Tag Archives: Burbage Theater

Either/Or Bookstore and “Barbarian Days”

Linda’s late sister, Brenda, had two sons, Mason and Luca, and when we saw them at a wedding this past fall, we gave each of them a gift that we hoped they would enjoy. Since Mason is an avid (and by all accounts, an extremely adept) surfer, I suggested that we give him a copy of Barbarian Days: A Surfing Life, by William Finnegan. I ended up buying two copies of that book, in part because I started marking up the first copy with notes or underlining sentences that deserved some kind of commentary. At the top of page 114, for instance, Finnegan recalls applying for a job at a bookstore in Hawaii, where he landed with his girlfriend, Caryn, with not much in the way of financial resources. They were living out of a borrowed car, and using an allocation of food stamps to allay their hunger pangs. While Caryn snags a job at a restaurant, Finnegan passes a “comprehensive book-knowledge test” administered by the owners of Either/Or, an off-shoot of “a larger store in Los Angeles.” Finnegan twice cites the location of the original store as “L.A.” in that paragraph, so I have to take his generic geographical attribution as a lack of faith in a reader’s desire for precision in a memoir. Either/Or Bookstore was located on Pier Avenue in Hermosa Beach, which at the time had a surprisingly active “underground” arts scene. Not that the local cops tolerated it more than they had to. The Burbage Theater, for instance, had its first theater located there, only to be invited to leave town by the authorities.

Finnegan does mention one detail that correlates with an odd feature of the bookstore: it didn’t have a phone. You could get a bookmark from the store with the days and hours of its operation, and its address, but there was no phone number listed. The rumor was that the owners had disputed a phone bill, and refused to pay. The phone company, it was said, informed them that they had better pay or they would cut off phone service. “Fine,” the owners supposedly said, “go right ahead.” “How do you expect to survive as a business without a phone?” “Watch.”

And they did. The store had a terrific selection of books. In fact, it had a better and more comprehensive rack of literary magazines that Papa Bach Bookstore did in the early 1970s. It was at Either/Or that I found issues of Pebble, edited by Greg Kuzma, and The Lamp in the Spine, edited by Jim Moore and Trish Hampl. I also saw a copy there of the first book of poetry by a writer named Charles Baxter. It did not have a picture of him.

Either/Or lasted at least in the 1980s. I remember spending a chunk of my Christmas bonus money from working as a typesetter at Beach City Newspapers at the bookstore. One of the books I bought was Sam Shepard’s Hawk Moon.

Finnegan has the rare ability to make his subject matter a metaphor for how he uses the language to convey his experiences and perceptions. The first sentence of the final paragraph reads, “The waves kept pouring through, shining and mysterious, filling the air with an austere exaltation.” The “waves” are also words for Finnegan, and the afterglow of the book is indeed “shining and mysterious.” I wish Either/Or were still around for young surfers in Hermosa Beach to buy a copy of. The poet Mark Jarman surfed that beach back when Either/Or was flourishing, and I would recommend some of his surfing poems for anyone wishing a supplement to Finnegan’s recollections of a “surfing life.” I myself, by the way, can barely swim. My efforts at dog-paddling are so rudimentary and excruciating that it often seems to onlookers that I am attempting to do a parody of Jim Carrey’s antics.

“The War in Heaven”: Steve Kent and Sam Shepard (1943-2017)

Monday, July 31, 2017
THE WAR IN HEAVEN
In Memory of Two Poets of the Theater: Steve Kent and Sam Shepard (1943-2017)

In addition to canonical favorites such as Ibsen, Pirandello, and Strindberg, I had been primarily reading contemporary playwrights such as Edward Albee, Samuel Beckett, and Harold Pinter when I moved to Los Angeles at the age of 20. In the winter of 1969, a graduate student named Lynn (“Scotty”) Mason at UCLA posted an announcement that she was casting actors for a student production of a one-act play entitled Icarus’s Mother by Sam Shepard. I had not heard of Shepard or this play, but was fortunate enough to be cast in the role of Frank, the man who recounts an apocalyptic vision as a holiday picnic implodes. It was a prose poem of a high order, and I began to read as much of Shepard’s writing as I could get my hands on, as well as other playwrights he was aligned with. By chance, during the summer of 1969, I acted in a student production of Futz and took a course that concentrated on off-off-broadway playwrights, during which I became familiar with the work of Rochelle Owens, Megan Terry, Irene Fornes, Adrienne Kennedy, Lanford Wilson, and Jean-Claude Italie. Along with other students dissatisfied with the kind of plays the theater department was presenting on its main stage, I formed a theater group called “The Fifth Corner” and we rehearsed off-campus for our adaptation of Anne Sexton’s poem, “Flee on Your Donkey.” After graduation I went on to act with two other theater groups in Los Angeles, one of which included OOB playwright Robert Patrick’s Cheep Theatrics, starring Julie Kavner (future voice of Marge Simpson).

