John J. Winters, Bridgewater State University

Sam Shepard

When Sam Shepard died on July 27, 2017, the world lost one of the greatest playwrights of the past half-century. He was an artist renowned for bravely plumbing his own life for material, spinning much of his own pain into theatrical gold. His best work revealed the hollowness behind the idea of the happy family and its corollary, the American dream. Subversive and funny, Shepard had the soul of a poet and an experimental streak that never faded.

The American family was, no doubt, Shepard’s great subject. His quintet of family plays that premiered between 1978 and 1985 – “Curse of the Starving Class,” the Pulitzer Prize-winning “Buried Child,” “Fool for Love,” “True West” (both nominated for Pulitzers) and “A Lie of the Mind” – form the foundation of Shepard’s lofty reputation.

While researching my recent biography of Shepard, I found that most critics and scholars focused on the playwright’s relationship with his father. Rightly so: Samuel Shepard Rogers suffered from alcoholism and his only son grew up bearing the brunt of his abuse. Shepard’s family plays turn on the collateral damage of the fathers.

Less frequently examined is the playwright’s fixation on the land, and the ways in which this plays out in his work. Both as a writer and in his personal outlook, Shepard drew deeply from the old trope that nature and innocence are intertwined. And according to critic Harold Bloom, Shepard saw doom in the “materialistic and technological obsessions of modern society.”

Throughout his work, Shepard decried so-called progress, especially the rampant development of open space. Whether it was the forced sale of a family farm (“Curse of the Starving Class”) or Native Americans being driven off their reservation (“Operation Sidewinder”), it all came to no good.

To Shepard, a relationship with the land was nothing short of existential. As the playwright told an interviewer in 1988:

“What’s most frightening to me right now is this estrangement from life. People and things are becoming more and more removed from the actual. We are becoming more and more removed from the earth to the point that people just don’t know themselves or each other or anything.”

Shepard arrived at this impulse naturally. When he was in elementary school, his family settled in a small house on Lemon Street in Bradbury, California. An orchard of 80 avocado trees attached to the house meant that Shepard – then known by his birth name, Steve Rogers – was kept busy irrigating and harvesting the crop. He also raised dogs and sheep, and when he had free time he worked the fields belonging to his neighbors. During high school, he was an eager member of the 4-H Club and Future Farmers of America, and spent his summers tending to the thoroughbreds at nearby Santa Anita Park.

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In college, Shepard’s major wasn’t theater but education. As he once wrote to a friend, back then he wanted to become a “veterinarian with a flashy station wagon, and a flashy blond wife, raising German shepherds in some fancy suburb.” He never finished college nor became a vet. Instead, Shepard left home and made his way across the country to New York City and the East Village, where he would quickly transform himself into the brightest light of the nascent off-off-Broadway scene.

But even as his reputation grew, he never left his agricultural roots behind. In fact, one of Shepard’s early one-act plays was titled “4-H Club” (1965).

Other plays from the 1960s combine his old life with his new one. Rural scenes are full of characters who talk in the hip argot of the Village streets, characters caught in an absurdist situation go “fishing” off the edge of the stage, and Native Americans, by their very presence onstage in plays like 1970’s “Operation Sidewinder,” stake a claim to the land that’s been stolen from them.

With time, the playwright would more directly address the scourge of overdevelopment that he saw happening around him. It would become a running theme of sorts, as Shepard saw the nation growing and changing – but not for the better.

“One of the biggest tragedies about this country was moving from an agricultural society to an urban, industrial society. We’ve been wiped out,” he told Playboy in 1984.

Shepard’s characters embody this loss. In “Geography of a Horse Dreamer” (1974), one character is a gambler who can predict tomorrow’s winners at the racetrack, but loses that power once he’s physically forced from his usual haunts to a new, strange locale. In “Buried Child” (1979), the land holds the answer to the play’s central mystery: At play’s end, the fallow backyard gives up a baby from a shallow grave, shining a light on the incestuous relationship that has led to the ruination of this family – as if the purity of nature had been offended by a terrible transgression. And in Shepard’s late masterpiece, “Ages of the Moon,” two old friends finally find solace by communing with nature at a small, remote campsite.

Nowhere in Shepard’s oeuvre does land play a bigger role than in 1978’s “Curse of the Starving Class.” The Tate family’s farm stands between husband and wife: He wants to unload it to pay off his gambling and drinking debts; she wants to sell it and use the money to escape her marriage and take the children to Europe. The culminating scene features the husband, Weston, coming to his senses after sobering up and walking around his property. Reconnecting with his land, Weston turns his life around, “like peeling off a whole person.”

