WIRELESS BALLROOM
Ironically, in Wireless Ballroom everything’s wired, both literally and figuratively. The stage is dominated by a giant video screen and covered with keyboards, video monitors, and banks of computers. And the figurative wiring is so ornately–and needlessly–tied into knots, so dependent on the technology, that when the message finally emerges, it’s hard to disentangle it from the mess. It’s also hard to take it seriously. It’s as if, after a wildly imaginative demonstration of knots to be used for rustling and hanging, these little tantalizing tangles were discovered to be best suited as shoelaces. This show dazzles with its technical wizardry but rings false when it comes to its message about the importance of the human element. Wireless Ballroom is so set and calculated, because of the technology, that there is virtually no room for the human imperfection, for accidents and improvisation, the show seeks to exalt.
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Certainly part of the techno spillage is deliberate, the necessary backdrop against which to cast the battle between mind and heart. But just as a writer must avoid boredom even when writing about boredom itself, the Loofahs can’t afford to trip on their wiring. In Wireless Ballroom they do; in Wireless Ballroom you most certainly can see the guys behind the curtain–and they don’t have the folksy wisdom of the Emerald City’s professor-king. They seem nervous and unsure about the piece; if they notice you’ve noticed, they’ll just pull the curtain back.
In many ways, Grigsby’s perfect: like the Loofahs, he enjoys technology and he’s visual, musical, verbal, and hip. Like them he’s a perfectionist and a professional. He’s also a longtime Live Bait associate, having inaugurated the space with Terminal Madness back in 1987. But in other ways Grigsby is quite different from the Loofahs. While they’re warm and earnest, he’s cool and cerebral; while they struggle to be political, he’s always above current events; while they are charming autodidacts, he is an academic, a product of and teacher at art schools.
Unlike Salach, whose writing is usually central in Loofah’s work, Heintz isn’t clever; his poetic voice is less polished, more personal, more self-effacing and quiet. Since given more time in the spotlight as a writer, he has proved an able counterpoint to her. Laying their two voices side by side creates more of a sense of space, sometimes of dialogue. Because their sensibilities are so different, they add layers and colors to the Loofah Method that neither one could achieve on her or his own.
