expose them to the sight of one too many pairs of roller skates at the same time.

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Andrew Lloyd Webber: Cats

ANDREW LLOYD WEBBER: CATS (1981)

1) Overture; 2) Prologue: Jellicle Songs For Jellicle Cats; 3) The Naming Of Cats; 4) The Invitation To The Jellicle Ball; 5) The Old Gumbie Cat; 6) The Rum Tum Tugger; 7) Grizabella: The Glamour Cat; 8) Bustopher Jones; 9) Mungojerrie And Rumpelteazer; 10) Old Deuteronomy; 11) The Jelllicle Ball; 12) Grizabella; 13) The Moments Of Happiness; 14) Gus: The Theatre Cat; 15) Growltiger's Last Stand; 16) Skimbleshanks: The Railway Cat; 17) Ma­ca­vi­ty; 18) Mr. Mistoffelees; 19) Memory; 20) The Journey To The Heaviside Layer; 21) The Ad-Dressing Of Cats.

This review is for the Original London Cast of Cats, which, predictably, is a little less Broad­wayish than the Original Broadway Cast, although the two are only separated by one year, and the difference is not particularly striking. As usual, there are dozens of subsequent versions as well, including a relatively tolerable movie (musically tolerable — the idea of enjoying people jump around in stupid cat make-up has, for some reason, never appealed to me at all), but review­ing all of them would be quite a chore, considering that I have no deep love for the original.

It is a bit ironic, of course, that Sir Andrew would go completely song-and-dance on a piece of work drawn from the art of T. S. Eliot. But then, the original Old Possum's Book Of Practical Cats could hardly be called a «peak of intellectualism» all by itself. And if we take Cats in the on­ly reasonable way it could be taken — as a «show for the entire family, with emphasis on the kids» — then it has to be agreed that Webber did manage to find a perfectly appropriate musical vibe to fit the funny feline adventures as narrated by Old Possum.

Cats are lightweight, kitschy, and occasionally corny; and ʽMemoryʼ has been overplayed to such a terrible death that, like the Beatles' ʽYesterdayʼ, it is one of those songs today that one may find almost im­possible to enjoy on a gut level. Still (okay, here goes), ʽMemoryʼ is a great song, even despite being covered by Barry Manilow and Celine Dion, and there is quite a bit of excellent music to be found on the rest of the album as well.

The big colorful advantage of Old Possum's Book is that it introduces such an enormous variety of characters, exploring all sides of cat psychology; and, respecting that, Webber took the right decision to represent each of these characters with a different musical style — which makes Cats into his most eclectic oeuvre of all time. Let us see. There is some old time flapper jazz (ʽThe Old Gumbie Catʼ); some playful R&B (ʽThe Rum Tum Tuggerʼ); a bit of mock-Wagnerian opera (ʽGri­za­bellaʼ); some folk-pop (ʽBustopher Jonesʼ); nods to «classic» Rogers & Hammerstein and the like (ʽOld Deuteronomyʼ); kiddie sing-alongs from Sesame Street (ʽSkimbleshanksʼ); spy mo­vie muzak (ʽMacavityʼ); big, brawny glam-pop (ʽMr. Mistoffeleesʼ); and even a lengthy multi-part suite (ʽGrowltiger's Last Standʼ) that could, for almost ten minutes, evoke a progressive rock feeling in whoever would be willing to properly assess its complexity.

The bad news is that the atmosphere of it all way too often seems either «cutesy» or downright «silly». The two and a half minute long ʽOvertureʼ, mostly built on pianos and synthesized horns and strings, is inspiring and occasionally even tense, but as the ʽPrologueʼ leads you on into the world of merrily dancing predators singing "jellicle songs for jellicle cats", you might begin to wonder whether you have just been politely asked to surrender a significant part of your brain, and if yes, then what are your actual gains from surrendering it.

Clearly, nobody should be afraid of a little silliness from a grown-up person, but when that silli­ness takes on the form of a major stage musical, that may be a little over the top. Fortunately, as on most of Webber's «original casts», the singers never tend to overdramatize (the only part that I could never really stand was Paul Nicholas as ʽThe Rum Tum Tuggerʼ, but that may be not so much his fault as an inborn element of incoherence between the music and the vocal part).

Unfortunately, the whimsy nature of the show makes it hard to be genuinely moved by its darker or more complex moments: basically, everything connected with the character of Grizabella (who was not a character in Eliot's book, but existed as a sketch, eventually removed by the author due to the «excessive sadness» of her persona), and the choral hymn conclusion of ʽThe Ad-Dressing Of Catsʼ. Along with diversity, they add confusion, and the sequencing requires getting used to. It is hardly a surprise that ʽMemoryʼ, sung by the Grizabella character (Elaine Page in this original version), took on a life of its own — not just because it is the best song on the album (it may or may not be), but also because it feels quite out of tune with it, and works well when disconnected from the amusing cat melange.

But overall, Cats is fun. It should be taken for what it is: a lightweight stage musical to give the people a good time. It is a high-class musical, set, after all, to much higher quality lyrics than Tim Rice could ever provide, and written in a broad, ambitious manner — even if the actual music, once you have eliminated all the endless reprisals and analyzed all the remaining themes and mo­tives, may perhaps be judged as a triumph of form over substance (Webber's «debts» to classical and other composers, e. g. to Puccini for ʽMemoryʼ, are well on record, nor did he ever deny those debts altogether himself). So why should anyone be cringing?

