A few years ago, I watched American boxer Mike Tyson being interviewed on television by Larry King. Tyson had just bitten off an opponent's ear. Larry King asked ”Why did you do that? You really hurt him.” And Tyson replied. “But Larry, I be in the hurtin' business.”
I thought of that story while I was watching The British Invasion because I couldn't understand why I wasn't seeing musical theatre. I couldn't understand why I was not seeing anything like an accurate accounting of the music I grew up with and loved. And then I remembered. The Charlottetown Festival is in the getting bums in seats business. And, for that, The British Invasion is just fine.
Having said that, I'm not really sure what this show is about. British music? Sometimes. Sixties music? Not always. The song selection ranges from the House of the Rising Sun (American blues interpreted by a Brit) to Stayin' Alive (by the The Bee Gees—who moved from Britain to Australia in 1958) to Karma Chameleon (by Brit Boy George—released in 1983). Throw in some Janis Joplin and Joni Mitchell and what is it? Music that people of a certain age can sing along to.
Sometimes, the singers interpret the songs—and sometimes successfully. Kristen Peace's take on Dusty Springfield was fantastic and Joey Kitson gave real depth to A Whiter Shade of Pale and a medley of Tom Jones hits (though I had to listen to the latter with my eyes closed because someone made him wear an awful wig). Sometimes the singers are trying to imitate the original artists—like the Beatles. This hardly ever works. The younger singers, with their musical theatre school trained voices were no match for the boys from Liverpool and I don't know why they were asked to try.
Often, the show resorts to comic interpretations, perhaps to relieve the pressure of trying to interpret or imitate the songs we all know so well. Gerrad Everard's take on Mick Jagger was actually pretty funny. Terry Hatty's take on Joe Cocker was not. Hatty did a credible job of singing I Get By with a Little Help from my friends. But he insisted on flailing about, which, I guess, was supposed to make Cocker's famous on stage gyrations look funny.
The whole show is loosely strung together with a kind of narrative which explains, often incorrectly, why we're seeing what we're seeing. Elton John was not a glam rocker from the 80's. Woodstock was not “America's response to the British invasion.” And I think the actors could lose the British accents without distracting from what they have to say.
By contrast to just about everything else, the band was amazing. Chris Corrigan, Chas Guay, Alan Dowling and Don Fraser actually “got” the music—understood it's emotional depth and technical complexity. Corrigan, in particular, had a tough row to hoe playing the music of Eric Clapton, Keith Richards and Jimmy Page and hitting it out of the park every time. And the arrangements for the orchestra (hidden deep in the pit) were wonderful and added a depth that was often missing from the singing.
Do you I fault the performers for this? Absolutely not. They did the best they could with what they were given. They are, most of them, singers and dancers in the musical theatre tradition and they are good at that. Ask them to “play” the Beatles and that's exactly what they are going to do.
That there is barely a whiff of Canada in this Confederation Centre production is sad. But, on the other hand, the people who walked home behind me didn't give one whit. They had come from Halifax to see the show and they just loved it. “Yes, exclaimed one of the women. I could sing along to every song!”
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