Jonathan Larson

I met Jonathan Larson through Victoria, his college sweetheart, longtime champion, and dear friend. Later, he became an extraordinarily dependable friend to me, helping me move into my new apartment, introducing me to the neighborhood hardware store, and appointing himself my handyman. I remember one hilarious afternoon we spent attempting to put together a closet, without instructions, that I had carted back from France. Not an easy task. Somehow, at last, we succeeded, and headed down to the corner bistro to celebrate. I treated him to a beer while he enthusiastically explained the entire opera La Boheme, which I had never seen, and how his upcoming musical, Rent, differed from it. He died just two weeks later.

I can't imagine what he would have made of what has happened. During our last dinner, I remember him breathing a sigh of relief that Frank Rich had moved to another section of The New York Times, and was unlikely to be reviewing this work. A couple of weeks later, Victoria and I cried while reading out loud to each other the glowing piece Mr. Rich wrote in the Times op-ed page.

It's a strange thing when a friend becomes a celebrity/phenomenon; stranger still when they aren't here when it happens. I would give anything to have him here, watch him bask in the glory, and maybe even become swell-headed for awhile. There are some who have called Rent a masterpiece and who have said it marks the end of a brilliant, heretofore unknown career. But Jonathan Larson was far from finished; he was just beginning. He would have already been working on something else, thrilled that he would actually get paid for it, thrilled that he wouldn't have to go back to work as a waiter at the Moondance Diner.

I love Rent. I wish I could have told Jonathan so. I saw it a half-dozen times in the last few months, when it was at the New York Theatre Workshop, and I imagine that I will continue to see it now that it's on Broadway. It speaks to me in the way only a few contemporary rock artists have. I get the same feeling I had as a teenager when I was sure Elvis Costello or R.E.M. wrote that song just for me. A Broadway show has never stirred me in the same way. Who could ever put on the soundtrack to Evita and rock out? Hair never moved me personally, but I wasn't born when it premiered on Broadway, and watching revivals as a young girl was confusing. "Mommy, what are hippies? . . . What's Vietnam?" I can't help but imagine, years from now, taking my children to see revivals of Rent and hearing them ask, "What's AZT? . . . What's AIDS?" I hope they will have to ask these questions; I hope that they will not have a reason to know.

It was Jonathan's dream to make Broadway popular again. In the same way that Damn Yankees was popular in his grandparents' day and the same way Hair was in the following generation. He was right in believing that there was no impetus for young people to go to Broadway and listen to something they couldn't relate to. Why not just stay home and watch MTV? But television can isolate and, thankfully, we still need to be together and share in an experience. Our generation may have given up on Broadway, but not, I believe, by choice. Tommy was the most recent offering of something resembling contemporary music on Broadway - and that was written more than twenty years ago.

Jonathan listened to what he heard around him - the need for a community, the paralyzing fear of AIDS - and he created Rent out of that. He wasn't born without money, but he chose his work over money, which meant that he lived without it right up until the day he died. He wasn't HIV-positive himself, but one of his close childhood friends is, as were other mutual friends whose lives found their way into Rent. The play deals specifically with their lives, rather than their deaths - it's a tribute to their courage and their capacity to love one another in the face of a frightening, uncertain future. I have encountered the occasional doubter who asks how anything happy can come out of AIDS or who doesn't want to share in the enthusiasm surrounding Rent. I think the doubt arises precisely because Rent is optimistic, idealistic even. To me, it's a bit like the difference between a Catholic wake and a New Orleans funeral. One is a mourning of death, the other is a celebration of life. Rent decidedly celebrates. But it never forgets the pain and loss.

There are unforgettable, heartbreaking moments. I defy anyone to listen, truly listen, to the character Collins (Jesse L. Martin) sing "I'll Cover You" to his dead lover at his funeral and not cry, or not want to cry, for someone they have loved and lost. And the theater literally vibrates when Mimi (Daphne Rubin-Vega) screams out the song "Out Tonight" so beautifully. Delivering this overwhelming, energetic testament to life and living, I half expect her to fly off the stage. I want to fly with her.

On the night that Jonathan's Pulitzer was announced, my friend Victoria and I ended up going out for dinner to celebrate his win with the producers of Rent and some of Jonathan's closest friends. We tried to connect this extraordinary achievement to the memory of our friend, but it wasn't so easy. There were heated debates concerning whether or not Rent should be called a musical or a rock opera, and whether a chorus member should begin the despairing song "Will I?" on Broadway, as it had been done at the New York Theatre Workshop, or if it should be sung by the main character, Roger. Afterward, we stopped by the theater where the cast was finishing rehearsal. Victoria had been there earlier that night with the director, Michael Greif, and the cast. It's funny, but half of these kids didn't even know what the Pulitzer Prize is. What they do know, perhaps better than any of us, is Jonathan's music and just how sweet it is.

COPYRIGHT 1996 Brant Publications, Inc.
COPYRIGHT 2008 Gale, Cengage Learning