'White Noise' needs work to make it sing
There is nothing subtle about “White Noise.” The jackboot-and-leather-clad storm troopers emerging from a haze during the opening moments of the new “cautionary musical” make that abundantly clear.
Then again, a show about marketing intolerance for mass consumption doesn't lend itself to understatement, not with relentlessly offensive lyrics referencing blood purity and offering a welcome to Auschwitz.
Still, the Broadway-bound “White Noise” — which opened recently at the Royal George Theatre and counts Whoopi Goldberg among its producers — has a provocative premise, which writer Matte O'Brien and composer/lyricists Robert Morris, Steven Morris and Joe Shane fearlessly express. “White Noise” reveals what happens when hate, ambition and greed converge in the pop arena. And its underlying message — about weighing carefully and critically the pop culture we consume — bears repetition.
But the show needs work, starting with a retooled book, fleshed out characters who invite the audience's concern, and a legitimate moral center, which “White Noise” currently lacks. At this point, it's the theatrical equivalent of shock radio: audacious but superficial.
It could be more.
Inspired by a preteen folk-pop sister duo called Prussian Blue, whose racism made them neo-Nazi darlings about 10 years ago, “White Noise” centers on the titular white-power rock band fronted by pretty, neo-Nazi sisters Eva (a chilling Mackenzie Mauzy) and Eden (Emily Padgett) and Eva's skinhead boyfriend Duke (Patrick Murney) — the führer to Mauzy's Eva Braun.
Max (Douglas Sills), a cutthroat record company executive, discovers the trio at a New York club and sets about remaking them with help from an ambitious, decidedly unheroic producer Jake (Eric William Morris). Toning down their bile and “coding” their racist, homophobic lyrics skyrocket the band to the top of the pop charts, infuriating true believers Eva and Duke who want to deliver their hateful message unvarnished.
Meanwhile, African-American hip-hop artists Dion and Tyler (played by the talented duo Wallace Smith and Rodney Hicks) find themselves in a similar situation. The brothers, Ivy League graduates from Connecticut, are about as removed from gangsta rap as they can be. (Their songs quote the Declaration of Independence and their wardrobe suggests the American flag with a red and white striped rugby shirt for Dion and a blue polo for Tyler). But Max and Jake convince them to jettison their positive message and adopt a violent one, which propels them to the top of the charts, further confirmation that selling out sells records.
“White Noise” wants us to believe that some of these morally compromised characters can be redeemed. But such redemption isn't credible. Frankly, most of these characters are so flimsy and ill-defined that the suggestion rings hollow. That isn't totally true for Dion and Tyler, however. Unlike their Aryan counterparts, who've been raised in ignorance and steeped in vitriol, the brothers clearly know that they've done is wrong.
The show's propulsive rock and rap score boasts a couple of gems in “White Trash Fairy Tale.” which chronicles the girls' impoverished background, and “Hip-Hop Country,” which really is a hoot. Director/choreographer Sergio Trujillo (“Jersey Boys”) has assembled a fiercely talented cast, and his high-octane production — which unfolds on a multilevel, industrial set by Robert Brill — is swift and cleverly staged.
But for all that, “White Noise” leaves you wanting something more.
<b>“White Noise”</b>
★ ★
<b>Location:</b> Royal George Theatre, 1651 N. Halsted St., Chicago, (312) 988-9000 or whitenoisetickets.com
<b>Showtimes:</b> 7:30 p.m. Tuesday through Thursday; 8 p.m. Friday; 5 and 8 p.m. Saturday; 2 and 5 p.m. Sunday through June 5; also 2 p.m. April 20 and May 18, no evening shows April 19 or May 17
<b>Running time:</b> About 100 minutes, no intermission
<b>Tickets:</b> $54.50-$74.50
<b>Parking:</b> $11 in garage adjacent to the theater
<b>Rating:</b> For older teens and adults; includes graphic, bigoted language