Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

A Taste of Culture, For a Man With No Taste

By Bob Wire, 10-04-10

	"Alas, poor Yorick, thy skin be no longer as smooth as yonder baby's bottom..."

My idea of culture usually involves a couch, a large bag of Cheetos, cold beer, and a viewing of “Animal House,” possibly followed by a documentary on the history of the cement mixer. I’m a guy. We have simple needs. We’re like bears with furniture. If it weren’t for my wife exposing me to a broad variety of local performances and exhibitions, I’d probably just hang around the house most weekends, exposing myself. To lowbrow culture.

This past Friday night, after playing a solo acoustic gig that left me irked, frustrated and used up, I was ready to drink my way through the entire beer case at Albertson’s. I’d wound up providing background music for a large, indifferent crowd at a local fundraiser. Good people, great organization, but I’m not the guy to hire if you want sonic wallpaper. I belted out original songs for two hours without a break, but my stories of murder, masturbation, raisins and rough sex sounded like they were being sung by Charlie Brown’s teacher, thanks to the institutional PA funneling my voice through the speakers embedded in the ceiling.

So, frustrated at not having been the center of attention, I had a Missoula Club barstool on my mind. But instead of waterboarding my ego with a few Kettle House IPAs, I decided to catch up with Barb and the kids at a small local theater to see The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged). That turned out to be the smartest decision I’d made all week. Even better than filling out all those gay biker magazine subscription cards with Christine O’Donnell’s name and address.

This three-man performance was the funniest play I’ve ever seen, which makes it the best play I’ve ever seen. Plus, I got to enjoy a cold pint while we were watching it, so I was able to fill that particular emotional black hole as well. I laughed so hard that tears were streaming down my face, and I’m sure they had to Febreze the seat on my chair after the play. Go see it if you have a chance. I don’t think I’m giving too much away when I say that seeing “Othello” given the Beastie Boys treatment is worth the price of admission.

This was actually the third Shakespeare performance we’d seen in the last month or so. We attended two consecutive nights of Shakespeare in the Park at the end of the summer. The Bozeman-based troupe performed “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” which was pretty funny, considering I couldn’t understand a goddamn thing they were saying. “Why are they talking like that?” I asked Barb.

“Talking like what?”

“You know, putting the emPHAsis on the wrong sylLAble.”

“Iambic pentameter.”

“You’re what?”

To be fair, it was an energetic performance. But I was missing Bob Dylan for this, and it’s not like I would’ve fought through the crowd to get any of these actors to sign my guitar. We went the following night too, for a performance of “Julius Caesar.” On that night it rained sporadically, and the crowd sat hunched under hoodies and hats (umbrellas were immediately wrestled away from their owners), waiting for the thing to end. (“I come here not to bury Caesar, but to freeze my nards off and receive a respiratory infection in thine lungs.”) I admit it was nice to be able finally place dozens of lines and non sequiturs from everyday speech into their original context. And that Cassius, boy, he’s built.

So I learned that Shakespeare isn’t just a guy who makes fishing reels. Then, this past weekend, I was introduced to the world of modern dance. The University has something called “On Location Dance,” which comprises several performances set in different locations around the campus. Barb cornered me in the living room on Saturday morning. I was folding clothes, watching “Pawn Stars,” wondering if Chumley could even find his ass with a funnel.

“We’re going to the dance performance at the U,” said Barb. “You want to go with us?”

I wiped my orange-stained fingers on my pants and shrugged. “Sure, what the hell. It’s a nice day. Might as well be outside.” With that resounding endorsement, we drove to the campus.

We got programs and joined the 200 other chumps, I mean dance aficionados, at the library. At least it was free. A group of singers pranced around warbling “Hair,” from the play they’ll be doing next month. The only drama came wondering if the chick in the green dress would jump around enough to make her boob pop out.

Next up was something called “Where the Fireflies Go.” Four women in black dance togs lay motionless in the dirt beneath a tree, gallon jugs of water resting on their backs. When the crowd had gathered, the dancers reached up to uncork the jugs, which drenched them. Then the writhing started. Slow, intense writhing. They squirmed in the dirt like they were auditioning for that reality show, “So You Think You Can Writhe.” The water turned the dirt to mud, of course, and they were getting filthy. Last time I saw girls writhing in the mud, I had to pay a $20 cover, with a two drink minimum. The writhing went on for ten minutes or so. I think it would have been more interesting if they were also wrestling. Or were fireflies.

We moved on from there to a clever, funny piece that expanded on the concept displayed so brilliantly in the “Austin Powers” movie, where Austin was moving back and forth behind a couch, miming a canoe, an escalator, etc. Lots of laughs. Even a little blood, which made it “art.” I’ll take clever and funny over tortured and vague every time.

Then the crowd marched down to the bank of the river, where on a wooded island across the irrigation channel, there was a half-naked, bearded guy twisted up in a black sheet that was tied down at the corners. He gradually “awoke,” and started moving around slowly. Again with the writhing. He poured a handful of dirt on his head. He displayed his high degree of flexibility. Then he tried to stand, and the tied-down cloth kept him in his place. They should have called this one “Homeless Guy Caught In His Tarp.”

Only one of the dance pieces had any music, really. To this musician, it made the other performances feel lacking. Dancing without music? It’s like going to the movies to see a comedy, and they show an Eddie Murphy film instead. But what struck me most about these dance pieces is their intelligence and humor, and how it’s something I never would have thought of. Then I realized, you know, there’s a lot of stuff I’ll never think of.

The arts are kind of like music in general. You have your collection of CDs or songs that make up your comfort zone. Hit “shuffle” on your iPod, and it’s like the coolest radio station in the world—they’re playing only songs you love. But you have to change that station once in awhile. Get into some weird new territory that challenges you, that forces you to find the beauty, the art, in some strange new context. It can be scary and confusing, like that time you found your mom in bed with the Orkin man. But it’s nearly always rewarding.

The education continues. What’s next, opera? Nude juggling to klezmer music? Who knows. I’m getting some culture. Next time, there will be Cheetos. Oh yes, there will be Cheetos.

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