Archive for the 'R.I.P.' Category

R.I.P. Mark Thompson

March 20, 2017

The latest issue of RFD, the radical faerie digest, is rightfully dedicated to commemorating Mark Thompson, the visionary gay writer and editor who died last August at the age of 63.

As I say in my contribution to the issue:

The radical faerie world will always be indebted to Mark Thompson for his skill and generosity in chronicling the emergence of this gay spiritual movement as a professional journalist and as an observer-participant. He attended the legendary first “Spiritual Conference for Radical Fairies” Labor Day weekend 1979 in the Arizona desert, convened by Harry Hay, Mitch Walker, and Don Kilhefner, and he wrote about it in Gay Spirit: Myth and Meaning, his ground-breaking anthology of writings that linked contemporary gay liberation thought to previous generations of gay visionary writing by the likes of Walt Whitman, Edward Carpenter, and Gerald Heard. Few books ever published have had as big an impact on the gay world as Gay Spirit did. It emerged from and contributed to a hunger for deep exploration of gay people’s evolutionary purpose on the planet, and it spawned a small but important pocket of gay scholarship that manifest in essential titles such as Randy Conner’s Blossom of Bone and Walter L. Williams’ The Spirit and the Flesh.

I am pleased to have my short essay published alongside the work of many dear friends and colleagues, including Andrew Ramer, Winston Wilde, Robert Croonquist (Covelo), Keith Gemerek, Bo Young, Stephen Silha, and Leng Lim. You can find the magazine in the kind of bookstores that still carry small-press gay journals, or you find out how to order it online here.

Here is my piece (click to enlarge):

R.I.P.: Edward Albee

September 18, 2016

Edward Albee, the great American playwright who died last week at the age of 88, had one of the weirdest lives of any famous American writer. Adopted as an infant by a wealthy couple, Albee grew up in WASP splendor. He was driven to Broadway shows as a child in one of the family’s two Rolls-Royces, and every winter the clan decamped from the New York suburb of Larchmont to Palm Beach, traveling to Florida in his grandmother’s two private railroad cars hooked to the back of a passenger train. Lavished with money but emotionally frozen out by his pallid father and “dragon lady” mother, Albee fled the family at 20, spent a decade fumbling around Greenwich Village, and emerged at 30 a full-fledged playwright with 1959’s The Zoo Story, an existential encounter between two strangers on a park bench.

Over the next six years, he had four more enormous successes, none greater than the 1962 Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, the play for which he will always be best known. This remarkable explosion of literary talent — all the more amazing for being dyspeptic, intellectually challenging, anything but warm and fuzzy — was followed by nearly 20 years of serious drinking and a string of increasingly mediocre plays. And then, just when it was time for him to die of an overdose or something, Albee zoomed back to prominence in 1994 with Three Tall Women, for which he was awarded his third Pulitzer Prize for drama. That play was an astonishingly gracious and poignant character study of the imperious, bigoted mother who insulted his friends, snubbed his lovers, and ultimately disinherited him because he is gay. This triumph launched a sweet late stage of Albee’s career, which included a number of minor playful new scripts, several major revivals, and one substantial new play, The Goat, or Who Is Sylvia?, which won the Tony Award for best play in 2002.

I saw most of Albee’s work – the good, the bad, and the medium – and wrote about some of it. My one and only close encounter with the man himself came when I got the plum assignment to interview him for American Theater in 1992. This was, mind you, just before Three Tall Women zoomed him back to the forefront of the field. At the time I met him, he was teaching at the University of Houston and directing Shirley Knight and Tom Klunis in the American premiere of a tepid two-hander called Marriage Play. I was excited at the prospect – who wouldn’t want to meet the author of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? – yet also wary. I’d spent a couple of days at the Lincoln Center Library of the Performing Arts reading every interview he’d ever done and noticed that he was always asked the same boring obvious questions and always gave the same boring pompous answers, practically verbatim. Having recently had a big success publishing an extremely cheeky Q-and-A with Madonna (see “The X-Rated Interview”), I was determined to make this conversation with Edward Albee something other than same-old-same-old.

edward-albee-1961-by-philippe-halsman                                              Edward Albee 1961, photographed by Philippe Halsman

The experience itself was underwhelming. My typewritten transcript begins: “Interview with Edward Albee in Houston, January 4, 1992, at his apartment in Houston House. Met me at the door wearing tinted glasses, familiar wrinkled leathery skin, dark blue knit shirt. A black cat (with white and orange trim) running around the house, a stray named Biscuit. The walls covered with art, most of it ghastly student work. Didn’t offer me anything to drink, just plunked down and started to talk. ‘I’ve been interviewed so much even in the last couple of years that I feel like everything’s been covered…’”

