My week of vacation had barely started on Saturday when I burst into tears.
It was a great day.
Hmm . . . perhaps I should explain.
After a long, long, long wait, I finally got a chance to see a performance of Hamilton this Saturday. The first time the show came to town the performances were completely sold out in a heartbeat. I diligently entered the ticket lottery every day but, sadly, was never successful. I was disappointed, not just because I wanted to see the show, but because I had been trying to get the tickets for my son, who really, really wanted to see the show.
Alas, no tickets.
Instead, I gave him the book, Hamilton the Revolution, which has all of the lyrics and story notes and such, and a promise of tickets “someday.”
This year, “someday” finally appeared on the calendar – it was this Saturday as a matter of fact. We hopped on the train, headed to the city, and made our way to the beautiful Orpheum theater with a few thousand other folks.
Now, American history is not my strong suit, but I knew the basic gist of what would happen in the show. I’d seen a behind-the-scenes documentary about it on the local PBS station, and my son had helpfully gone through the songs in the first act with me, so I’d have a clue what they were saying.
Nevertheless, as the final song was sung and the audience was surging to their feet with applause at the end of the performance, I was crying like a baby who’d been completely caught by surprise.
How did the creators (and cast) do that? Continue reading