Only for one reason — because Cats completes and stabilizes Webber's transition into the world of second-hand fluff. JCS granted the man immortality, Evita could still be perceived as a seri­ous musical work tackling sharp subjects, and even Tell Me On A Sunday, behind its exaggera­ted simplicity and minimalism, was hiding loads of social bitterness. Cats, on the other hand, at the same time pull out all musical stops and have no «big meaning» whatsoever. They were, and still are, a commercial triumph, but they pretty much crashed Webber's reputation in «serious» circles, or, at least, initiated that crash, completed five years later with Phantom Of The Opera. In a different context, they could be just a light comedic divertissement for the man (as Jeeves was in the mid-1970s): as it happened, he somewhat got stuck in «light» mode for the rest of his life. Thumbs up anyway — but do not even think of coming close to this kind of music if JCS and Evita are your ideal projection of Andrew Lloyd Webber, and you'd like it to stay that way.

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Andrew Lloyd Webber: Tell Me On A Sunday

ANDREW LLOYD WEBBER: TELL ME ON A SUNDAY (1980)

1) Take That Look Off Your Face; 2) Let Me Finish; 3) It's Not The End Of The World (If I Lose Him); 4) Letter Home To England; 5) Sheldon Bloom; 6) Capped Teeth And Caesar Salad; 7) You Made Me Think You Were In Love; 8) It's Not The End Of The World (If He's Younger); 9) Second Letter Home; 10) Come Back With The Same Look In Your Eyes; 11) Let's Talk About You; 12) Take That Look Off Your Face (reprise); 13) Tell Me On A Sun­day; 14) It's Not The End Of The World (If He's Married); 15) I'm Very You, You're Very Me; 16) Nothing Like You've Ever Known; 17) Let Me Finish (reprise).

In between the giant successes of Evita and Cats lies this little platter, quite delicious in its own humble way. I omit a review of Variations, a rock/classical hybrid that Andrew concocted in col­laboration with his brother Julian (a classically trained cellist) — I have no skills that would al­low me to properly «review» Paganini, much less a set of 23 variations that A. L. W. composed for Caprice No. 24 In A Minor — but the odd trick is that, eventually, the Baron found a way to integrate both projects: the musical Song And Dance would be splicing together Tell Me On A Sunday, a relatively short song cycle performed in its entirety by one female vocalist, and Varia­tions, choreographed for a ballet performance.

I do not care much for the Song And Dance idea: merging these two completely different ventures within one concept was merely a pretentious gesture, whose real purpose must have been not to «lose sight» of all of Webber's latest creations. It did not actually last too long, and eventually Tell Me On A Sunday re-emerged on its own, expanded with several extra songs to boost the over­all length of the performance (the original album goes only slightly over 40 minutes). How­ever, to this day it still remains one of the lesser known Webber musicals, eclipsed by one too many biggies.

Which is a pity, because there is an element of subtle intrigue and freshness about this project that sets it apart. For one thing, it is all targeted towards one singer: the original album is usually lis­ted as part of the discography of the UK artist Marti Webb (selected by Webber based on her previous experience as Evita in the matinee performance), although most people have probably never even heard of any other Marti Webb albums (they do exist). For another thing, it is all on a relatively small scale: the whole story, with lyrics written by Don Black after Webber and Rice had a falling out, explores the confused personal relationships of one young girl that take her from New York to Los Angeles and back again. The subject is not particularly overwhelming and, when you come to think of it, everything is oh so very Seventies, but neither is it stupid or over­tly clichéd, and, with a subject like that, there is no risk of the attitude ever becoming overbearing.

Apart from a few brief plot-related links, the whole record does not really have the feel of a mu­sical — more like a typically 1970s soft-rock / folk-pop album, and only Marti Webb's musical-oriented vocals betray the final stage goals of the concept. They are appropriately sweet, though, and never over-the-top (as it always happens to Webber productions as they age — starting out with technically imperfect vocalists who compensate for imperfection by actually sounding like human beings, then eventually falling into the hands of «poor man opera singers» who squeeze all the humanistic content out of them by overacting like crazy). Webb lives up to the role — the character here is not as complex as Evita, but not as fairy-tale-ish, either, and her anger, irony, sentimentality, and sadness are all believable.

And then there is some good music, too. ʽTake That Look Off Your Faceʼ, the lead-in number where the heroine reacts to the first news of her boyfriend cheating on her, went all the way to No. 3 on the UK charts when released as a single — at the height of the disco/New Wave era, despite its defiantly tradionalist melodic structure and arrangement. Actually, it bridges the gap between folk-pop and ABBA-style Europop (without the corny synthesizers), and gives the world a fine, appetizing transition from the light ("take that look off your face, I can see through your smile...") to the dark (the "couldn't wait to bring all of that bad news to my door" employs delightfully thre­atening chords to show us a bit of the «unsettling» side of the protagonist).

Other memorable compositions range from sappy, but modestly and stylishly touching balladry (title track) to quirky combinations of old school vaudeville with a hillbilly shuffle attitude (ʽCap­ped Teeth And Caesar Saladʼ) to featherlight upbeat pop ditties (ʽI'm Very You, You're Very Meʼ) and only very occasionally, a bit of a harder punch to accentuate the bad mood spells of the pro­ta­gonist (ʽLet Me Finishʼ). As usual, almost each motive gets reprised at least two or three times, which may seem overkill given the album's short running length, but all of the compositions are fairly brisky themselves — this is all «small-scale» indeed, with none of Evita's sweeping orche­stral runs or church chorals. So there is really plenty of time to fit in everything fittable.