Later that day, I wrote in my diary: “Did the Albee interview at 11, talked for about two hours. Disappointing. What a frightened, tense, guarded man he is. I felt like I should have given him a massage before trying to interview him. Like the typical American man, he has a great deal of difficulty admitting to fear, weakness, self-doubt, vulnerability. Tyrannized by shoulds and imprisoned by his self-image. Deeply disingenuous — wants to have everything both ways. He shouldn’t have to give names to characters because it’s a waste of names — he likes that line and uses it often, ‘it’s a waste of names’ — but then he goes ahead and gives his characters symbolic names like Jack and Jill/Gillian, and then denies that they have symbolic value. He says Virginia Woolf is not about a gay couple but then says that gay and straight relationships are just the same. He’s never denied being gay but until recently he never made a positive statement either, which is like saying I’ve never voted Republican, therefore I’m a Democrat…

“When I came in, we sat right down and started –he didn’t offer me anything to drink, and he didn’t ask me what I thought of Marriage Play. I made cat chat and talked about living in Houston, otherwise there would have been no preamble to the interview. I was very diligent about thwarting him every time he went into one of his tape loops – ‘The purpose of art is…EJECT.’ He sat on the sofa, I sat on a chair, but he was so soft-spoken I moved closer, then partway into the interview I asked him to change places with me because the light from outside was reflecting onto his glasses and I couldn’t see his eyes. He was surprisingly at ease talking about gay stuff, and I got the impression that he would have been perfectly happy to gossip and chat about that stuff for hours. But he had rehearsal at 1, so I didn’t get to ask him everything I wanted to know. Don’t feel inclined to call him up and ask him the other questions, because he’s so clearly full of denial, self-deception, and forgetfulness that it’s fruitless to press for more self-revelation. He seemed to like me, though, and in a veiled way was somewhat flirtatious — asked me how long I would be in town, gave me his phone number. On the elevator he mentioned that Danny Kaye apparently had a love affair with Laurence Olivier.”

I went home, wrote the story, and handed it in to my editor, Jim O’Quinn. Besides being a legendary great magazine editor, Jim was an old friend and champion of mine who supported me wholeheartedly, gave me great assignments, and loved virtually everything I wrote. With the Albee piece, something unprecedented happened. Jim let me know that the publishers of American Theater magazine (Peter Zeisler and Lindy Zesch) objected to my challenging, somewhat bratty tone, thought I was badgering the artist in a way that was unseemly, and insisted that certain passages be cut. I’d never encountered this kind of interference from the upper echelons of Theater Communications Group, and being the stubborn Taurus that I am, I fought the cuts fiercely. In particular I had talked to Albee about his long relationships with composer William Flanagan and playwright Terrence McNally and wondered how come he never portrayed gay relationships like that in his plays. Apparently Peter Zeisler told Jim that “under no circumstances will the names of people Albee slept with 20 years ago, famous or no, appear in our pages.” I found this insulting and offensive and said so. Ultimately, though, I agreed to the cuts, and the piece was published to no big fanfare. Looking back at the correspondence now, it strikes me as pretty funny – I’m sort of impressed at how passionate I felt about these things. On my website, I’ve posted the article as it appeared in American Theater with the cuts restored. You can read it online here.

When I go back and re-read the unedited transcript, I experience Albee’s personality with great vividness, both his brittle exterior and the tender person just beneath that. I frequently quote something he said to me that day: “I suffer from CRAFT disease – Can’t Remember A Fucking Thing.” And I’m amused at the exchange we had about the light reflecting off his glasses. He was in the middle of an oft-repeated stale commentary about how Broadway should function as the American national theater when I interrupted him.

Me: Could we change places? The light is shining against your glasses, and I can’t see your eyes. Thanks. Continue.

Albee: I’ve finished that one.

Me: This is much better. I can see your eyes and get the whole face.

Albee: I’ll have to be more deceptive.