I never again acted in a play by Shepard, although I certainly saw enough productions of his plays. As famous as he was among theater people, one must understand that public attention and interest in Shepard’s work in the mid-1970s was relatively muted. I remember a production of Curse of the Starving Class at a small theater in Hollywood in the late 1970s, for instance, in which only half the seats were filled, and the same was true of a production of Action at the Burbage Theater around that time. In many ways, it was the devotion of working people in the small theaters who made the case for Shepard’s writing, and not just theaters in New York. The importance of theaters in California is most particularly evident in Shepard’s development, for it was during his residence in Northern California that he began come to terms with his youth in Southern California.

The people I know who worked with him all bespoke of his influence in their lives as well as their work, and I would not be the writer I am today without having encountered writers such as Walter Hadler and Murray Mednick at the Padua Hills Theater Workshop in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Shepard himself taught at the first gathering of that group of playwrights, and had a play he wrote called Red Woman produced there. Padua Hills remains for me the quintessential quest to understand what it is that makes theater theater and not just an entertaining game of “let’s pretend.” Its direct impact on my poetry and poetics is impossible to overemphasize.

The poet William Matthews once observed that there is more talent on exhibit at age 30 in any given generation than achievement at age 60. I suppose that’s one way of separating the highest levels of accomplishment from the merely competent, for not only had Shepard produced a memorable body of work by age 60, one of his very best plays had its premiere performance the month before he turned 61. I saw a production of The God of Hell at the Geffin Playhouse in the summer of 2006, and it only reinforced my belief in his capacity to see into the interstices of human contradictions in a manner befitting a major artist.

It should be mentioned that Sam Shepard was not the only person in his birth family who worked in theater. His sister, Roxanne Rogers, is also a playwright and director as well as an actress. I saw one of her plays, directed by Ivan Spiegel, at the Burbage Theater in West Los Angeles, after it moved from Pico Blvd. to Centinela. After the play was over, I went backstage to talk to Ivan, and we found ourselves in the alley behind the theater. Roxanne joined the group with an older woman whose blue eyes registered a singularly discerning glow. “This is Roxanne’s mother,” Ivan said. We talked briefly, and all the while I had to withstand the temptation to tell her how much her son’s plays meant to me; but it was Roxanne’s evening, and I focused on her play, which had had a scene in a loft built on the stage that made the voices and lines of the characters ricochet back and forth the stage, as if some pent up realization were emerging from a thicket. You can find an article about Roxanne Rogers’s direction of Murray Mednick’s play, “Mrs. Feurstein,” at:

Mrs. Feuerstein

Shepard, however, is not the only loss that the theater world has gotten news about: Steve Kent has also died, and not nearly enough has been said about his contribution to theater in Los Angeles and other areas of the country. Kent was one of the founders of the Company Theater and the Provision Theater, which staged plays in the late 1960s and 1970s that still glow in the memories of those fortunate enough to have been present. Anyone who took part in The James Joyce Liquid Memorial Theater or who saw The Emergence knew that what it meant for the audience to be part of the conscious journey of performed vision. Steve Kent was a brilliant director, and he is enshrined in my heart every bit as much as the author of Angel City and the The Tooth of Crime.

Indeed, both Shepard and Kent shared a common collaborator, Joseph Chaikin, founder of the Open Theater. Kent adapted Beckett’s writing into a brilliant stage piece (Texts) as well as worked with Chaikin’s on Shepard’s The War in Heaven, which Shepard specifically wrote for Chaikin. To speak of the sadness I feel in Shepard’s passing is inseparable from the jolting pang of Steve Kent’s death.

I sit in silent homage.

Director, Educator, Activist Steven Kent (1943-2017)

http://www.nytimes.com/1981/03/09/theater/stage-joseph-chaikin-s-beckett-solo.html

http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/my-buddy-sam-shepard