If you can stand a little sentimentality, I'd at least certainly recommend Tell Me On A Sunday over... well, my personal diagnosis is that I am incurably allergic to The Sound Of Music and eve­rything of its ilk, so, naturally, a light musical with a sentimental female protagonist, for me, is automatically stripped of any presumption of innocence there may be. Yet, in a way, this whole thing sounds more like a Carpenters album than a genuine Julie Andrews orato­rio, and a fairly well-written Carpenters album with an intelligent (if not all that intellectual) concept. A nice, healthy way for the composer to close out the decade — and that entire part of his career which need not, and, quite often, should not be described with the word «cloying».

Thumbs up — for this original version: I have not heard the more recent expanded revision of Tell Me On A Sun­day, but, through the powers of induction, can guess that it probably does not beat the Marti Webb show. Oh, by the way, Rod Argent, of the Zombies and Argent fame, is here on all the keyboards (he also played on the Variations album before that), and Jon Hiseman, of the jazz-rock pioneer band Colosseum fame, is on drums — one good reason for the rock music fan to seek this out (not that there is a lot of keyboard wizardry or thunderous drumming going on, but still, you never know how to please your subconscious).

Andrew Lloyd Webber: Evita

ANDREW LLOYD WEBBER: EVITA (1976)

1) A Cinema In Bueno Aires, 26 July 1952; 2) Requiem For Evita / Oh What A Circus; 3) On This Night Of A Thousand Stars / Eva And Magaldi / Eva Beware Of The City; 4) Buenos Aires; 5) Goodnight And Thank You; 6) The Lady's Got Potential; 7) Charity Concert / I'd Be Surprisingly Good For You; 8) Another Suitcase In Another Hall; 9) Dangerous Jade; 10) A New Argentina; 11) On The Balcony Of The Casa Rosada / Don't Cry For Me Argentina; 12) High Flying, Adored; 13) Rainbow High; 14) Rainbow Tour; 15) The Actress Hasn't Learned The Lines (You'd Like To Hear); 16) And The Money Kept Rolling (In And Out); 17) Santa Evita; 18) Waltz For Eva And Che; 19) She Is A Diamond; 20) Dice Are Rolling / Eva's Sonnet; 21) Eva's Final Broadcast; 22) Montage; 23) Lament.

If not for Jesus Christ Superstar and its (a) superhuman musical impact and (b) nominal allegi­ance to the «rock» paradigm, I would hardly have a single pretext, or even personal stimulus, to include Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber in this section. As incredible as it may seem, JCS was an arti­stic accident — an achievement achieved simply because Webber, a talented, but misguided com­poser, for once in his life decided to «try it out this way». The result happened to transcend all known musical borders. But it was never Sir Andrew's conscious intention to transcend all known musical borders. He just needed a particular musical framework that could fit the subject, and he found it. Who knows: perhaps, in the wake of JCS' success, had he begun looking for subjects of comparable grandiosity — oh, I dunno, such as setting The Brothers Karamazov to music — he might have produced comparable results.

Instead, as Wikipedia niftily puts it, «the planned follow up to Jesus Christ Superstar was a mu­si­cal comedy based on the Jeeves and Wooster novels by P. G. Wodehouse». That is Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber to you, in a nutshell. Oh, there is nothing wrong in alternating grand tragedies with lightweight comedies, as such (Will Shakespeare could vouch for that); still, this was rather sym­bolic, and vaguely hinted at the idea that Webber would never again conceive a project on such a grand scale as JCS — and he didn't. (Enter all good Christians pointing out that you can never get a scale grander than the one upon which you mount the figure of Christ; exit all good Christi­ans after we politely point out the fact that Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber himself was, and remains, at a significant distance from a «good Christian», and, probably, views Jesus himself as simply one of his action figures, on the same shelf as Old Deuteronomy and The Phantom.)

The «grandest» and «grittiest» that Webber ever got after JCS was in 1976. After the predictable flop of Jeeves (due in part to the fact that Andrew and his new librettist, Alan Ayckbourn, tried to cram as much of the novels as possible into the musical; Tim Rice had the wisdom to pull out of the project before it was too late), Webber and Rice reteamed once again, choosing, this time, a female deity figure for their next project — Eva Perón, who, by then, was a figure only slightly less legendary than Jesus himself, and, on the faraway shores of Argentina, was definitely «bigger than the Beatles», to paraphrase John Lennon.

As a musical, Evita is pretty damn good, if you have an ear for musicals; and it still managed to preserve some of the toughness of old, with much of the music built on a bluesy or R'n'B-ish fou­ndation. That said, this time around, the music is almost worthless without the story and the sin­ging; as in all traditional musicals, the tunes are there as backdrops for the singers and their per­sonalities — no wonder that the original concept album opens without an overture, since there are only a tiny handful of themes from which a solid overture could be drawn (instead, there is a sort of «underture», a ʽMontageʼ, crudely assembled from reprises of several parts of the show — quite annoying, considering that most of the themes have already been reprised several times).

