It's kind of sad, really, for Broomfield, for Belgium (where Up With People's European headquarters are located) and for Backwash. True, since its founding in Tucson in 1965, Up With People has set new standards of cheese in the performance world; its most recent touring production, "A Common Beat," melded Western urbanism with various cultural traditions in a show that was so hip! so now! so positive! Essentially, Up With People would take a bunch of college-bound Westerners, teach them to do a time step and harmonize, and send them into far-flung locales where they did good deeds, wore funny hats and reminded the natives that -- gosh darn it! -- if you sing a happy song, everything'll be okay, even if you sleep on a mud cot and eat rice cooked in cow pee. Up With People was kind of like the Peace Corps for theater geeks, the kind of group the Flanders twins would happily join, as long as Father Ned said it was okaleedokalee by him.
Still, I lament the group's passing. Not just because I think the organization was well intentioned (and besides, the world needs a little cheese now and then), or because I think thespians need healthy activities like anyone else (let's face it, playing improv games night after night can get a bit tedious). I'm sad for a personal reason, if you'll pardon the self-indulgence -- for I, dear readers, am an Up With People alumna. Sort of.
In a not-so-former life, Backwash was a member of a performance group that licensed its concept and most of its material from Up With People. We had our own theme song (just as bad, but not nearly as catchy), our own multicultural costumes and our own itinerary: We traveled not only to retirement homes and underfunded schools, but also to cheery places like pre-Perestroika-era Russia and Poland. But we shared Up With People's sunny philosophy that the world could change, if only it could hear our songs. And hear them it did. In Minsk, we "sang a song of peace/in a world that's full of fear" to kids on a playground flanked by color paintings of Joseph Stalin that were easily thirty feet high. In Warsaw, our group leader thought a concentration-camp memorial was a good place for our number on "how everything looks different/sharing someone else's eeeeyeeees!" En route back home, we stopped in New York City, where our (clearly sadistic) director forced us to share our a cappella song about "rocking the Berlin Wall/oh, it's gonna fall" with the people gathered on the steps of the New York Public Library. (Just to be prepared for such impromptu performances, we had to wear our matching uniforms at all times.)
Sometimes I still have flashbacks of that tour, as, I suspect, do other former Up With People cast members -- all 20,000 of whom are scattered around the world. For me, they come as images of an eighteen-hour train ride from Leningrad to the Polish border; of the way the people we met seemed to regard Americans with a combination of fear and total amazement; of the time my friend bought some firecrackers in Moscow and they exploded in the airport. (The Moscow airport, by the way, is not the place for an American to get caught with explosive devices, even if he's twelve.) But I also remember the way the audiences applauded our shows -- our bad music, tokenistic costumes and cloying dialogue -- like we were the Beatles incarnate. They loved us. They gave us presents and invited us to play soccer, to eat dinner. We had changed the world -- we were pretty sure -- with music.
Over the following summers, I got into good stuff. Yet, humiliating as it sometimes was in retrospect, I knew that my faux Up With People experience had deepened what was then a fairly new exploration of music. I had seen its power firsthand. I'll bet that's true for others who participated in various Up With People productions, whether they went on to pursue careers as performers or missionaries or, God forbid, smartass writers for alternative newspapers. So while the world of sounds and songs will no doubt forge ahead without it, I can't help but hope that Up With People finds a way out of its financial hole. Considering that the company is planning to sell its Interlocken property to help eradicate some of its debt, and will terminate all but a very small percentage of its staff, things don't look good. Maybe there are some globally minded, music-loving philanthropists out there? They're the best kind of folks we know...
Speaking of philanthropists, two events this weekend hope to tap into your spirit of giving: The Punk Rock Social Ball, Saturday, December 16, at Seven South, 7 South Broadway, will feature performances from the Emmas, the Otterpops and the Dinnermints; on the same night at Thia's Cafe, 6495 East Evans, Michael White will host the fifth annual Bella Ball, with appearances by El Fiend, Bella Coyote, Ed Fingers and Great Atomic Motor. Both events benefit Santa's Toy Bag, an organization that works with the Denver Department of Social Services to supply food and gifts to underprivileged kids at Christmas. Attendees are encouraged to dress "to the nines" and, more important, to bring a new toy.
You needn't dress any special way for the grand opening of the Cat, the latest endeavor from Mike Jerk and Jason Cotter, who've vacated -- but not totally abandoned -- their former punk stamping grounds at the Raven. According to Jerk, the new place (located one block north of the Raven at 2334 Welton Street) is bigger, with a better sound system and a bar that's more integrated into the floor plan (not hidden in the back, as it was at the old club). With its dual entrances and multiple bathrooms, the space also eases the logistics of all-ages shows, something Jerk and Cotter are unique in their commitment to providing for young rock-and-roll fans in the area. Jerk says the two will probably continue to host shows at the Raven on an infrequent basis, but they are currently focused on broadening the fare at the new space; DJ and dance music may soon join the show calendar, along with regional and local punk and indie acts. The Cat's inaugural meow is Friday, December 15, with an all-ages show featuring the Fairlanes, Pinhead Circus and the Hate Fuck Trio; on Saturday, it's Brother's Keeper, Shogun, Martyr and Fallen Altar.
And as one local music space opens, another shuts down: Friday, December 15, will mark the final performance at the Wonderground Warehouse, an art and music space run by Cindy Wonderful and her partners in Rainbow Sugar rhyme. According to Ms. Wonderful, the Sugar girls are perhaps not suited to home life (the space is their domicile as well as a venue); they're planning to tour more frequently -- including a pending month-long jaunt in France -- and considering a move to Los Angeles. Goodbyes can be said -- and interesting music sampled -- at the farewell fete; Rainbow Sugar will be joined by Friends Forever and other guests from the Wonderground Records consortium. The warehouse is mysteriously located at the corner of Speer and Zuni, behind Kreative Kar Audio. We certainly wish Rainbow Sugar well but hope the band eventually returns to Denver, as its brand of femme fatale hip-hop and onstage theatrics are a sweet local addition, indeed.