Older Than Words

STOMP plays Lynchburg, VA

De-rumpling, spiffing up, grabbing the folks…

“You got the tickets?”

“Tickets?”

“Man, I’m gonna have a heart attack.”

“Relax.”

They took me to Stomp.

(If you’re unfamiliar with the show, dig this video):

A wall of industrial waste rose artistically from the stage at the Academy theater in Lynchburg, VA. Buckets, signs, hubcaps, barrels, trash cans, ladders.

The delicious fumes of Creativity wafted towards the plush red seats.

Sit and watch.

So we did. The website says:

Matchboxes, brooms, garbage cans, Zippo lighters, and more fill the stage with energizing beats at STOMP: the inventive and invigorating stage show that’s dance, music, and theatrical performance blended together in one electrifying rhythm.

That is factually true.

The video will give you a taste of the talent, musicality, and refined power of the performers. (Lynchburg’s touring cast was different, and also dynamite.)

I could tell you technical details about shopping cart percussion, and the way hard-shelled luggage sounds whisked off a cart to a precise beat. You know, review stuff.

But I won’t.

The performers spoke not a word. An occasional howl broke through, a barking “yep” or snort.

Buckets. Cans. Trash. An empty plastic bag. There was rhythm everywhere, called up from the depths, expressed through practiced hands that no longer belonged to a person, but all of humanity.

This was older than words.

This was as vital and fresh as your next breath.

The show, on Broadway since ‘94 till this January, continues to tour. One could say it’s been playing since the dawn of time. (For the kids in the audience, same difference…) Maybe that’s the secret sauce. Nobody knows what it is, but we get hints and glimpses of a mysterious force channeled in a tornado of beautiful noise.

Zahna Johnson leapt behind empty blue chemical barrels, twining her arms with a crazed grace, and then crashing mallets down with a thud that went through everyone.

I know it’s another day at work for her. But I transformed. I fancy she did, too. The whole room did, waiting for her to summon the spirit of…who knows.

So this is why humans do rituals.

A front-row seat to a dream, a rummaging into the collective unconscious, a secular mystical ceremony. (And pee jokes. Hilarious.)

As they swung from ropes ten feet in the air and beat furious rhythms on a wall of junk, I was filled with hope.

This is why the robots won’t take over.

Wednesdays have turned into my column for “Pre apocalyptic poetry”, examining the state of the world, and writing like it’s 1859, doing my part to stop the slide into catasrophe again, to mount a sufficient opposition to madness. Today I yield the floor to this message of hope.

The exceptional performers last night reminded me that there’s a wellspring of creativity, humanity, potential, dizzying heights of excellence, and mysterious things we don’t understand, but have access to.

At the end, Micah Cowher led the audience through some rhythmic claps. The band joined in. The whole place connected.

Yes. We’re all part of this.

That mysterious, undefinable force flashed in each smarting palm of each enthralled human, partaking, reveling in a fraction of what the pros on stage brought, sharing in the same lighting. Our static electricity sparks tiny next to the lightning of practiced Zeuses, yet all of common origin.

The sound dwindled to the single sweep of a broom, piloted by Mr. Cowher, the way it had begun, exiting stage left.

Yes.