The atmosphere is occasionally Broadwayish, but, on the whole, remains credible. The high quo­tient of Latin motives, flamencos, and ardent sentimentality, may displease, but, given the subject, hardly seems out of place — no more so than elements of Catholic church music (along with a children's choir on ʽSanta Evitaʼ), without which a musical about Argentina and its modern day neo-Madonna would be unthinkable. Many of the ballads are still cast in the typically 1970s soft-rock / folk-pop idiom (ʽHigh Flying, Adoredʼ, etc.), which is at least better than casting them in a Julie Andrews or Barbra Streisand manner.

As for the singers, well, Evita is really a one-actor show: although Paul Jones (the original lead singer in Man­fred Mann) is quite functional in lending his pipes to the impersonation of Juan Pe­rón, and Colm Wilkinson has enough sneer to convey the sarcasm and criticism of the narrator and one-man-Greek-chorus Che, the whole story basically belongs to Evita — with Julie Coving­ton nailing the part as perfectly as the composition allows. (Clearly, there is no comparison with the Madonna version — which arguably remains much better known simply because it is the Ma­donna version, but signora Ciccone, who admittedly had to take extra vocal lessons to sing the part, despite, perhaps, being somewhat close to the real Eva Perón in spirit — she handles the role rather well from a strictly visual viewpoint — could never accumu­late proportionally acceptable strength in her vocal cords).

Covington's arias are really the only good reasons to listen to the whole thing at all — and I do not mean just ʽDon't Cry For Me, Argentinaʼ, which actually works much better in the overall set­ting of the album than when ripped out of the show and overplayed and overcovered to death in the framework of our modern pop culture. ʽAnother Suitcase In Another Handʼ, ʽHigh Flying, Adoredʼ, and even the cooing ʽI'd Be Surprisingly Good For Youʼ, in which the dame is wooing over her future president husband, all have a touch of frail beauty — which is then topsy-turved into brawn and aggression on ʽBuenos Airesʼ and ʽRainbow Highʼ. All in all, Covington succeeds in making a fascinating musical character out of Eva — if not a very pleasant one: I do not know of the original reaction to the musical in Argentina, but Alan Parker's movie, twenty years later, caused quite an uproar, much as JCS succeeded in disturbing the minds of one too many mind­less Christian fanatics before it.

Composition-wise, Evita and its author could certainly be accused of laziness: recurring themes and leitmotifs crop up all of the time, and when you get it all together and start packing it in, there are maybe like five or six fully completed, fleshed out, memorable compositions on the album. But the record moves on with turbulence and dynamics, and there are quite a few unexpected sur­prises — for instance, the instrumental mid-section of ʽBuenos Airesʼ, delving into funk and even disco for a couple minutes; the boogie-blues of ʽDangerous Jadeʼ, associated, for some reason, with Perón's military officials; and the mournful minimalistic conclusion (ʽLamentʼ), backed with nothing but an acoustic guitar part. At the very least, Webber and Rice consistently keep it from becoming too boring.

Strictly «rock»-oriented listeners, not to mention all partisans of the «anti-commercial» move­ment, will find little of value in Evita — in fact, they will probably not even start looking for it. But it is definitely not yer ordinary Broadway show, and still shows Sir Andrew at the top of his game — even after a self-initiated change of rules. Just do not spoil your experience with the Ma­donna version: by all means, seek out the original. (There may be other good ones as well: last time I looked, there was something like twenty-five commercially available recordings of Evita in English alone — yet the original recording fully appeases the small Evita-loving part of my cha­rac­ter, so you are on your own for any follow-ups). A modest thumbs up — mainly for Julie Covington's performance, without which this would be «just another musical», with an unclear audience (regular musical-goers would prefer something softer and more family-oriented, where­as rock opera lovers would always just remember this as a cruel downfall after JCS).

Check "Evita" (CD) on Amazon

Andrew Lloyd Webber: Jesus Christ Superstar (Original Movie Soundtrack)

ANDREW LLOYD WEBBER: JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR (SOUNDTRACK) (1973)

1) Overture; 2) Heaven On Their Minds; 3) What's The Buzz; 4) Strange Thing Mystifying; 5) Then We Are Decided; 6) Everything's Alright; 7) This Jesus Must Die; 8) Hosanna; 9) Simon Zealotes; 10) Poor Jerusalem; 11) Pilate's Dream; 12) The Temple; 13) I Don't Know How To Love Him; 14) Damned For All Time/Blood Money; 15) The Last Supper; 16) Gethsemane (I Only Want To Say); 17) The Arrest; 18) Peter's Denial; 19) Pilate And Christ; 20) King Herod's Song; 21) Could We Start Again; 22) Judas's Death; 23) Trial Before Pilate (including The 39 Lashes); 24) Superstar; 25) Cru­ci­fi­xi­on; 26) John Nineteen Forty-One.

By the time Norman Jewison got around to filming JCS for the big screen, it had already evolved from its early beginnings as a Decca «concept album» into a lavish musical, staged in London, on Broadway, and beginning to be exported to other locations as well. With several years of fleshing out the structure, arrangements, and performances, it is no wonder that the 1973 version sounds like a more «complete» experience than the 1970 original, even if this should not be forcing fans of Ian Gillan, Murray Head, and Joe Cocker's Grease Band to immediately switch their loyalties.

