Of 'Skokie' and Great Work at Chicago's Goodman Theatre: A Fond Remembrance of Brian Dennehy

Especially during these difficult times, when everyday heroes are ever more pronounced--and many at tragic risk--not a day goes by without hearing of somebody admirable dying.

From a venerated local veterinarian, Dr. Peter Sakas, to renowned musicians like John Prine, Adam Schlesinger and Ellis Marsalis to famed playwright Terrence McNally to mathematical genius John Horton Conway to a Pennsylvania paramedic named Kevin Bundy to a New Jersey ER doctor, Frank Gabrin, to a CTA machinist (based in Skokie) named Antonio Martinez, the new coronavirus has stolen skilled and valiant individuals across a vast spectrum.

But even beyond COVID-19, the grim hand of death has recently taken talents like singer/songwriter Bill Withers, ex-Cubs manager Jim Frey, MAD magazine caricaturist Mort Drucker and the acclaimed actor, Brian Dennehy.

It is meant as no slight to anyone else, mentioned above or not, that I'm deciding to spend a bit of time reflecting on Mr. Dennehy.

Certainly, well beyond any personal connection--simply in a spectator's sense, I never met the man--Dennehy's multifaceted acting career, in movies, on TV and in the theater, could well warrant a fine tribute, and excellent remembrances have been written by Chris Jones of the Chicago Tribune, Ben Brantley of the New York Times and Helen Shaw of Vulture, among others.

And I've been quite fortunate to have seen many cherished favorites onstage multiple times--whether in a theater vein like the late John Mahoney and living icons such as Nathan Lane and Patti LuPone, or numerous beloved rock stars, including the departed Tom Petty, David Bowie and Prince--so while my regard for Dennehy is deep, it's not that he's someone I singularly adored.

But I consider myself lucky to have seen Dennehy--fairly well-known to the general public via movies such as First Blood, F/X and Tommy Boy--onstage seven times, mostly at Chicago's Goodman Theatre.

Also notably, in the 1981 TV movie Skokie--about my hometown's battle with neo-Nazis--Dennehy starred as Police Chief Arthur Buchanan.

Yet although I was a fan before seeing him at the Goodman, his work there--almost always in tandem with the theater's venerated artistic director, Robert Falls--corresponded considerably with my wholehearted embrace of live theater.

For while I had been indoctrinated in childhood by parents who took me to see musicals such as The Wiz, A Chorus Line and The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas before I turned 10--with early awareness long exacerbated by my Aunt Mickey, an ardent attendee of Chicago theater--as a teen and young adult I largely distanced myself for various sociological reasons that made much more sense then than they do now.

Sure, I saw some high school and college productions, and a handful of works in the '90s--The Phantom of the Opera, Tracy Letts' Killer Joe, The Mousetrap, Les Miserables and more--but through the turn of the century, when I was 31, I had seen 10 theatrical works of my own volition.

Since then--in good part ignited by seeing Teri Hatcher in a touring version of Cabaret, twice, in 1999--I've seen well over 1,000.

This has always included a mix of musicals--which I tend to love a bit more--and plays.

Nowadays--well, not exactly nowadays, but pre-pandemic quarantine--I'm graciously invited to Press Nights to review shows on this blog, but until about 2015, I went entirely on my own dime.

And though I did see a few plays in 2000 and 2001 and a stellar take on Glengarry Glen Ross a few weeks prior in 2002, I consider A Long Day's Journey Into Night--starring Brian Dennehy--a rather seminal piece of my theater-loving existence.

The epic family drama by Eugene O'Neill clocks in at well over 3-1/2 hours and, as directed at the Goodman by Falls, I recall it being excellent (although I wasn't writing reviews at the time).

My seeing it in March 2002 even impressed Aunt Mickey, who--bless her departed soul--could listen to me note 10 shows I'd seen in a month (as a fairly rare straight man attending solo) and with an air of consternation ask why I hadn't seen three others.