Shepard’s love of the country and its open spaces would mark all aspects of his career. Also a celebrated actor, he favored “rural” dramas, those set on farms, racetracks or some windswept piece of desert. In his screen debut, Shepard starred as the doomed farmer in Terrence Malick’s “Days of Heaven” (1978). In his screenplay for the cult classic film, “Paris, Texas,” (1984) Shepard mirrored the desolation of the South Texas desert in the soul of his protagonist, Travis, a man suffering from a malady that Shepard often said he himself felt: “lostness.”

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Shepard felt most at home traversing what one western historian called this “strange land full of mystery.” He took pride in being a western writer.

“I was never interested in the mythological cowboy. I was interested in the real thing,” he once said.

“He would call me late in the night,” Patti Smith wrote in a loving tribute, “from somewhere on the road, a ghost town in Texas, a rest stop near Pittsburgh, or from Santa Fe, where he was parked in the desert, listening to the coyotes howling. But most often he would call from his place in Kentucky, on a cold, still night, when one could hear the stars breathing…”

She knew, better than anyone, that such places constituted Shepard’s emotional and physical territory. He adored the vastness of the plains, the green of loping pasturelands; he cherished his time running the highways and byways in his pickup, or sitting next to the campfire on a real-life cattle drive, and reveled in the grit of this country’s less-traveled corners.

Shepard loved America for its beauty, its danger and its promise, forever transforming her in our imaginations.

John J. Winters, Adjunct Professor of English, Bridgewater State University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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Dominic Taylor, University of California, Los Angeles

The death of James Earl Jones has forced me to consider the end of an era.

Harry Belafonte, Sidney Poitier and Jones were giants in my industry. They were Black performers whose ascents to stardom occurred in the tumultuous 1960s, when I was an infant. All three were politically active, although each operated in a significantly different way.

In 1967, there were more than 150 riots fueled by racial tensions in U.S. cities. Many Americans worried that the nation would implode over racial conflict, and President Lyndon B. Johnson appointed the Kerner Commission to study the sources of racial turmoil.

At the time, Jones was an actor of growing renown on television and the theatrical stage. He had performed in “Danton’s Death” on Broadway and was featured on NBC’s “Tarzan,” among other projects.

Jones found himself grappling with a question that has roiled many artists, then and now: In troubling times, what is an artist to do?

He didn’t give rousing speeches, as Belafonte did. Nor did he hand-deliver cash to student activists in Mississippi during the Freedom Summer, as Poitier had done.

Instead, Jones decided to work on a play about a boxer, “The Great White Hope,” which had been written by Howard Sackler at Arena Stage, a Washington-based theater company in the growing regional theater movement.

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Embodying Black power

While cities were burning all over America, why would an actor hoping to make a difference sign on to play a boxer? If they aren’t willing to put their life on the line, shouldn’t they at least work on a play about the Civil Rights Movement, racism or police brutality?

However, “The Great White Hope” wasn’t a simple, sentimental sports drama. Sackler based the play’s protagonist, Jack Jefferson, on boxer Jack Johnson, who became the first Black heavyweight champion in 1908.

African Americans riotously celebrated Johnson, who had captured the title just 45 years after the Emancipation Proclamation. In the face of virulent Jim Crow racism, Johnson stood as a man who, if given a fair shot, could beat anyone.

In his book “A Beautiful Pageant: African American Theatre, Drama and Performance in the Harlem Renaissance, 1910-1927,” theater historian David Krasner argues that Johnson’s victory was one of the key events that fueled the Harlem Renaissance, the Black intellectual and cultural movement that birthed jazz music, the poetry of Langston Hughes, the writings of Zora Neale Hurston and the sculptures of Augusta Savage.

The confidence Johnson inspired was contagious: If a Black man could handily beat a white man in a boxing ring, there was no reason Black artists and writers couldn’t fashion groundbreaking works, plumbing their lives and their histories – as Hurston did – to become champions of Black culture.

The play is written in three acts, and it follows Jefferson and his fictional white lover, Eleanor Bachman, from 1908 to 1915. After Jefferson wins the title, the government hounds the couple, in part because of their interracial romance. Officials eventually detain them as they enter Ohio under the Mann Act, a law ostensibly enacted to halt prostitution but often used to intimidate interracial couples. The government tells Jefferson that it will drop the charges if he’s willing to throw a fight to an inferior white boxer.

Jones won a Tony Award for his portrayal of a Black man possessed with talent, confidence and strength, whose biggest problem was that he simply refused to stay in his lane. https://www.youtube.com/embed/IVyvwZ_Yh0g?wmode=transparent&start=0 A scene from the 1970 film version of ‘The Great White Hope,’ which also starred James Earl Jones.

A different kind of fighter

Boxer Muhammad Ali was also a big fan of Jones’ performance.