My own loyalties, though, have firmly stayed on the side of the movie soundtrack all through the years. Which is a bit comical, since I was never a huge fan of the movie itself. Like so many other rock-based movies of the 1970s (remember Ken Russell?), it leaned a bit too heavily on the kitsch side, and ended up dated and ridiculous in quite a few aspects. I do not actually mind some of the anachronisms — arming the Romans with Uzis and setting the Jewish priests up on scaffolds ad­ded a fun element, and the scene of Judas running away from rolling tanks kind of sticks in your memory, like it or not — but the «glam» elements of contemporary culture, scattered all over the place, are as out of place today as they used to be then. It is true that Rice's lyrics are replete with references to contemporary pop culture (referring to Jesus as «top of the poll» or asking «did you know your death would be a record breaker?» is certainly not the way a more clerically-minded person would address the same issues) — but I still believe that is exactly where it all should have stopped, because now, instead of watching what could easily have been one of the finest JC-mo­vies of all time, we are forced to watch a movie about Afros, R&B dancing, hippie clothes and hairstyles and lots of other stuff that, in the end, narrow the range and scope of JCS instead of attempting to broaden it.

Which is all the more pitiful considering just how perfect the assembled cast is. Of the original UK cast, only Yvonne Elliman as Mary and Barry Dennen as Pilate reprise their parts — for very good reason, and, in fact, this particular stab of Dennen's at the Pilate role easily trumps his first take: now he is a very smug, self-confident, even a little bit tricksterish Pilate that finally falls vic­tim to a shattering nervous breakdown. Bob Bingham's deep bass makes a Caiaphas to die for; Josh Mostel may be overacting the buffoonery King Herod part a little bit when compared to Mike d'Abo's more restrained performance, but I would say that, out of all the parts, this is one part that does not suffer too much from overacting.

Then there is the magnificent Carl Anderson as Judas; predictably, there was a bit of fuss about a black member of the cast playing the greatest antagonist in history — but even if we are stupid enough to accept the «racist» argument in the first place, let us remind ourselves that the Judas of JCS was never intended to be portrayed as «evil» or, in any way, a «malicious» person. And Carl succeeds in showing his inner torment far better than Murray Head — by playing out the role with noticeably more passion, aggression, and versatility.

Finally, the completely unknown Ted Neeley — together with Carl, both were understudies in the original Broadway version, and got the movie part through sheer luck — will always be the ideal Jesus for me. His voice is more thin and frail than Gillan's, which suits the character quite well, yet he is still able to raise it to a shrill scream when necessary (on ʽGethsemaneʼ, for instance), and he conveys the «sad little man» aspect of Jesus with great skill and subtlety. Nor do his arias sound rushed any more — ʽPoor Jerusalemʼ is now taken at just the right tempo that gives Ted plenty of time to hit each syllable as hard as is required for a prophetic passage.

It is interesting that the performances in the movie differ quite sharply from bits and pieces of the original Broadway stage version that I have heard, even though the cast, apart from the two major players, remains very much the same — apparently, the motto for the movie must have been «less theater, more realism», so that, even despite all the fads and trappings, the movie, and the movie soundtrack frequently produces a skin-crawling effect. The singing is in no way dominated by the kind of crap I personally hate about Broadway musicals: each performer makes his/her best to make every line come alive. When Pilate and Christ engage in their rapid-fire verbal duel in the intense ʽTrialʼ passage, they are talking, like two emotion-bound human beings — and, at the same time, singing on key. No matter how many times I listen to these performances, I still can't help feeling amazed at how startingly effective they pull off almost every line.

And yes, this time around the show looks definitely completed. The extra Annas/Caiaphas dia­log on ʽThen We Are Decidedʼ, early on in the show, is a delicious dark taster of grim things to come. The fanfaric ʽHosannaʼ is extended with one extra verse ("sing out for yourselves, for you are blessed") which is actually very important — it is the only place throughout the whole opera where Jesus, for once, sounds happy, surrounded by his admirers. The Mary/Peter duet on ʽCould We Start Againʼ adds an original and interesting lyrical twist from Rice and is a great emotional «tender breather» in between all the rough post-Gethsemane stuff. The extra verse and bridge in ʽTrial Be­fore Pilateʼ gives us more time — and suspense! — to prepare for the tension of ʽThe 39 Lashesʼ. At the same time, a few unnecessary bits have been trimmed — such as the ultra-long repeti­tive coda to ʽEverything's Alrightʼ — so that, in the end, the running length is just about the same as on the original, but the final album makes much better use of all that time.

In short, while I am always happy to have the Gillan/Head version around, it is the Neeley/An­derson version, I hope, that will stand the test of time as the ultimate JCS version. Granted, I should add here that I know almost nothing of the subsequent castings, which have been nume­rous and possibly successful; but, to be perfectly honest, I don't think I even want to know, be­cause I honestly have no idea how anyone, anywhere, anyhow could ever improve on this inter­pretation. (I once caught a glimpse of some bits of the 2000 filmed version, with Glenn Carter as Jesus — just a glimpse, since I had to shut it off very quickly, fearing for the safety of my sto­mach: the pomp, pathos, overacting, and oversinging seemed to personify everything that I could ever abhor about these kinds of staging. Unsurprisingly, Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber proclaimed this his personal favourite of all interpretations).

And yes, the movie deserves to be seen — we should probably just learn to disregard its dated as­pects and concentrate on the performances, because visually, the actors fully match the emotions that we feel from their singing. And it actually does work as a movie about Jesus Christ — much better so, at least, than Mel Gibson's sadistic Christploitation flick; not to mention that Jewison faithfully preserves the ambiguity of the opera, and we never get to know «the truth». (We do see, symbolically, an empty cross at the end — yet we are never told how exactly it got empty, and, to be precise, Jesus was resurrected from the tomb, not from the cross). On the other hand, the «movie soundtrack» certainly needs no visuals to be appreciated as a great, thoroughly inspired and magnificently arranged and recorded piece of work. Thumbs up a-plenty.