R.I.P. Dan Hicks

February 8, 2016

Another one bites the dust! Of all the pop music titans who’ve left us recently, Dan Hicks mattered most of all to me. His quick-witted, sophisticated folk-jazz brought great joy into my music-loving life, from the very first minute that Jay Junker, my high school cultural mentor, sat me down in 1971 and played me Where’s the Money?, the great second album from Dan Hicks and His Hot Licks. I’ve always loved dreamy-creamy close-harmony singing (the Beach Boys, the Beatles, Manhattan Transfer, the Hi-Los, the Roches, etc.) but Dan Hicks brought out the potential for comedy, wit, and sheer exhilaration in his fast funny songs. As Peter Keepnews noted in his New York Times obituary of Hicks, “He drew from the American folk tradition but also from the Gypsy jazz of Django Reinhardt, the Western swing of Bob Wills, the harmony vocals of the Andrews Sisters, the raucous humor of Fats Waller and numerous other sources.” He was great in concert, droll and dry in his humor. Not dry in his substance intake — the man liked his liquor and probably other substances. (When I met Maryann Price, one of the original Hot Licks, in 1980, she mentioned darkly that the band had gone off the deep end with their drug use and she “had go in there and clean up!”) Anyway, you can listen to Where’s the Money? yourself and see how thrilling they were live (click on the YouTube video below). And check out the Oxford American magazine’s dense appreciation of the album here.

R.I.P.: Elizabeth Swados

January 25, 2016

Before the moment passes, I want to commemorate Elizabeth Swados, who died January 5, 2016, from esophageal cancer at the age of 64. Liz Swados was an extraordinary artist whom I admired tremendously and with whom I conducted a warm friendly acquaintance for over 30 years. I met her in July 1977 when she was in Boston remounting her off-Broadway hit show Nightclub Cantata and I interviewed her for the Boston Phoenix. I was a 23-year-old kid just a year out of college. She wasn’t much older (26) but she was already famous to me as a composer and theatrical wunderkind who had scrupulously recreated Greek choral music for Andrei Serban’s legendary Fragments of a Trilogy (powerful renditions of Medea, The Trojan Women and Electra), which premiered at La Mama ETC and toured the world, and she’d also spent time in Africa as an apprentice with Peter Brook. I enjoyed interviewing her very much – she was smart, honest, self-assured, down-to-earth, and friendly to me.

swados phoenix article
Nightclub Cantata
knocked me out with its energetic settings of poems by fantastic writers, some of whom I knew (Sylvia Plath, Frank O’Hara) and some who were new to me (Nazim Hikmet, Delmore Schwartz), interspersed with original songs by Swados herself, all staged in a music/theater hybrid I hadn’t seen before, performed by a passionate young cast who became rock stars to me (especially JoAnna Peled, Jossie deGuzman, David Schechter, and Karen Evans, who soon married another actor in the show, Paul Kandel, and later became a mainstay with Mabou Mines). There was never an original cast recording but you can hear the music to that and many other of her shows on

runaways in rehearsal crop
I became a Swados groupie, trekking from Boston to New York in 1978 to see and review Runaways, her first Broadway musical and the show that launched her long association with Joseph Papp and the New York Shakespeare Festival. (Rehearsal photo above by Nathaniel Tileston)

fragments cover

In the spring of 1979, I was fortunate to catch Fragments of a Trilogy remounted at La Mama with its incredible immersive staging (as we would call it now) by Andrei Serban and fierce performances by a gigantic cast that included Priscilla Smith, JoAnna Peled, and William Duff-Griffin.

priscilla smith medeatrojan women firetrojan women group
The trilogy is still among the greatest theater pieces I’ve ever witnessed, and it cemented my relationship with Stephen Holden, with whom I’d spend the next 14 years living, loving, and seeing great performances. Stephen had admired Liz since she’d auditioned for him as a singer-songwriter when he briefly worked in A&R for RCA Records.

liz swados john schimmel
We both reviewed Dispatches, her terrific stage adaptation of Michael Herr’s exquisitely written book about Vietnam at the Public Theater (me for the Phoenix, he for the Village Voice), and together we saw The Haggadah (with its fantastic masks and puppets by the then-unknown Julie Taymor) and Alice in Concert (her adaptation of Lewis Carroll featuring wonderful performers like Sheila Dabney, Rodney Hudson, Michael Jeter, Mark Linn-Baker, Amanda Plummer, Deborah Rush, and oh yeah, Meryl Streep as Alice). I look back at the reviews I wrote of Runaways, Dispatches, and Alice in Concert, and I cringe with embarrassment at the snotty condescending tone with which I wrote about some of her best work.