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Ali had been stripped of his heavyweight title in 1967 because he was a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War, refusing to enlist after being drafted. When Ali saw “The Great White Hope,” he felt like he was looking in the mirror.

“You just change the time, date and the details and it’s about me!” Life magazine quoted him saying.

It’s strange to think about how historical events can be distilled into emotions like fear, love, jealousy and righteousness. But James Earl Jones was somehow able to hold a Black boxer who loved a white woman in conversation with someone unable to bring himself to fight in Vietnam.

Jones probably knew that a performance on a stage seen by a few thousand people would do little to end the Vietnam War, racial inequality or police brutality.

But I think Jones was looking to change the culture. He was trying to change the country’s understanding of what it means to fight – and what a freedom fighter is.

Is a fighter someone who knocks out their opponent? Or someone who follows their heart? Is a fighter someone who takes up arms at the behest of their government? Or is a fighter someone who’s willing to risk their livelihood for their values?

Sometimes, activism can be as simple as making art to the best of your abilities – or, as W.E.B. Du Bois wrote, “to use beauty to set the world right.”

Dominic Taylor, Acting Chair of Theater, School of Theater, Film and Television, University of California, Los Angeles

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This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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Glenn Fosbraey, University of Winchester

Linkin Park 2024

Linkin Park have announced that they are reforming, seven years after disbanding due to the death of lead singer Chester Bennington.

Along with the announcement of a six-date international tour and the promised release of new music, it was also revealed that Emily Armstrong, formerly of the Los Angeles group Dead Sara, would be joining founding member Mike Shinoda on co-lead singer duties.

One of the most successful bands of the streaming age, and the only band to feature in Spotify’s top ten most-streamed albums of all time, Linkin’ Park’s legion of fans are divided on Armstrong’s appointment. Many are simply happy to see them return, but others have been critical of the decision to keep using the band name in the absence of Bennington.

Linkin Park are by no means the first band to enter a second phase after the loss of their lead singer. Here are three other notable examples.

1. Queen

How do you replace a singer who many believe is the greatest of all time? That’s the conundrum Queen faced when they decided to continue following the death of Freddie Mercury in 1991.

The surviving band members had a taste of performing with a different frontman during the following year’s Concert for Freddie Mercury, where George Michael’s performance of Somebody to Love stealing the show. After that, they had a go at trying to do it in-house, with Brian May and Roger Taylor sharing the vocals on the 1997 single No-One but You (Only the Good Die Young).

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Then, after losing another quarter of the original lineup when bassist John Deacon called it a day, Paul Rodgers took on mic duties between 2004 and 2009.

Adam Lambert became the latest to fill Freddie Mercury’s Adidas high-tops in 2011 – a position he still holds today. Though the band has always performed as Queen + Paul Rodgers or Queen + Adam Lambert, never fully taking the plunge to officially “replace” Freddy.

2. New Order

Post-punk purveyors of gloom Joy Division may have ceased to exist following the death of frontman Ian Curtis – but it didn’t signal the end of the surviving band members’ creative output.

Rising phoenix-like from the ashes of their old group only a few months later as New Order, guitarist Bernard Sumner was recast as the lead singer. Gillian Gilbert turned the trio back to a quartet when she joined the ranks to play guitar and keyboards.

Gradually morphing from their post-punk roots to reinvent themselves as a dance and electronic act, with the release of Blue Monday in 1983, they made the move from indie darlings to bona fide superstars. Forty-four years on from their (re)birth and still going strong, New Order’s story is one of both survival and revival.

3. AC/DC

Following the death of original singer Bon Scott in February 1980, AC/DC acted swiftly to appoint new vocalist Brian Johnson in time to begin recording new material in April that year.

With 50 million units sold and the title of biggest selling rock album of all time, the resulting album Back in Black undoubtedly marks AC/DC’s commercial high point.

The five albums released with Scott at the microphone are often more celebrated by the critics but with 11 studio albums under his belt – and the last three reaching number one in many countries around the globe with multi-platinum sales – it’s hard to see Johnson’s tenure as anything but a massive success. Though the argument about which singer is better continues to rumble on with fans.

Moving on

In the case of the reformed Linkin Park, Shinoda has spoken about feeling empowered by the new lineup, seeing it as the beginning of a new chapter in the band’s history rather than “erasing its past” – an accusation some critics have levelled at him.

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We’ll never know what Bennington himself would think, of course, but these words from an interview with Kerrang Radio shortly before his death might reassure Shinoda that he’s doing the right thing: “What matters is that you took the chance to do something that you felt was important to you and that’s what being an artist is all about.”

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Glenn Fosbraey, Associate Dean of Humanities and Social Sciences, University of Winchester

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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