Theatre in Review: Stereophonic (Playwrights Horizons)

	Juliana Canfield, Sarah Pidgeon. Photo: Chelcie Parry

It's hard to overestimate the contribution that scenic designer David Zinn makes to the overall effect of Stereophonic. David Adjmi's play unfolds almost entirely in a Sausalito recording studio in 1976 and '77. (For the final scene, the action moves to a similar venue in Los Angeles, without a change of scenery.) It encompasses a control room, with a gorgeous, supersized, old-school analog mixer, and, upstage on a second level, a recording room behind glass. It's a soundproof environment and little or no natural light gets in past the window blinds. With its redwood walls, shag carpeting, and enough cushions for a medium-sized harem, it is the ideal setting for a hothouse drama about the creation of a hit record album, an effort that, as it happens, results in considerable psychological collateral damage.

Focusing on an Anglo-American band whose sharp-elbowed members include two troubled couples, Stereophonic is unlikely to see Mick Fleetwood or Stevie Nicks in the audience, but, even for non-fans of the classic album Rumours, this account of internecine personal and creative struggles is hard to beat. From the first chord, the process is fraught, thanks to the strains of everyone living together in a rented house stocked with drugs and packed with bad behavior. "It's your job to make things go smoothly," says Diana, a singer-songwriter, to Simon, the drummer and manager. "Smooth as in?" wonders Simon. "As in people not breaking dishes all night," Diana replies.

When the group's previous album -- a notable success -- makes a surprise return to the Top 40, Columbia Records triples the project's budget: "We no longer have to be out by the end of the month," says Simon. "We can stay as long as we want." It's a dubious gift: With all pressure removed, work drags on for months, becoming a purgatory with no promise of escape, an arena for neurotic acting out. Adjmi uses the Annie Baker -- Anne Washburn technique, letting us pick up the narrative pieces through casual conversations and seemingly minor incidents. But there's an underlying tripwire tension that, despite everyone's studied displays of cool, can, at any second, erupt into unchecked furies.

The band's opposing poles are represented by Simon, who is pleasantly tipsy on the fruits of success -- including drugs, parties, and blondes named Elke -- and Peter, the guitarist and lead vocalist, an anhedonic perfectionist with a Fender-sized chip on his shoulder. Nothing distracts him, not even the fact that his brother, an Olympic swimmer, is, at the moment, competing in Montréal. "He's good, but I think he's a little overpraised," Peter says, adding of swimming, "I don't actually think it's a sport." Caught between them is Reg, the bassist, usually seen stumbling around clutching a bottle of Jack Daniels. Reg's wife, Holly, the keyboardist, is making exit noises, informing him, "I'm not wiping your face anymore in the middle of the night, so you don't choke on your vomit." Peter and Diana, his girlfriend, are locked in endless passive-aggressive warfare, usually over some niggling musical detail. At the audio console are Grover, who shamelessly padded his resume to get this gig -- his most prominent client is the as-yet-unknown Toto -- and his assistant Charlie, cousin to a Doobie Brother and a kook given to bizarre talking jags.

Across a luxurious three hours -- to be sure, the action never drags -- relationships crumble, friendships are betrayed, and nerve endings are given a thorough flaying. Peter, making a pathetic attempt at becoming one of the guys, bitterly accuses Reg and Simon of freezing him out. This may be in part because Peter hands out incomprehensible pieces of musical direction that leave Simon paralyzed. ("We're on the beach. There are two lovers. The sun is shining. The waves are sparkling and ebbing. Then suddenly THERE'S A CUT! And there's a dead body. And show me that dead body with the drums.") Diana and Holly squabble over the latter's plan to move into her own condominium. ("I can't live with these disgusting men!" wails Diana, feeling abandoned.) Meanwhile, Simon looks on helplessly as, back in London, his wife and children drift out of his life.

As songs are recorded and rerecorded, psychodramas are unleashed. A tiny reverb problem with Simon's snares sends him hurtling out of the room. An attempt at patching in one of Diana's high notes exposes Peter's most sadistic tendencies, but she exacts her revenge during a harmony section do-over, openly bragging, in front of him and Holly, about a night out with Tony Orlando. At the same time, it's fascinating to see these gifted professionals in action, hashing out the little things that make the difference between a good enough song and a chartbuster. And, when the elements align, they make gorgeous music together (courtesy of Will Butler, who has contributed a set of perfect school-of-Fleetwood-Mac synthetics.) Art, it seems, can be forged even in a crucible riddled with cracks.

Under the pinpoint direction of Daniel Aukin, everyone inhabits their roles with rare authenticity. As Reg, Will Brill spreads a chill through the room with each drunken entrance; when he gains sobriety, going full-on New Age, he becomes a new kind of irritant. Juliana Canfield's Holly is a funny, tough self-preservationist, whether waxing ecstatically over a donut ("this comestible bit of sheen") or furiously tearing into Grover and Simon over a song's tempo. Tom Pecinka's Peter is a singular mixture of genius and grind, often handing out love and abuse in a single gesture. Sarah Pidgeon's Diana holds a black belt in emotional ju-jitsu, playing the victim one moment and, a little later, shattering a close alliance with a casual remark. Chris Stack lends Simon a self-assurance that nevertheless crumbles under the pressure of nonstop, drug-fueled, all-hours sessions. Eli Gelb's Grover transforms from glorified lackey to assured professional, giving as good as he gets with this temperamental crew. Andrew R. Butler's barely socialized Charlie shines in one of the play's many extended arias, about a date with a country singer that goes horribly, violently wrong.

Adding to the production's realism are Enver Chakartash's costumes, a totally groovy collection of bell-bottom jeans, mesh shirts, peasant dresses, and boots. Jiyoun Chang's lighting has an uncanny way of suggesting times of day even in this hermetically sealed interior. Ryan Rumery's sound design creates markedly different atmospheres in the control and sound rooms and ends the evening with a casual demonstration of the engineer's technique. (One key scene features Grover and Charlie using the sound system to eavesdrop on Diana and Peter's anguished breakup.)

Those who survived the 1970s will be amused by a script that effortlessly drops names like Don Henley, Jimmy Page, and Hall & Oates, along with a discussion of the film Don't Look Now and its erotic properties. Adjmi is often acutely funny about the disorienting effects of overnight success. ("No, I'm not kidding," Diana tells Holly. "We're famous. I went to the gynecologist on Saturday. And I had my legs in the stirrups, and he asked me for an autograph.") The playwright is also utterly clear-eyed about the emotional costs involved; by the time the album is complete, everyone's lives have been thoroughly upended. But Stereophonic never loses sight of the fact that, for all their conflicts and self-defeating activities, these are real artists; what makes them so volatile in real life are the same things that make magic in the studio. Stereophonic compels as a poignant character study and needle-sharp comedy. If, as the saying goes, you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs, it seems that you can't make a musical masterpiece without shattering a few egos. Still, the effort is worth it. Isn't it? --David Barbour