MICHAEL, MARGARET, PAT & KATE
In his “musical reminiscence” Michael, Margaret, Pat & Kate, folksinger Michael Smith confesses that he never achieved the fame enjoyed by such friends and peers as Steve Goodman and John Prine. In fact, by the mid-1980s he’d given up on the music scene and was working a straight job when Steppenwolf Theatre hired him as composer and troubadour for The Grapes of Wrath. Happily, that gig launched a mid-life career in music theater; it also brought him into contact with the gifted director Peter Glazer (Pump Boys and Dinettes, Woody Guthrie’s American Song).
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
With Glazer serving as father confessor, editor, and image shaper, that guardedness reads as subtext, transforming Smith’s dryly witty anecdotes and poignant songs of innocence and experience into a meditation on one man’s search for faith–a search that leads him from religion to love to music to, finally, the healing power of time and memory. Whether he’s talking about the beloved younger sisters whose names complete the shows title, reflecting on the child he fathered but never knew because it was given up for adoption, or describing his alcoholic father’s unexpected suicide, Smith’s understated tone mitigates the stories’ potential mawkishness and suggests the emotional inhibitions developed over 50-plus years of living.
Smith’s relaxed, unpolished stage persona and his thoughtful, lyrical songs (sometimes suggesting Dan Hicks or the Beatles in their hip humor) are augmented by an onstage quartet whose members’ quirky personalities highlight their musical virtuosity. Fiddler Miriam Sturm’s graceful beauty and flawless intonation make her stand apart, but she’s more than matched by accordionist Willy Schwarz, bassist Joel MacMillan, and guitarist Pat Fleming, whose slide and picking solos are a delight. Perfect visual and aural touches set off their splendid playing and vocalizing (ranging in style from 50s do-wop to the Sons of the Pioneers). James Dardenne’s folk-club set, with colored-glass windows through which are projected Smith’s family snapshots, is lovingly lit by Michael Rourke in a vein best described as marijuana mellow; Galen G. Ramsey’s sound design provides atmospheric effects–the cries of seagulls, the tolling of cathedral bells, the scratches on an old record–while Gayland Spaulding’s costumes give Smith and his incredible string band the slightly comic look of duded-up cowboys.
In the plus column, however, are a generally solid cast and lovely scenic design by Kevin Snow, who projects pastel watercolors to suggest a pastoral universality. Standout performances come from McKinley Johnson, a fine singer who burns with hope and idealism as the lovestruck Matt; Danne Taylor and Richard Logan, providing a high quotient of slapstick as the itinerant ham actors who pretend to abduct Matt’s beloved Luisa (Gaye L. Scott); and Chris Vasquez, whose burnished baritone and mercurial portrayal of El Gallo–the story’s sexy, eccentric, funny, comforting, cruel bandit-narrator–energize the show.
