Hip-hop and butterflies at the Guthrie

Editorial
Last week, after a long drive back from Iowa, I put on my newest thrift store find, an egg shell blue Marc Jacobs dress, and met my theater date for the evening. One over-indulgent Central Avenue Mexican feast later, and one parking pass that cost more than either of our dinners, we made our way up the infinitely long escalator. Just a typical trip to the Guthrie Theater. As we squirmed through the maze of people, we secured our spot. It was Thursday night. And we were not there for M. Butterfly. Sims Toki Wright DJ Plain Ole Bill Spoken word by Shane Hawley Reading by Maggie Sanford As the lights went down for M. Butterfly and the patrons hushed a couple floors below us, the all ages (mostly younger) crowd around us clapped awkwardly as Dessa took the stage. "This kinda shit is not gonna work by the end of the night," she said as she demanded energy from the audience. We were there for the deejays, the slam poetry, the explosive local hip hop tunes. She wasn't going to let us experience anything less. In an obvious move to expand their target audience, or introduce a younger, as my Grandma would say "hipper", generation to the most popular theater in the Twin Cities, the Guthrie hosted a three day Cadence Hip Hop series emceed by local rapper Dessa of Doomtree. It was a brave move, definitely an honorable one, and maybe a step in the right direction. What that direction might be, I'm not sure? As there was a general consensus among even the performers that they/we were strangers in a strange land. "I appreciate the theater shit, and we all practiced our golf clap," Dessa replied as the audience became slightly more brave. After a slam poet's energy made us laugh, feel more comfortable being ourselves as he spouted words about robots and unrequited love, Toki took the stage and straight off announced "I don't know if I'm supposed to be super proper." Then he explained to us that he had nervously spoken with the previous night's performer, M.anifest, and he had said "just rap." It wasn't about disrespecting the theater. It was about dealing with your presence in a place where you were normally persuaded to act with a certain amount of decorum. How would you hold a rock concert in an art museum? "I feel like they've got invisible tuxes on...A lot of us feel like we don't have access to this place. Let's get some different folks here." Who knows what the secret lives of these audience members were? Chances are the majority of the people had only previously been to the Guthrie because school demanded it of them. Chances are there were theater lovers in that audience, too. It didn't matter though, cause we were just all trying to figure out a way to love and enjoy the music that meant the world to us. Building upon Dessa's demand for energy, Toki got us DANCING, throwing inhibitions away. We weren't in a black box theater in a wealthy theater any more. It was just another music venue. And, as fists went up in the air and kids threw back their heads in joyous smiles, as I set my camera aside to groove back and forth with my friend and soak up the moments, it was obvious we had all found our way. "Hip hop is about movement. How can you have a movement without movement?" Rapping. Running through the audience. Showing us how to dance this way or that way. Standing on a chair in the midst of the crowd and pumping his fists in the air. "You guys are a fucking part of creating," Sims said as he continued the party. We weren't separated from what was happening on stage. We were a part of it. Everyone in that studio, including the parents that sat in chairs on the outskirts, felt a part of it. I am an unabashed local hip hop lover and always say if you want to see the best of local Minnesota music, check out that scene. There's raw talent. There's realness. There's crap hip hop too, and it saturates the radio and television (and often my speakers as I will gladly admit my guilty pleasures), but, as the great sounds rise above, fists pounding, it's not difficult to hear. To connect. And the Guthrie helped us along that night. "We're not scared of the big blue glossy building. Pretty cool that they had us," Dessa said as she closed out the night. Sims.jpg

Is it the scary house on the hill?