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Andrew Lloyd Webber: Jesus Christ Superstar

ANDREW LLOYD WEBBER: JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR (1970)

1) Overture; 2) Heaven On Their Minds; 3) What's The Buzz/Strange Thing Mystifying; 4) Everything's Alright; 5) This Jesus Must Die; 6) Hosanna; 7) Simon Zealotes/Poor Jerusalem; 8) Pilate's Dream; 9) The Temple; 10) Eve­ry­thing's Alright (reprise); 11) I Don't Know How To Love Him; 12) Damned For All Time/Blood Money; 13) The Last Supper; 14) Gethsemane (I Only Want To Say); 15) The Arrest; 16) Peter's Denial; 17) Pilate And Christ; 18) King Herod's Song; 19) Judas's Death; 20) Trial Before Pilate (including The 39 Lashes); 21) Superstar; 22) Cru­ci­fi­xi­on; 23) John Nineteen Forty-One.

It makes good healthy sense to take a brief listen to Joseph before diving deep into Jesus Christ Superstar — if only for the sake of getting amazed at one of the most gigantic creative leaps of pop music's most exciting decade. Of course, the very idea of writing a musical / rock opera on the life of JC would preclude the authors from taking it too lightly: neither Andrew Lloyd, nor Tim Rice were dedicated Christians, but neither of them could have the audacity to take on an overtly humorous or satiric attitude towards the matter. Still, intention is one thing, and execution is an entirely different one; and where Joseph, execution-wise, was for the most part funny, fluf­fy vaudeville, JCS is, unquestionably, one of the grandest high-tragical works of our age.

In general, critical respect and continuous fan support for JCS is due to the fact that, out of all of Sir Andrew's works, it is the most «rock-oriented» one. The music as such does not relate nearly as much to the psychedelic / hard-rock / blues-rock movements of its era as it does to contempo­rary R&B, and the bulk of the melodies still have the typical Broadway show as their forefather; but the arrangements have been cleverly designed to get in tune with the rock crowds, and it is no coincidence that, for the original studio sessions, Webber and Rice got Joe Cocker's Grease Band to record most of the parts (including electric guitarists Neil Hubbard and Henry McCulloch), not to mention, of course, offering the main vocal lead to Deep Purple's Ian Gillan. The result is fun­ny — a totally non-rock'n'roll album that totally sounds like one.

But the real overwhelming success of JCS, of course, has nothing to do with electric guitars and Gillan's proto-metal screaming. It has everything to do with two people setting themselves one of the hardest tasks in music history — writing a rock musical about the last days of Jesus' presence on Earth — and pulling it off. If nothing that Webber ever did later can even come close to the effect of JCS, it is not because the effort drained him of all talent; it is simply because he would never again encumber himself with a task involving so much responsibility. If you are embarking on a project like JCS, you have to (a) make sure that your work produces a cathartic effect on al­most everyone, regardless of their religious feelings; (b) make sure that your work sounds con­temporary enough to not be laughed off as pretentious mimicry, yet also timeless enough to not let its effect wear off on the very next generation; (c) make sure that your work does not offend the religious, yet at the same time stay true to your own inner feelings about the matter, which may not at all be religious. If even one of these conditions goes unsatisfied — the result is a sure­fire failure which might cost you your entire future career.

It is utterly amazing, then, and still amazing to me after all these years, how perfectly all these conditions are met — consequently, resulting in one of the most perfect works of musical art of the entire century. Yes, individual moments, performances, interpretations may be deficient; and, in fact, this Original London Cast version, with Gillan at the helm, has never been my personal favorite. To my ears, it sounds a little rushed, almost like an «early rehearsal» attempt. The tunes are frequently taken at way too fast tempos; the singers do not seem to always have had enough times to properly «get into character»; the players do not seem to have practiced their guitar licks and brass kicks to perfection. In my opinion, the opera needed a certain gestation period, which is why the 1973 movie version boasts more subtlety and significant «character growth», so to speak. But I also understand those who prefer the rawer, less polished spirit of the 1970 version, which they might find more blood-boilingly-aggressive, thanks in part to Gillan's delivery.

Extolling the individual musical virtues of particular tunes would be pointless: if you have alrea­dy heard the record, you can probably do a better job for yourself than I can, and if you haven't, just stop everything that you are doing right now and go get it — there is no excuse for not being acquainted with JCS unless you have something going on against music in general. I might sim­ply mention that I myself knew the whole thing almost by heart upon the third or fourth listen, and that not even a single track on it — not even the briefer links — is devoid of a stunning ins­trumental or vocal hook, sometimes several of them. But it isn't «just» a collection of musical hooks: each theme and passage is perfectly adjusted to its lyrical and spiritual content. Dynamic, aggressive, neurotic-paranoid passages accompany the parts of Judas; coldly ominous, scary brass pomp represents Roman power; lightweight folksiness or silly-sounding R&B dance rhythms are associated with the Apostles (one minor point for which the church people could be left genuinely displeased with JCS is Andrew and Tim's presentation of Jesus' disciples as a bunch of fame-see­king idiots); beautiful balladry is reserved for the likes of Mary Magdalene, etc. — Wagner him­self could have been proud of these guys' use of leitmotifs.

