—=APGS did = ENGEPGdMEN aa The Number P4 Kali Thurber, A&E Editor Partaking in the great mish mash that is public transit can be an (ahem) irksome experience at times. Buses are one of the few places left where people of all walks of life are thrown together haphazardly and forced to interact in their own awk- ward, flamboyant, or hoity way. It’s a true test of humanity: trapped in the company of strangers, can we maintain sanity? The Number 14, a world-renowned play set on a Vancouver bus, attempts to answer this (or at least poke some fun) with two hours of singing and dancing and a whole lot of mockery. It begins like all bus days begin—in the monotonous hour of the rushed. But in The Number 14, rush hour is portrayed in a pleasingly synchro- nized dance of the blank-faced suits. The animated gestures and Chaplin-esque humour had much of the audience con- vinced that we’d be a much happier community if only 6am on the bus looked When my out-of-town Waits’ new album, Rea/ friend and his wife asked Gone. me to join them to see The setlist for the Tom Waits play on evening was heavily October 15 and 16, I had weighted towards Rea/ to say yes. The first show Gone, but gems such as had sold out in nine “Heart Attack and Vine,” minutes, so as a “Hang down Your Head,” casual fan, I felt and “Table Top Joe” were lucky to be includ- — sprinkled in as well. ed by true Rain Dogs Guitarist Mare Ribot in the Waits experience. may be the best accompanist My initiation to Tom _ on the planet, he can also Waits live was among a _ step out and blow the back polite, almost rever- of your head off, as he did to ent crowd me on “Hoist That Rag.” I at the think there may still be pieces Orpheum of my = scalp _ scattered Theatre. throughout the Orpheum. You’ve All this was only an appe- never met tizer to the following evening this good offstage. But then, most scenes in The Number 14 made me wish public transit really was as entertaining as the play portrayed it to be. Like the two prune-faced actors who dram- atize Shakespeare in the aisle, or the narcotic real-estate agent who, while talking on her cell, miraculously changes her entire outfit while confined to her seat. These are the kinds of outrageous bus stories that every- one should have. At least that’s what I thought until the two sugarcoated private- school girls hopped on the bus and had a ten-minute dialogue consisting of the words, “no way,” and “way,” and the drivers in the audience groaned, remembering why they bought their cars. But the private-school girls weren’t the only unbearable characters to get on The Number 14; there was also the skinny, white rapper, the hoards of bitter old folks (made worse with copious amounts of false teeth and flatulence jokes), and the pizza-faced kid who sang every verse of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” All these galling scenes were made endurable, however, when Miss Good stomped onto the bus with her elementary- school class, on their way to Science World. LAST THOUGHTs ON A “WAITSTED”’ WEEKEND Agnes St. Bob, OP Contributor Miss Good is the kind of crabby teaq who hates kids, and regularly gets ca swigging whiskey under her desk at lul time. : When one of her innocent studq asked if Miss Good had a rough night, snapped, “I feel like I went to Hawaii Gordon Campbell.” And when anof whined that he has to eat on the bus beca he’s diabetic, Miss Good bellowed, “I di care if you’re Serbo-Croatian.” Miss Goo one tough grade-two teacher, but she sug one hell of a laugh. Just when The Number 14 began to s¢ unrealistic (besides all the dancing singing, obviously) because not one prea’ dirty bum had made an appearance, obligatory lunatic came crashing onto bus. As they always seem to, the crazy spit out some good one-liners in his f like, “hey Sven, give me a ring someti And when he concluded the play acknowledging the audience with a sc and, “I told my doctors there were ped watching me,” everyone seemed to ag that The Number 14 was the most entert| ing bus ride they’d been on in a while. this was real. The faithful had gathered for what was to be a magical night. I met serious fans, from places such as Boston, New York, Arizona, and Istanbul. These people restored my faith in the concept that art really matters. What would you cross the continent (or an ocean) for? For the sec- ond night in a row, I heard what might be the most flexible set of vocal chords my ears have expe- rienced. The bottom line is, the man brings it! Waits’ rasp, growl, and howl held me enrap- tured because all drip with pure emotion. a better group of human beings. at the Commodore Ballroom. The concert began amid ‘Take the smallest room Tom howls and cheers that were a Waits has played in at least 20 combination of acknowledge- years, add hardcore fans, and to ment and welcoming Waits and that, add liquor. It just doesn’t his band back to the stage. I was get any better. The intimacy of immediately drawn in by the inten- _ the smaller, bar-like setting takes of those moments. I feel fortunate to have been sity and delivery of the opening the Tom Waits experience to a present for that song and not the least bit guilty for firning ; number, “Make it Rain,” off place that I once thought could only be dreamt about. But and admonishing the fool at the bar who couldn’t stop talk- Then in a split second Waits could carry me off on a_ beautiful, poignant, and somber ballad. “Day After Tomorrow” was one 10 | ObhePPPaSs november = 3/2000