Theatrix will perform opera fest
By Micki Haller
Senior Editor
The words “Grand Opera” are
enough to strike fear in the heart of
any red-blooded, hot-dog-and-apple
pie-scarfing American, but
Theatrix ’ s April Opera Fest is nothing
to worry about.
“It’s going to be really fun and
really good,” Bruce Tinker, artistic
director of Theatrix, said about the 8
p.m. performances in the Studio
Theater of the Temple Building to
night and Friday. .
Officially titled “Inside A Thea
ter,” the fest is a sampling of songs
and solos, and three one-act operas by
the University of Nebraska-Lincoln
School of Music.
Samuel Barber’s “A Hand of
Bridge,” Gian Carlo Mcnotti’s “The
I
Telephone” and the songs will be
directed by Chip Smith. Vaughn
Williams’ “Riders to the Sea,” a
musical adaptation of Eugene
O’Neill’s one-act play, will be di
rected by Karen Zrust
Tinker said the presentation is a
different form of entertainment It
will be all in English and each act lasts
only 10 minutes.
The production gives students a
chance to perform, Tinker said, and is
an outgrowth of the opera class.
Because Theatrix productions are
usually small-scale and without frills,
Tinker called them “minimal op
eras.”
With simple costumes, sets and
lighting, “Inside A Theater” will
suggest rather than create the atmos
phere, Tinker said.
“The focus is on performing and
the text,” Tinker said.
Performers for “Inside A Theater”
are Chris Winkler, Jenny Coon, Jen
nifer Wells, Todd Brooks, Cheryl
Peckenpaugh, Donald Klingelhoefer,
Kathy Keefe, Sharilyn McMahan and
Julie Anne Wieck.
‘The focus is on
performing and
the text.’
— Tinker
“Riders to the Sea” cast members
are Yvonne Anderson, Judi Gardner,
Scott Herr, Shaun Hamer, Holly
Heffelbower, Tina Peters, Gina Th
ompson, Shannon Hamer and Mark
Osborn.
Michael Cotton is the accompa
nist.
A $ 1 donation for students and $2
donation for adults will be requested
at the door.__
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\NOBODY UNDERSELLS MIKE! J
Dead critic, comic strip I
evaluated by reviewers I
Courtesy of Alfred A. Knopf Publishers
By Charles Lieurance
Staff Reporter
Greil Marcus, editor, “Lester
Bangs: Psychotic Reactions and
Carburetor Dung" (Alfred A.
Knopf Publishing)
“Anyone who uses a typewriter is a
girl." — Shane MacGowan,
Bondage magazine, February
1977
Lester Bangs spent most of his
short life toilet-training his senses.
Between 1969 and his pathetic
death in 1982, Bangs published
hundreds upon hundreds of reviews
and rants in the pages of Rolling
Stone, Creem, The Village Voice
and countless underground maga
zines. His style was intensely
unique and contained the same ear
splitting recklessness and energy as
the music he championed.
To his fans he epitomized the raw
nerve of rock and roll on paper. The
screaming feedback of electric in
struments was paralleled in the fren
zied flow of his prose. To his critics
he epitomized the self-absorption
and irresponsibility of so-called
New Journalism.
Rolling Stone’s Greil Marcus has
assembled a sort of greatest-hits
package of Bangs’ writings entitled
“Psychotic Reactions and Carbure
tor Dung.’’ The essays range from
random, often incoherent, notes
probably penned in the wee hours of
the morning whilst coming down
from whatever illicit substance
Bangs was introducing to his fragile
system at the time, to full-blown
ecstatic reviews for the Stone and
Creem.
Bangs lived rock music, for all
the worth of that cliche, from its
nocturnal resilience to its frequent
and furious gotterdammenings, be
lieving wholeheartedly that it was
just as important to listen to music as
it was to play the stuff, once and for
all purging the notion that only
people trained on musical instru
ments should be allowed to make
judgments on its quality.
Bangs’ taste in music was varied,
but leaned toward the virtually un
listenablc. Robert Quine, sometime
guitarist for Richard Hell and Lou
Reed, called Bangs up one day to tell
him he’d figured him out
“Every month you go out and |
deliberately dig up the most godaw
ful wretched worthless unlistenable
offensive irritating unnerving mo
ronic piece of horrible racket noise
you can possibly find, then sit down
and write this review in which you
explain to everybody else in the
world why it’s just wonderful and
they should all run right out and buy
it. Since you’re a good writer,
they’re convinced by the review to
do just that—till they get home and
put the record on, which is when the
pain sets in. They throw it under the
sink or somewhere and swear it’ll
never happen again. By the next
month they've forgotten, but you
haven’t, so the whole process is
repeated again with some other even
more obnoxious piece of hideous
blare . .. You know, I must say, I
have to admit that’s a noble thing to
devote your entire life to.”
Bangs actually seemed to like
this portraitof himself, saying in the
book’s final essay that Quine had
“nailed” him.
“Psychotic Reactions” does con
tain its share of homage to the exe
crable, most of it the kind of cacoph
ony that only the steady consump
tion of hallucinogens can redeem
and Bangs freely admits the role oi
drug use in his musical taste. Re
views of Lou Reed’s “Metal Ma
chine Music,” considered one of ih<
most abhorrent exercises in soni<
excess ever almost across the board
sounded just fine on paper, but ac
tual bouts with the vinyl can only b
recommended to those wishing t
exorcise demons and evil spirit
from the stereo. .
However, Hangs aurai ana cum
dilatory stamina made it possib®
for him to discover the sheer, uni®
hibited joy of the first two Stoog®
LPs long before most critics coi® {
even stomach a few notes of su® j
adolescent abandon. Bangs wrdH
endlessly on the Velv®
Underground’s musical supremac®
long before it became universal!®
hip to do so. His love of garag®
grunge also saved such punk proto®
types as Count Five’s “Psychoti®
Reaction,” the Leaves’ “Hey Joe,®
the Godz’s first two LPs and th®
Troggs’ “Wild Thing” from driftin®
off mto forlorn obsolescence in th®
moldy archives of basement record®
stores.
All of the articles, whether con-®
ceniing the metaphysical signifi-®
cance of Kraftwerk or making piti- ■
ful excuses for the talentless wimpi- fl
cisms of James Taylor, are written I
like God’s own rock critic, with a I
style that breeds Melville and 1
Bukowski into one overly arabi- I
tious, hyper-adrenalized American I
mutant. Marcus, as an editor dealing I
with Bangs' career, is perhaps faced
with a task a bit too much like a
fundamentalist minister trying to
condense the Bible for Reader’s
Digest. Much included here should |
not have seen the light of print, but
the addictive energy of Bangs' prose
keeps the reader coursing through
even these sad, deranged passages.
See BOOKS on 12