I have occasionally heard people complaining about the crudeness or silliness of Tim Rice's lib­retto — complaints I have never understood, since, in general, the lyrics merely represent minor variations on the original text of the New Testament. A major exception is Judas, who gets to be the show's chief original hero, right from the opening salvos of ʽHeaven On Their Mindsʼ, in which he lays down his justification for the upcoming betrayal, and down to the album's big hit single ʽSuperstarʼ, in which he, already as a ghost, reasons that "If you'd come today, you would have reached a whole nation / Israel in 4 B.C. had no mass communication" (okay, these particu­lar lyrics do sound a bit stupid — but we have to remember that, in the age of Flower Power Guru Explosion, they did sound far more relevant than today).

On the other hand, it is fairly admirable how Rice and Webber manage to keep things in hand — not a single moment on the album lets us know for sure that they are genuinely presenting Jesus as The Sa­viour, The Son of God: throughout the opera, Jesus does not produce a single miracle, even when the lepers in ʽThe Templeʼ beg him to, and the music stops directly at ʽJohn 19:41ʼ ("Now in the place where He was crucified there was a garden. In the garden was a new tomb in which no man had ever yet been laid"), omitting any hints at the Resurrection. Yet, at the same time, not a single moment directly asserts the opposite, either — giving every devoted Christian a fair chance at admitting the opera into their canon of religious works. Some might see this as an intentionally commercial, even cynical attempt at recruiting fans on both sides of the fence, or as a sign of cowardice (two self-professed atheists afraid for the potential consequences of their ac­tions), but that's looking at things from a hatred point of view; I would rather just admire the skill with which they managed to guide their ship through the reef of fanaticism.

A bit of «crudeness» may be found, perhaps, in the constant references to the «superstarsdom» of Jesus — culminating in ʽKing Herod's Songʼ, for which Webber recycled the melody of his ear­lier vaudeville composition ʽTry It And Seeʼ (made into a hit by Rita Pavone); here, the original Biblical mention of Herod imploring Jesus to try out a miracle is basically turned into an allegory for a sleazy entrepreneur imploring his artsy-fartsy client to be a good lad and sell out like they all do. But, come to think of it, this particular projection has even more relevance today than it had in 1970, and ends up adding depth to the show rather than cheapening it.

A few more words are in order regarding this particular version of the opera. As I said, I find it flawed, and not least of all due to the relative ineptness of some of the performers. The major cul­prit is Murray Head as Judas: his lungs are nowhere near as steel-caged as Gillan's, which puts him in a bad position (the role requires him to be way more of a passionate screecher), and his phrasing is frequently muffled and, well, just less expressive than the melody easily allows it to be. Victor Brox as Caiaphas is fairly mediocre as well, coming off more as a mediocre Pharisee meddler than as the iron-willed symbol of conservative evil that the authors must have had in mind. Even Barry Dennen as Pilate does not hit the same heights here as he will do three years later. The only cast member I find beyond reproach is Yvonne Elliman as Mary Magdalene — the true «miracle» of the sessions, since Webber and Rice almost literally picked the lady off the street, where she was doing serious drugs and living off slim barroom pickings; who knows, may­be that was the major reason for which she slipped into the role so quickly and so comfortably (and the decision to release ʽI Don't Know How To Love Himʼ as the album's second single was one of the wisest marketing choices they could have made at the time).

As for Ian Gillan in the title role... he sings it well enough, and there is no question about ever calling his interpretation «wooden» or any of those other well-known nasty names. But the per­formance still occasionally suffers from too much speed (the timing of ʽPoor Jerusalemʼ, for in­stance, is abysmal compared to the movie version — it's almost like, «hey guys, I'd like my pro­phecies to be more heart-wrenching and convincing as much as all of you, but I've still got ten more rallies scheduled in all of the city's quarters, so we'll have to get it over real quick»), and, perhaps, from a bit too much «Deep Purplism»? Basically, just ask yourself the question if you're all right with the same guy who just finished singing ʽChild In Timeʼ to go on with this Jesus role. If you are all right with the idea, Gillan is your personal Jesus for all time. If you're not, you'll just have to wait for Ted Neeley.

Also, there is this small matter of the original version being too short — omitting certain non-cru­cial, but still important character-building numbers, such as ʽThen We Are Decidedʼ (Caiaphas and Annas talking about Jesus' fate prior to the general priest meeting in ʽThis Jesus Must Dieʼ) and the Peter/Mary duet on ʽCould We Start Again Pleaseʼ, and criminally shortening ʽThe Trial Before Pilateʼ, giving Barry Dennen even fewer chances to prove himself firsthand. These may come off as minor quibbles, but they are not: the original cast version, once we get acquainted with the future of the opera, does not come across as «well-rounded».

Still, it is the original cast version — the one that announced JCS as a cultural phenomenon, the one that already ensured Sir Andrew's future knighthood (I will always prefer to think that the man was knighted for JCS and not for Phantom Of The Opera, even if the Queen herself proves me wrong), the one that sold the most copies and produced the most hits, and the one that best fit the Zeitgeist, since, by the time 1973 came along, hard drugs and assholes had already resulted in an entirely different spirit. Hence, even if this is not my favourite version (and even after all has been said and done, it may still easily be a matter of personal preference), it is clearly the most important from a historical perspective, and merits its thumbs up all the way.