I'm not scared of the Guthrie. I never have been. I've seen beautiful productions there, from Patrick Stewart in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? to the feast scene in A Christmas Carol. I'm often scared of the prices, yes, but if I, if any other person wanted to see a play bad enough, we could just wait in line for rush tickets. How often do we, a non season ticket holder under the age of 50, want it bad enough, though? Besides, rush tickets are still around $20. Regardless, I can't help loving that rare feeling of getting all dressed up to go to the theater. Like a really special event. At a fancy restaurant. Where I feel less like ME and more like that distinguished woman who acts as she should and doesn't speak too loudly. Or passionately. The day after my hip hop experience, I had another night out with a different friend at the big blue glossy building. This time, in our go to special event dresses, we walked past the teens in jeans, and joined the much older, much more mellow and elegant crowd for M. Butterfly. When I was compiling my list of shows to see this month on my theatrical journey, the play that was consistently suggested was M. Butterfly at The Guthrie. Truth be told, I knew NOTHING about it coming into the night besides that it was set in China and there was full frontal male nudity. My ignorance served me well. It was a beautiful show, indeed like a powerful painting at a museum. Lush colors and costumes, an aspect of theater The Guthrie excels at. Relationships, connection, seemingly comes second to the productions. It did for M. Butterfly. We did not take the journey with the lead characters. We, the audience, watched it from afar. And judging by the quiet gasps at different points in play, it seemed as if the people enjoyed it. When the curtains rose in the back of the stage to present different scenes of Madame Butterfly, of geisha in gorgeous kimonos pattering across the stage in events that mirrored the script, you could not help but get momentarily swept up away with the flower petals they paraded through. During intermission, as my friend and I got our beers and stood looking out over arguably the best view of the city, discussing the ungainly brilliance of the architecture to the big blue glossy building, snippets of conversation passed us by as people meandered through the lobby. "Back when this play was first produced, the story was groundbreaking. Now, it's just *shrug shoulders.* I don't know. I still enjoy it though." "I'm bored. I'll wait for you in the lobby during the second half. I just can't get into the dialogue. They lost me about a half hour in." "It's really gorgeous. I couldn't tell that the geisha was a man at first until I saw his feet." As I took my seat for the second half of the show, I thought of the hip hop audience upstairs. I began to wonder if they would bounce through the ceiling and crash into this distant crowd with the glossy eyes, the gaping mouths, and our gorgeous scenery. Then, I noticed a kid down the row from me who sat forward in his chair the entire second act with a smile spread on his face, hip hop wide. Like the black box crowd from Thursday, this was his night. I thought about everything I had studied in school, from the arts to my history lessons. When the play ended, I turned and smiled at my friend, and we made our way to the car. Sitting and waiting the traffic out, we poured over our programs, reading the Author's Note and discussing our mutual experience of walking blindly into this story. We talked about the history of Chinese and French culture for a bit. And then we drove away into the rain. It was a nice night. Very different than the previous one. I know that is not surprising to anyone. The Guthrie took a chance inviting a hip hop show onto their property, and it paid off in its own way. They took far less of a chance exposing male genitalia to a crowd of "tuxedos." Because that was art for art's sake. And sometimes that's okay. Nice even. They knew how they could reach a different audience and brought them in. But would the majority of that audience ever return for M. Butterfly? I guess the first step is admitting you have a problem, right? I wonder how do we make art for the peoples' sake? I have very little interest in modern retelling of classic plays. As my best friend down in Kansas City reported on a "hip hop version of The Merchant of Venice", including the word fuck every other sentence does not make it relatable to me. Or to all those other people who feel distant from what is happening on stage. It does not make it current. Its just that theater used to be SUCH A force for culture. What happened to it? When did one stop playing when, y'know, going to plays? It's, as a whole, stuck. Like a piece in a museum. And one can sit back and really study it. Enjoy it from afar. But I want to be A PART OF the art. I want to forget the stresses of everyday life, to sometimes even forget my beloved camera, to escape from the reality of my neurosis and just throw up my arms and awkwardly move back and forth. Mental stimulation can only get you so far. Where does emotional release and intellectual stimulation meet within the arts? Last week, within the walls of The Guthrie, I found it. It just happened to be on two different nights. "It's an enchanted space I occupy." Gaillimard, M. Butterfly TokiWright.jpg
Headshot of Alexa Jones
Alexa Jones
Alexa Jones was a performer and director for most of her life in her hometown of Kansas City, at St. Olaf College, and all around the Twin Cities. Now, she goes to rock shows and takes photos.