BEEHIVE
Well, after all, isn’t that part of rock and roll? When you think of the most intense arguments you’ve had, weren’t many of them about pop music? — who’s a better singer than who, who’s cuter, who’s more sensitive? Some of the nitpicking about Beehive just shows how well it’s achieved its goal — to evoke the spirit of 60s rock.
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Featuring a cast of six women — three white, three black — Beehive traces the evolution of 60s pop from the rigidly controlled girl groups to the anarchic androgyny of Janis Joplin, and shows how it parallels the coming of age of the generation of women born in or around 1950. The singers reminisce about teaming up as girls to imitate the Shangri-Las or Patti LaBelle and the Blue Bells; fantasizing about being best friends with Brenda Lee or Annette Funicello; responding in mid-adolescence to the surging of their own hormones and the soulfulness of “British Invasion” singers like Dusty Springfield and Petula Clark; experiencing adult sexual awakening to the beat of Tina Turner; and reveling in the independence and aggressiveness of Aretha Franklin and Janis Joplin.
Like everyone else, I have my quibbles. The second act, by focusing so heavily on three unique singers (Turner, Franklin, and Joplin) fails to convey a sense of the more general presence of women in late 60s rock. Where is Laura Nyro, that great singer and prolific songwriter? Where is Grace Slick, or Mama Cass? The narration (breezily delivered by Lenox, who is first among equals in this decidedly ensemble piece) pays homage to Woodstock; so where is Joni Mitchell’s anthem of the same name? And why is John Hickey’s clever set — a huge jukebox, with the all-male band standing where the records would play — so underutilized by director Larry Gallagher? On the stage of a legitimate theater (as opposed to a cabaret, where it’s playing in New York), Beehive could use more theatrical flourish.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/Jennifer Girard.