After Long Day's Journey, for which Dennehy won the Best Lead Actor Tony Award upon Falls having taken the Goodman production to Broadway in 2003--likewise with Death of a Salesman a few years prior, also garnishing Dennehy a Tony; sadly I was still fairly theatrically oblivious at that point--I would next see the actor in The Exonerated.

Co-starring Marlo Thomas, this wasn't a Goodman Theatre staging but a small touring production that I happened to see on Feb. 4, 2003, its first night in Chicago.

The play by Jessica Blank and Erik Larsen, which had opened in New York in 2000, is about death penalty injustices, and just 2 weeks before I would see it with Dennehy, then-Illinois governor George Ryan commuted all remaining death sentences in the state.

In 2005, Dennehy would star in a film version of The Exonerated with Susan Sarandon, Danny Glover and others.

The remaining five times I got to see Brian Dennehy onstage came at the Goodman, in plays by Eugene O'Neill except as noted:

● Celebrating the Work of Arthur Miller - a staged reading featuring excerpts from four famed Miller plays; 2004.

● Hughie - 2004

● Desire Under the Elms - 2009

● Hughie / Krapp's Last Tape (latter by Samuel Beckett) - 2010
 
● The Iceman Cometh - 2012

Though I can't deny being challenged by Iceman's near 5-hour runtime--as I wrote in my review--I still largely loved it, particularly the performances by Dennehy and Nathan Lane, another stage favorite mentioned above.

Under the direction of Robert Falls, that production would be restaged in Brooklyn in 2015, with the Goodman's stellar cast.

Last Wednesday, the long stout Dennehy died at his Connecticut home at the age of 81, of cardiac arrest due to sepsis.

IMDB shows film acting credits into 2020 and perhaps beyond, plus TV work as recent as 2019 in The Blacklist.

Along with First Blood and F/X, I recall enjoying Brian Dennehy in Presumed Innocent and as Bobby Knight in A Season on the Brink.

But I'll never forget the hours I spent watching the great man at the Goodman.

And remain forever appreciative of what he did in Skokie.

Bearing a Gift Beyond Price: A Tribute to Neil Peart, Rush Drummer and Lyricist (1952-2020)

My fandom for the Canadian rock band Rush--whose legendary drummer and lyricist, Neil Peart, passed away last week--goes back roughly 40 years

So I can't cite exactly how or why or when or through whom I got into them.

I'm guessing that via some combination of rock radio and junior high word of mouth, I became aware of (long after its release) "Fly by Night"--a 1975 gem that the band eschewed live after 1978--and was intrigued enough to buy the 1980 album Permanent Waves sometime following its January release.

I can't say exactly when that might've been, but I know I had Permanent Waves before Moving Pictures came out in February 1981.

I instantly loved the first song on Permanent Waves, "The Spirit of Radio," still consider it my favorite Rush song and ranked it in the top 10 of my All-time Favorite Rock Songs when I last compiled a list in 2015.

Back then, loving a band meant knowing the names of the people in the band, which was easy for a Rush fan as there were only three members (and if you look really closely at the Permanent Waves front cover, their last names are included in the art).

Geddy Lee, a really skinny guy with long hair and a high-pitched voice, was the vocalist and bass player.

Alex Lifeson was the guitarist, and a key part of the trio's sonic inventiveness.

And Neil Peart not only had a crazy massive drum kit, he was almost always referenced as "one of the best drummers in the world."

And while Lifeson, Lee and Peart collaborated on the band's music, once he joined Rush in mid-1974--John Rutsey was the band's original drummer and played on their eponymous debut--Peart wrote virtually all of the lyrics.

Some have likely called his lyrics "dense" in both senses of the word, and he may well have had too much of an Ayn Rand fascination at one point. But Peart showed a real sensitivity and social consciousness that I always appreciated:

- "Begin the day with a friendly voice, a companion unobtrusive"

- "And the men who hold high places must be the ones to start, to mold a new reality closer to the heart"

- "No his mind is not for rent, to any god or government"

- "In the high school halls, in the shopping malls, conform or be cast out"

- "I can't pretend a stranger is a long-awaited friend"

- "If you choose not to decide you still have made a choice"

- "Just between us, I think it's time for us to recognize the differences we sometimes fear to show"

- "Who can face the knowledge that the truth is not the truth?"

