Last night we had the Gentleman Friend’s birthday celebration, with a coup scored many months ago: two tickets to Hamilton. He is an obsessive who knows most of the lyrics, so I was extremely pleased to got them, and quite good seats too – right in the middle and very near the front. I was also nervous in case the view was just a bit too obstructed, in case interest had waned in the months between purchasing the tickets and the show, and if I would hate it (as I hate most musicals) and my irritation would damage his enjoyment as well.
Fortunately, it was a very good evening. Being close to the stage occasionally led to a slightly restricted view but felt immensely intimate, and I really felt swept up in it. The music was good, of course, and not too musical-ly, as were most of the dances and body language is generally one of the things that most annoy me about musicals. The man who played Hamilton, though not Lin-Manuel himself, was excellent in the part, as was Aaron Burr were the woman who played his wife Eliza and sister-in-law Angelica. The latter, in particular, had immense presence on stage. I was less taken by George Washington – really, the woman who played Angelica should have had that role – as well as Thomas Jefferson and Hamilton’s son. But still all very good. Damn right too, given how much it cost and given that my credit card details were stored on Ticketmaster servers as an anti-fraud measure, there was a data leak, my card was used by someone else, I waited 45 minutes on hold to get the card blocked, and then of course had to have it changed on the Ticketmaster system to be able to get into the theatre, which means they now have the details for my replacement card.
It was surprisingly easy to get back, a bus goes from Victoria up the Finchley road, and has even had its route recently changed to avoid the traffic on Oxford Street. On the way we mulled what the mass appeal of the show was. To me it feels very much like a moment: it’s a show about people trying to create the norms that now, in this time, are dissolving.
In other news, I read an excellent article in the New Yorker, about the Igbo slave trade. Fascinating, and it has stayed with me.