dispatches program
the haggadah
alice in concertSwados made a lot of shows in the 1980s and ‘90s, most of them not very memorable, but I dutifully saw most of them: Lullaby and Goodnight, Under Fire, and Jonah at the Public, Swing and Missionaries at BAM’s Next Wave Festival, Jerusalem at La Mama, The Beautiful Lady at CSC Rep. Every so often I had occasion for personal contact with Liz. I wrote about the Broadway musical of Doonesbury, which was her bid for a big commercial hit. I remember attending a rehearsal at 890 Broadway and being knocked out by the songs and the wonderful cast, which included Gary Beach, Reathel Bean, Ralph Bruneau, Kate Burton, Laura Dean, mark Linn-Baker, Albert Macklin, Keith Szarabajka, and Lauren Tom. Then when I saw it onstage in the Boston tryout and the Broadway opening, I was shocked at how underwhelming it was, perhaps because the director, Off-Broadway pioneer Jacques Levy, was burned out, out of his league, or both. After I wrote about Doonesbury for the Voice, I had a conversation with Liz in which she indicated that she didn’t disagree with my assessment.

My memories of New York City in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s are dominated by the AIDS crisis and the swath it cut through the world I lived in. My dear friend Robert Ott Boyle, whom I met when we were volunteers with Gay Men’s Health Crisis, was diagnosed in early 1987, and he was starting to get pretty sick when Liz cast him in Esther, her Purim show at the 92nd Street Y. Liz was very sweet and supportive, which meant the world to him and to me. After Bob died, I donated his piano to an AIDS residence in the Bronx, which invited me to teach a writing workshop there. I agreed to do it, even though I dreaded teaching, felt totally inept at it, and had never taught a writing class before. But I knew Liz was a great teacher who knew a lot about working with youngsters and untrained performers, so I prevailed upon her to give me a tutorial.

I remember going over to her loft on Mercer Street and sitting down with her to envision a storytelling workshop for people with AIDS. That afternoon gave me a wonderful glimpse of some simple tools she used to tap energy and creativity in people with no particular training in theater or writing. I still have the index cards I took with me to the workshop, which largely centered on the fun of telling outrageous lies, making up nicknames for yourself, describing people and events that make you mad, making sounds or saying words that you either really like or you really hate. When I showed up to give the workshop, it didn’t go very well. I found myself in a room with just two people, a man and a woman who had a list of urgent needs on which “writing workshop” was about #29. Nevertheless, I was deeply touched and grateful and inspired by Liz’s willingness to share her teaching wizardry with me.

As she once said in an interview, “Happiness…has been so hard for so many of us. The losses especially make it hard to grow naturally middlish-aged. The haunted empty feelings are an inheritance of mine, but I’ve found that very specific tasks, very concrete acts of giving, very strong rituals of grieving attached to beauty and religion (not even mine) and the passages of life are affirming. Helpful. So’s the samba, boxing, hiking with phony Indian guides and, as always, pounding on a teenager or two before he gives up.”

Somewhere along the line we started a funny little collaboration conducted by answering machine and postal mail. Since we were both poetry hounds, I aspired to find poems that she would want to set to music. She was totally game for this project. The first one I sent her was a speech from Robert Auletta’s adaptation of the Sophocles play Ajax, which Peter Sellars staged during his brief tenure at the Kennedy Center in Washington. She diligently worked on it and eventually sent me a cassette tape of her musical setting. The same thing happened when I sent her my favorite poem by C.P. Cavafy, “Growing in Spirit.” I have a handful of lovely handwritten letters from her. One says, “Please the next time a verse strikes you, don’t hesitate to send it along. Maybe, over the years, we can create a song cycle by mail. I like that idea. It gives warmth. Good writing for song is very hard to discover.”

The song cycle never happened. Time went by. I cycled out of writing about theater. In 1994 Liz published a novel called The Myth Man, a roman a clef about downtown theater centering on the main character’s relationship with a charismatic, manipulative theater director. I knew enough about Liz and that world to guess almost all the real-life people the characters were based on, which tickled her.

12-31-94 jvm schweizer liz and roz
The next time we crossed paths was at a New Year’s Eve party thrown by my friend Jonathan Van Meter, whose lawyer was Roz Lichter, who turned out to be Liz’s girlfriend and eventually her wife. (They’re pictured above with director David Schweizer, a legend in his own right.) Oddly, I’d never perceived her as gay, and she’d never been identified as a lesbian anywhere in the zillions of articles I’d read about her, so I had a moment of retroactively connecting a few dots. I guess that’s the difference between a friendship and an acquaintanceship. There’s lots we didn’t know about each other. At some point she talked to me about the strange relationship she’d developed with Marlon Brando, with whom she was supposedly working on some kind of writing project. Yet I wasn’t privy to her mental health struggles until her book My Depression appeared. And I knew nothing about her battle with cancer, even though it had been going on for a few years.

