24decade

A 24-hour performance art concert about communities building themself as a result of being torn apart.

Pulitzer Prize Finalist
Kennedy Prize in Theate

Obie Award (Taylor Mac)
Two Bessie Awards (production and design)
Two Australian Helpmann awards (Taylor Mac and Production
Drama Critics Circle Award (Taylor Mac)
New York Times Top 10 lists for Best Performances, Best of Theater, and Best of Classical Music of 2016.

Excerpt:WAKE UP STEPHEN FOSTER!

YOUR BROTHER WALT IS HERE.

BEDSIDE MANNERISTAT THE READY FOR A DYING KISS.

ALLONS!

I’VE BEEN IN A THICK.

POSTMAN FOR THE DYING

CARRYING THE CARTS OF BOYS,

PACKAGES OF LEGS AND ARMS.

CLEAVED.

WHEELBARROWS OF SENTIMENT.

NOW, DEAD, THEY ARE AWAKE AND MOVING.

HAVING GROWN WEARY OF BEING STUCK.

OF BEING BEAUTIFUL DREAMERS, LIKE YOU.

OH STEPHEN FOSTER, YOU WIN.

FATHER OF AMERICAN SONG

SENTIMENTALIST, GET UP.

AN ABOLITIONIST INDENTURED TO BLACKFACE AND PLANTATIONS.

ON HIS IMAGINED AND MUCH TOO OLD, OLD KENTUCKY HOME.

DEPENDENT ON STAYING YOU CONFUSE DYING WITH REST.

THERE IS NO RESTING PLACE FOR THE DYING OR THE DEAD.

THERE IS ONLY HEADWAY.

SO WAKE UP.

THIS HOTEL ROOM ON THE BOWERY,

IS NO PLACE TO AWAIT AN END.

THE CARPET IS DULL.

THE AIR IS OLD.

ITS STENCH IS THE INDULGENCE OF FAILING HOPE.

THE WALLPAPER, FILIGREE AND FLEUR-DE-LIS, HAS BEEN STAINED BY YANKEE SOLDIER’S SWEAT FILLED LEANING.

HE RESTED HIS PALMS AND FOREHEAD AGAINST THESE WALLS WHEN THE DOOR WAS CLOSED.

WHEN ALONE AND INSIDE A FORGOTTEN ROOM.

HE KEPT HIS SORROWS HERE SO NONE WOULD FIND THEM.

THIS IS THE CORNER OF PROGRESSION THAT STAYS PUT.

IN THE NORTH.

ITS STAGNATION IS NO JUST PLACE.

YOU HIT YOUR HEAD ON A BASIN HERE.

OR WAS IT A CHAMPER POT AND THE PROPRIETRESS WAS MODEST?

OR KIND?

OR TAKING YOUR LEAD AND POLISHING THE EDGES OF A VAUDEVILLE’S TRUTH INTO A MINSTREL’S SHOW CHIMERA?

IN HERE YOU HAVE BUT 38 CENTS IN CIVIL WAR SCRIP.

OR WAS IT MORE AND THE PROPRIETRESS WAS CORRUPT?

DID SHE STEAL DREAMS FROM YOU?

HOPING TO CASH THEM IN DURING PEACE TIME?

THERE IS NO PEACE TIME.

USE YOUR MONEY AS CONFETTI TO CELEBRATE THE NEW.

OUTSIDE, MONEY AND BAUBLES ARE BEING FORGOTTEN.

THEY CANNOT COMPETE WITH THE GLINT OF DEW.

OH STEPHEN, GET UP.

STOP YOUR WALLOWING.

ABANDONED BY WIFE AND CHILD (YOU COULD NOT BE WHAT THEY NEEDED), SO YOU STAY PUT?

BECAUSE THE MAMMIES, SAMBOS, CORN-PIPES, AND EVEN,

OH, SUSANNAHS,

DO NOT LEAVE?

THEY LEAVE NONE OF US.

THEY STAY.

O STEPHEN! OUR STEPHEN GET UP!

UNTUCK YOUR EXIGENCY.

LEAVE THIS ROOM.

DO AWAY WITH THE SOLITUDE OF MAKE-BELIEVE.

BETTER TO DIE IN AN ORGY OF LIMBS.

FOREHEADS AND PALMS PRESSED AGAINST OPENINGS AND BONE.

TURN TO FACES AND LIPS IN A MASS GRAVE.

GROW WITH LOVERS IN RED MUD.

the verb

PROGRESS.

IN THIS ROOM YOU ARE SET APART FROM YOUR BROTHERS.

AN IMMORTAL CHAMPION REMEMBERED FOR YOUR MELODY AND MYTH.

OUTSIDE IT IS A HUMAN’S END.

THERE MELODY AND MYTH WOULD DO BATTLE WITH DETERIORATION AND LOSE.

ALL THINGS TRULY BEAUTIFUL LOSE.

WERE I WITH YOU HERE IN BODY,

I WOULD TAKE YOU, NAKED, TO STUYVESANT SQUARE.

THERE YOUR LAST BREATH WOULD BE UNDERNEATH A SWEETBAY MAGNOLIA.

I WOULD HIDE YOU, IN A BUSH, SO IN A CENTURIES TIME THE GAY CRUISERS WOULD DRIP UPON YOU THEIR SUMMER HEAT AND PLAY.

GET UP OR OTHERS WILL COME FOR YOU FIRST.

TO MAKE YOU A MASTER, IN THE COLD, COLD GROUND.

THEY WILL PLACE YOU IN A BOX WITH NO COMPANION, BUTTONED UP INSIDE THEIR ETIQUETTE, YOUR BLACK SHOES SHINED, YOUR THIGHS ENCASED IN A SACK SUIT, YOUR STIFF NECK IMPRISONED BY A STIFFER COLLAR, AND NO LOVER'S KISS TO STAIN ITS EDGES.

GET UP!

I CANNOT DO IT FOR YOU.

I HAVE NO STRENGTH LEFT IN ME TO CARE FOR THOSE WHO DREAM AWAY THE WAR TIME.

I AM TOO MUCH IN LOVE WITH DEAD BOYS,

LIFTING THEM.

ONE, THEN ANOTHER,

PLACING THEM SIDE BY SIDE,

JUST SO,

THEIR BREASTS PRESSED AGAINST BREAST,

THEIR LIPS TOUCHING EARS,

TO WHISPER LOVINGLY UNDER THE SOIL,

“THIS IS THE TREMENDOUS WORLD,

ALLONS.”