I made my highly unexpected Broadway debut at a preview last week of Hair, which opened Tuesday at the Al Hirschfeld Theatre. Beckoned onto the stage by a cast member, along with a couple dozen other free-spirited souls, I soon found myself arm-in-arm with a fellow simply referred to as Berger. The next thing I knew, I was looking out into the crowd of over 1,000 people, and swaying to the music/singing repeated choruses of “Let The Sun Shine In,” with the entire audience singing along. Feeling the glow of the—no, scratch that, just the general glow, I turned to my newfound companion and instinctively shouted “You are awesome, man,” and it was at that moment that I realized I was experiencing something more than just a show.
I have to believe this is as close as possible to what it must have felt like when Hair premiered in 1968, during the height of the Vietnam War/hippie counterculture. And even though director Diane Paulus’ production probably was slightly more poignant in Central Park last summer before the country’s administrative regime change, Jupiter appears to have remained aligned with Mars, and the Broadway transfer is definitely still one hell of a show. I will go as far as to say that it will certainly be one of the most memorable evenings you will ever have at the theater.
Hair was one of the first “concept musicals,” that is, a show that departs from the standard “book musical” format that was in place since 1943’s Oklahoma (although some will argue that the tradition began with Show Boat in 1927). With only a limited and mostly irrelevant story, Hair is designed as a musical review of sorts; it has semi-vaudevillian sensibilities married to the rock music of its day, resulting in a series of well-defined and loveable characters in a tightly connected series of thematic sketches. The loose plot follows Claude (Gavin Creel—who was almost Jesus in the ill-fated Godspell revival), a disillusioned young man from Flushing, New York who believes that his life would be far more interesting if he hailed from Manchester, England. Having royally pissed off his parents by not showing any ambition in life/pursuing a normal career in dentistry or law, Claude spends most of his time among the similar-minded and aptly named “Tribe.” Notable members include the aforementioned Berger (Will Swenson), the manic, yet surprisingly tender de facto leader of sorts; Woof (Bryce Ryness), a gentle weirdo; Jeanie (Kacie Shiek), the young mother-to-be; and Sheila (Cassie Levy), the most politically active of the bunch. The brunt of their activities includes celebrating love, existence, getting high (duh), and…wait for it…their hair.
Life seems to be relatively good, if a bit unsettling, until Claude receives his draft notice and then—well, we get lots of incredible, and internationally recognized, culturally significant music performed by the altogether amazing ensemble. Highlights for me included “Aquarius,” “Good Morning Starshine,” the Black Boys/White Boys sequence, and, obviously, “Let The Sun Shine In.” Gerome Ragni and James Radd’s book remains exceptionally fresh and often wickedly funny—the always-reliable Megan Lawrence has a hilarious turn as both Claude’s mother and then later as the mystical Buddahdalirama, a product of Claude’s drugged-up hallucination.
A groundbreaking, hard-rocking musical that deals intelligently with issues of politics, race, and humanity in general, this sparkling revival is one of the few times I can legitimately say I was wholly transported to another era by a work of theatre. Four peace signs out of four.

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