- "Freeze this moment a little bit longer, make each sensation a little bit stronger"

- "All of us get lost in the darkness, dreamers learn to steer by the stars"

- "And if the love remains, though everything is lost, we will pay the price but we will not count the cost"

Certainly, these lyrics were enhanced by accompanying what I thought were rather cool, mostly hard-rocking songs, played with the utmost technical proficiency.

After first getting into "Fly by Night" and then Permanent Waves and Moving Pictures, I soon came to know much of Rush's earlier output, including the 2112 album with its famed "Overture" and "The Temple of Syrinx."

A friend had the band's first live album, All the World's a Stage, and I would excitedly buy the next one, Exit...Stage Left.

My freshman year of high school, in the fall of 1982, began a few months before I really started attending rock concerts with friends, so I rued not seeing the Signals tour at the Rosemont Horizon (now known as Allstate Arena).

But I first saw Rush on June 30, 1984 at the Rosemont Horizon, on their Grace Under Pressure Tour.

When I next saw them, in January 1992 at the Great Western Forum in Los Angeles--I was living out
there at the time--it felt like I was seeing an "old" favorite, though Geddy/Alex/Neil were still great.

But the last 7 of the 9 times I saw Rush live were shows in seven different years between 2002 and 2015, at the amphitheater in Tinley Park, IL, headlining at Milwaukee Summerfest or at Chicago's United Center.

So, somewhat astonishingly, despite never quite being deemed "cool" by the rock intelligentsia--Rush was finally inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2013, many years after first being eligible--the trio never lost their staying power.

Though there were Rush concerts I robustly loved, like this one in 2010, there were also quite candidly times--including the last few--when their setlists were a bit esoteric for my tastes and the shows tended to drag in parts.

Including--gasp--sometimes during Peart's extended drum solos.

Though my reverence for his drumming talent is immense, there were times when I wondered why he needed quite so many drums.

And of those I've seen in person--such as Dave Grohl, with Nirvana in 1993--as well as just on video (John Bonham of Led Zeppelin), I tend to prefer sheer brutality on a smaller kit.

Still, I believe what I posted on Facebook the other day holds true:

With the deaths of Ginger Baker and Neil Peart, every drummer in the world has moved up two notches.

Anyway, I imagine that to the public at large, I'm a major Rush fanatic and to true Rush "geeks," I'm something of a poser.

But in these polarized times I think we can tend to forget that to love someone or something--whether a friend, family member of lover, leader or country, band or baseball team, etc.--doesn't mean constant, automatic or unquestioning approval and adulation.

It means your life wouldn't be nearly as good without them. And your appreciation is both immense and intense.

I love--and always will--a lot the music Neil Peart helped make with Rush.

I loved his drumming, his lyrics and even a sense of humor that probably wasn't always obvious.

I am sorry for his suffering, of late from the brain cancer that ended his life at just 67, and the loss of his daughter and wife during a brutal 10-month stretch in 1997-98. (He would remarry and have another daughter.)

Unaware of his illness, or whatever part it likely played in Rush's retirement, I was shocked and gutted by the news of his death, even given this grim article about how the coming decade will see an ongoing parade to the grave of rock heroes, beyond the legends already lost.

But with nearly any death, excepting those of someone particularly young or via unnatural means, I like to offer this condolence:

As you weep for what has been lost, smile for all that has been gained

The truth is, I gained a whole lot via my fandom of Neil Peart and Rush.

"Love and life are deep" he wrote in the song, "Tom Sawyer."

And then in "Dreamline" some years later:

"When we are young
Wandering the face of the Earth
Wondering what our dreams might be worth
Learning that we're only immortal
For a limited time"

Thanks for the magic, Neil Peart.

