In which the Author rubs his eyes and remains
very quiet so as not to startle seemingly final mixes . . .
Well, how come you only want tomorrow
With its promise
of something hard to do
A real life adventure
worth more than pieces of gold
Blue skies above
and sun on your arms
strength in your stride
And hope in those squeaky clean eyes
--David Bowie, "Teenage Wildlife"
And every one of us that ever came to play
Has to cross the bridge or fade away
Standing on the bridge looking at the waves
Seen so many jump, never seen one saved
On a distant beach your song can die
On a bitter wind, on a cruel tide
--Elton John/Bernie Taupin, "The Bridge"
Shhhhhhhh--what ever you do, don't move. Now slowly--slowly, damn it--look to your right. See it? Just underneath the picture of the haggard, middle-aged hipster? Yeah--son-of-a-bitch, it sure looks like . . . like . . . Final Mixes. Do you know how rare this is? It'd be easier to find a hummingbird in repose. And not only final mixes--dear god, they also seem to be remastered. As soon you can, I want you to reach into my bag and hand me my nitro pills--this whole experience is proving too much for me . . .
Life is the endless process of becoming something else; a weird, contradictory mix of evolution and the second law of thermal dynamics. And, not surprisingly, so is art. But unlike life, art's got a freeze-frame button. In fact, taste and timing with regard to that button is often as important as the vision and talent that first sets art in motion. Enough is the period at the end of the sentence that begins What if . . .
Enough: It's time for that invocation with regard to the theater piece that shares source code with the novel and pop song collection. We've taken it as far as we can as creators, and the time's come for a hand-off to theatrical artists. Much of the score has been in flux since the original piano sketches and the refinements have gone beyond tightened melodies or perfected guide vocals. In the end, it was about providing deeply complete demos--recordings that offered the expected (here's the tune, these are the words and this is how you sing it), but also revealed the emotional centers of the songs--or, at least, our original intentions about those centers.
Enough: We've dicked with this material to the best of our ability, and now it's time to give other artistic temperaments the opportunity to muck around with it. Will we need to once more be involved? (Can you knock a line or two/Together for a friend/Sentimental, tear-inducing, with a happy end?) Of course. But right now, we're pulling the train into the station so other collaborators can board. Theater is actually a succession of freeze-frames, rather than a single screen grab. So more accurately, we're actually punching Pause in order to have creative discussions with those who are joining us. After that, well, everything's back in motion. And flux.