[Luigi Sottile and Elena Bossler in WHISKY NEAT]
I sat in a room tonight where seventy people sang together. All is not lost, dear reader. Thieves broke in and stole the amplifiers – in this building that I go to on Sunday nights. The musicians stood at the front, cried out as best they could, and eventually we joined them with our untrained voices to amplify the music. In a sort of selfish way, I suppose, I could not help but think of WHISKY NEAT, and its temporary home on 7th and Spring Garden Street.
As a younger man, I had a notion that I would feel a greater sense of wholeness at this moment, as my work is being presented with this level of professionalism and visibility. I did not, however, anticipate the pain in being so exposed – to have one’s heart lay in state before a gathering of curious onlookers six nights a week. But as I sit here now, it is my feeling that this heartache reveals a deeper reason to share the work with you, dear reader.
It is not easy for any of us to reveal ourselves -- to cry out as best we can, and in so doing further disclose our imperfections and weaknesses. Especially when there are brutal forces and people everywhere – yes, even in this, my beloved city of Philadelphia. We live in tough neighborhoods, all of us, even those of you that don’t. You put your hood up on the walk back from the el, look straight ahead and reveal no emotion, no weakness. Or you keep your little notebook hidden, as I do, from your workmates. Or maybe you keep secret that movie that made you cry, knowing that others will think less of you. Or maybe you simply mention it in a way that lets others know you are above it.
There is a part of me that doesn’t want you to come to this play in this final week – that wants to lock the doors, and keep my little vision to myself, perfect and untouched. But I am not choosing that tonight. I know you know these characters as well as I do. Who better to share it with? I know, like me, you have been on both sides of brutality. And because of brutality, like me, you feel a painful separation at times from those around you.
In this very imperfect play there are five very imperfect characters. They live in a heightened brutality, yes, but unfortunately it is not entirely alien to any of us. Each of them are victims and perpetrators in their own ways. As we all are. And yet, incredibly, they each hold out hope for a genuine intimacy – to one day look into the eyes of another without being above or below. That is my prayer for us too, dear reader. That prayer may seem almost completely drowned out by the staggering power of brutality, but we can amplify it. I have heard us sing together.
FINAL PERFORMANCES:
Wednesday, Apr. 22, 8 p.m.
Thursday, Apr. 23, 8 p.m.
Friday, Apr. 24, 8 p.m.
Saturday, Apr. 25, 2 p.m.