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Andrew Lloyd Webber: Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat

ANDREW LLOYD WEBBER: JOSEPH AND THE AMAZING TECHNICOLOR DREAMCOAT (1969)

1) Jacob And Sons; 2) Joseph's Coat; 3) Joseph's Dream; 4) Poor, Poor Joseph; 5) One More Angel In Heaven; 6) Potiphar; 7) Close Every Door; 8) Go, Go, Go Joseph; 9) Poor, Poor Pharoah; 10) Song Of The King (Seven Fat Cows); 11) Pharaoh's Dream Explained; 12) Stone The Crows; 13) The Brothers Come To Egypt / Grovel, Grovel; 14) Who's The Thief?; 15) Joseph All The Time; 16) Jacob In Egypt; 17) Any Dream Will Do.

Not too many people are aware of the fact that Jesus Christ Superstar was not the first time that A. L. Webber and Tim Rice desecrated the Bible under the intoxicating influence of the hippie age. And some of those who are aware of the duo's take on the life of Joseph might mistakenly place it after JC — simply for the reason that it was not until the worldwide success of JC made them household names that they returned to Joseph in all of its «splendor», getting it to run in prestigious Broadway and London theaters and engaging the services of Donny Osmond to en­sure a dramatic surge in teenage girl interest in the Book of Genesis.

But the original recording of Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat was actually released on Decca at least a year prior to JC. It did not manage to catch a lot of public attention, and is quite hard to come by these days as well. Completists should take note that the recording is usually credited to «The Joseph Consortium», which includes a selection of little-known players and singers in which The Colet Court Choir plays a central part: the whole work was originally commissionned by the Colet Court preparatory school, and was first performed on March 1, 1968 as a 15-minute «pop cantata», later expanded to a 30-minute «oratorio». This second version al­ready managed to catch the public eye — and the result was a contract with Decca and this here album, quite hard to come by these days, but available, for instance, as an MP3 download from Amazon and other commercial sites.

If you are a major fan of JC and expect to find something in the same vein, prepare to be disap­pointed. Joseph is not only shorter, simpler, and far more modest in scope and ambition: it is a work produced on an entirely different scale and in an entirely different musical paradigm. It's not just that, at this particular point in his life, Lloyd Webber was still mighty wary of this new potent force called «rock», placing much more of his trust into the variety hall format; it is also that Joseph is essentially just a bit of lightweight entertainment. Put a Bible story in a «pop musical» format? Say, what a golly gee novel idea.

That said, the actual music is not at all «retro». Rather, it is reminiscent of the light family-orien­ted psycho-pop of the times, such as practiced by The Association on one side of the ocean and Manfred Mann on the other. Heavy on strings, chimes, sunshine vocal harmonies, but with a light touch of electric organ, a pinch of fuzzy electric guitar, and some wobbly production effects for the sake of «hipness». Normally, this style is pitiful, although Webber seems to feel quite at home with it, churning out melody after melody in a dazzling sequence of eighteen tracks in thirty-one minutes — although some themes are reprised several times (most notably, the catchiest vocal moment on the album, ʽPoor, Poor Josephʼ, later recreated as ʽPoor, Poor Pharaohʼ), there is an impressive number of diverse chord sequences on the album all the same. Unfortunately, few of them are memorable or emotionally overwhelming.

There are several lead singers on the album, most notably David Daltrey of the contemporary psy­chedelic band Tales Of Justine (!; no relation to Roger as far as I can tell), but the whole thing is presented as an «oratorio» rather than a true «opera», and the vocal retelling of the story of Jo­seph, narrated Tim Rice-style, is nothing to write about. Most ear-catching of the lot is probably Tim's own take on the Pharaoh: ʽSong Of The Kingʼ is carried out as a pa­rody on Elvis — but it is not particularly funny because there is no clear reason why exactly the Pharaoh should be sing­ing in an Elvis manner (they pulled off a similar stunt in a much more convincing manner with ʽKing Herod's Songʼ, which parodied no one in particular but conveyed the hedonistic spirit of the character to a tee with its 1920's spirit). Like everything else, it's just there because there's no harm in trying anything once.

The attentive listener will probably spot a few melodic bits that ended up migrating into JC terri­tory: for instance, the shrill electric guitar solo in ʽOne More Angel In Heavenʼ would later deve­lop into «Pilate's theme», and the vocal melody of ʽWho's The Thiefʼ would be re-appropriated for ʽTrial Before Pilateʼ. But most of these melodies are too kid-friendly to ever suit the dark and tense mood of JC — and the entire experience is so completely tongue-in-cheek that one can ne­ver understand if the primary purpose of the two merry young Brits was to revolutionize the world of music by synthesizing traditional musical, psychedelia, and the Old Testament, or to simply take a hooliganish stab at the Scripture while no one was looking.

In any case, Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat in its original incarnation is still a fun listen; much more dated and strictly tied to its time than JC, but still a curious, one-of-a-kind experiment that has plenty of potential to survive as intelligent «family entertainment» — a musical fairy-tale for the young and old. At the very least, it is certainly far from the worst ef­fort ever undertaken to set the Bible to music — plus, the idea of Joseph as humanity's first psy­chedelic symbol is quite awesome in itself, only marginally less so than the idea of Jesus as hu­manity's first impersonation of the hippie ideal. Thumbs up.