The last time I saw her was when I went to see The La Mama Cantata, an oratorio she wrote in celebration of Ellen Stewart, the legendary off-Off-Broadway pioneer who died in January of 2011 at age 91. The show had a run at La Mama ETC and then toured to Italy, Croatia, and Serbia before returning for a homecoming October 1, 2012. The text consisted of stories by and about Stewart – sentimental, inspiring, hilarious, intimate. Two stories stood out for me, both touching and emblematic of Stewart’s spirit. During a tense press conference at the height of the deadly ethnic war that splintered Yugoslavia, Ellen said, “Look, I remember when you were all one thing – and you all can start loving each other any time you want.” And against a video of burning candles representing the AIDS crisis that devastated the East Village, she is quoted as saying, “How we got through that time, I don’t know.” The music was some of Swados’s best in years, succinct and dense, well-performed by nine young La Mama babies. Liz took a curtain call with the cast (above). I went up afterwards and gave her a hug. I will miss her and cherish her music forever.

R.I.P. Malcolm Boyd

March 1, 2015

malcolm boyd at gsv
I first heard of Malcolm Boyd in the late 1960s, when he was one of the politically active white clergymen deeply engaged in the civil rights and antiwar movements. His 1966 book Are You Running With Me, Jesus? spoke to the political moment from a spiritual perspective yet in the language of the people. He became even more heroic to me when he came out as a gay man, the first prominent Episcopal priest to do so. I met him because I was friends with Mark Thompson, the legendary writer who published many excellent books (Gay Spirit: Myth and Meaning, Gay Body, Gay Soul, Leatherfolk) and edited The Advocate during its heyday. Visiting their house in LA, I found Malcolm to be exceptionally warm, unpretentious, twinkly, handsome, and — for all his church and activist cred — very much a Hollywood guy who loved movies and movie stars and gossip.

Hearing that Malcolm died on Friday at the age of 91, I thought back to the 1994 Gay Spirit Visions conference in North Carolina, where he and Mark were keynote speakers. Malcolm gave a talk that distilled his vast life wisdom into a speech that lasted about half an hour. I still live by some of these principles every day.

Cultivate simplicity. When you use words, have them say what you mean. If there’s a key to your mystery, let people have it so they can understand you. Act in fresh, spontaneous, freeing ways.

Break a heavy silence. Place on paper a letter that’s long been written in your mind. Speak to someone who appears forbidding. Ask the hard question. Even try to do what is clearly impossible for you.

Forgive. When you don’t, the loss of your energy in harboring resentment and hate is incalculable. Do not be destroyed by your own inability or refusal to forgive.

Risk everything. What is there to save? In this world of present shock and constant change, security is the most ironic illusion, so why sell your soul?

Understand the meaning of the failure of success — what appears to be failure often is the best teacher we have. Trappings of success have a way of masking unhappiness and absence of fulfillment. I know people who live in hell, but they have to get over the next three years of doing this for success, and then after that everything is going to be all right. But of course it isn’t going to be all right because they’re changing.

In your imagination, walk up the mysterious street you have long wondered or dreamed about. Imagine a lamppost and dream colors, forms, patterns.

Be open and vulnerable — it’s better than to close in on yourself. Don’t worry about what other people think — most of them are thinking about themselves. I remember as a kid, I’d have a pimple with pus in it on my face and think everybody’s looking at it. Nobody’s looking at it.

In love, hold nothing back. Give yourself completely, generously accept the other without reservation. Nurture love with kindness, spices and gratitude, and don’t limit love. Be sure to include friendship and cultivate it.

Find a quiet place, at least within you. Take three deep breaths, exhale them slowly, and quiet the mind. If you’re at ease with yourself, others can be at ease with you, too.

Since no one is an island, quit acting like one. Reach out for help, ask for it and humbly admit your need. When help is given, do not act as if you are strong. Accept it tenderly.

Recognize that personal and social spheres of life have been thrust together, forcing a new kind of wholeness upon us. We have the opportunity to make our lives, our common life, the best anyone ever knew. Even to become what humankind always wished and strove for through all the ages of darkness and all the epiphanies of light.

And finally, make a clear decision. Drop the other shoe. Strip and dive into the water. Get on with it. Our lives are brief, measured by a few decades. Do you realize how few decades we have? We don’t really start til we’re 20. There aren’t many decades. While we’re here, our lives can either be unhappy, self-destructive, unproductive and lacking fire, or celebratory, loving, creative, and filled with spiritual energy.

To life. To life. To life.


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