Your drumbeats will live on for quite some time.

And not just on indelible songs--such as these--and DVDs I can watch upon my wall.

The Purest Voice of My Generation Destroyed by Life's Impurities

I have never owned a Whitney Houston album and until Saturday night--after learning of her passing at age 48--I don't think I ever specifically sought to listen to any of her songs.

In the mid-'80s and early-'90s, Houston's numerous hit singles were fairly ubiquitous--and some undeniably catchy. Yet while I know she released music long after the tremendous success of "I Will Always Love You" off The Bodyguard soundtrack, I remain oblivious to any songs she recorded after 1992.

Thus, it would be disingenuous for me to portray myself as a devoted fan who is devastated by her death on some personal level.

But if you were to ask me to name a pop singer in my lifetime who possessed a better voice, I couldn't.

Which doesn't serve to make her death any more, or less, of a shame than that of anyone else--famous or not--who has passed before their "rightful age," as if such a thing exists. But of all the celebrity tributes to Whitney that I've seen since hearing of her demise--including a beautiful rendition of "I Will Always Love You" by Jennifer Hudson at last night's Grammy Awards--one from a similarly gifted singer, Barbra Streisand, particularly resonated with me:

"She had everything, beauty, a magnificent voice. How sad her gifts could not bring her the same happiness they brought us."

Although as of this writing, the cause of Whitney Houston's death has not been revealed, it seems safe to suggest that directly or indirectly her well-documented struggles with substance abuse were likely a significant factor.

This has, not surprisingly, prompted some excessive nastiness across the internet, with numerous commenters belittling the gravity of Houston's premature passing due to her problems with drugs and alcohol. While reports of her behavior over the past several years have been disconcerting, it seems to me that her "demons" having stolen so much from her--including her transcendent talent--makes this more of a tragedy, not less of one.

Yes, the self-destructiveness of her life certainly leads her death to feel less brutally incomprehensible than that of someone randomly slain, killed in an accident or stricken by a terminal disease, but couldn't it be said that her substance issues were just a different type of terminal disease?

To non-addicts--at least of drugs and booze, but who among us doesn't eat unhealthily or drive too fast or work too hard or fall prey to other compulsive tendencies--it seems like something more than a pity when one can't overcome his or her addiction. We tend to judge it as a consciously complicit weakness, a failure to make the right choice or seek the necessary help.

Obviously, for those who can't quit or resist relapsing, or have caused irreparable damage, lucid decision-making doesn't play into the equation. Or at least not enough.

It is also apparent that far too often, artists with extraordinary talent and/or fame are--certainly not exclusively but perhaps exacerbatingly publicly--afflicted by devastating addictions, whether causally or not.

From Charlie Parker to Billie Holiday to Judy Garland to Jimi Hendrix to Elvis Presley to John Belushi to Kurt Cobain to Michael Jackson to Amy Winehouse to many, many others, known and unknown, and now to Whitney Houston, how true do the words that open "Howl," a poem written by Allen Ginsburg in 1955, once again ring:

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness"

OK, so some of those cited precede my generation. But Whitney Houston--who is survived by her daughter, her mother Cissy Houston and (I believe) her half-brother, Gary Garland, forever memorable to me as a member of DePaul's 1979 NCAA Final Four team--is very much of "my generation."

And whatever one may think of her lifestyle, or even her music, she has died much too young. Calling her death--regardless of its cause--a tragedy isn't meant to be comparative, nor necessarily reflective of what she meant to one's own existence.

To extol Whitney Houston's gifts is not to ignore her flaws, but one hopes her exquisite voice endures in memory--or at least mp3--long after the lurid tabloid photos have been forgotten.

For the impurities of life are what make us human and those "destroyed by madness" are just as meriting, if not more so, of our empathetic sadness.

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Here's an audio only clip of "How Will I Know," a capella, with just Whitney's vocals. It is stunning and chilling at the same time.