Review by Gary 'pigboy' Swartz
Photography by Suzanne Goodwin
A jazz writer a jazz play. But seminal Jack said
everything comes in threes he said without commas ever or often
sentences or paragraphs or even sometimes without synapses. But
writer and play are only two and two are not three so it therefore
follows that to complete the trinity there must needs be a jazz
review with its skewed skewed view expressed in spontaneous prose
prose prose as Jack would have us bop bop bop it. A review about
how the essence of Jack's riff still faithfully echoes echoes
in brief spasms at irregular intervals in intense out-look altering
skeleton-closet rattling thought-provoking performances on scattered
stages for 15 years in this hybrid play/concert/one-man paean
to the Jack Kerouac who was. Jack who should be honoured and is
by the playwright/actor who before and after the show is Vincent
Balestri and even during and who when he isn't mostly alter egoing
Jack or sometimes being Vincent is also icons Allan or Lawrence
or William F. who are Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti and Buckley and
maybe even you and me and me and you when we are being hip and
cool and weird because it was Jack who planted the seeds of what
we have become. And somehow Vincent who is makes it work makes
it work well and truly in a way you may probably have never seen
before but open-minded and receptive you should see it should
see it because in the end while you don't necessarily understand
completely the why of Jack who was a candle burning at all ends
you more better appreciate the where and what and how of the jazz
he wrote while in his heart and soul he heard a saxophone bleeding
Charlie Parker riffs that took his writing to places no one had
ever blown before scaring a lot of conventional people as it always
has always will and did even tonight. Wail saxophone for the one
or three slipped early from the venue taking less of Jack with
them than Vincent who is Jack offers troubled perhaps by the deliberately
random jazz saxophone accompaniment of Campbell Ryga and P.J.
Perry that is commas and sentences and paragraphs blowing chinook-like
from off/back/around stage warmly reminding us that this is jazz
theatre. Jazz acting. Jazz music. Jazz writing. Jazz! And there
aren't always synapses but always there is passion and humour
and often there is mystery and sometimes there is hope. Hope.
Hope. And Jack Kerouac who was would be glad there is a Vincent
alter ego who is a vessel for the essence of Jack because because
it keeps Buddist Jack on the wheel turning turning turning and
because there is dharma in it you bums.
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