I have written about The Muny before but there’s something compelling about this summer venue that makes me want to write about the experience over and over and over again. Last night the show was 42nd street. A classic from the early 1930s. There’s something about a crisp, clean, story that lingers on in the mind. There’s something about good old fashioned tap dance numbers with a large cast. There’s just something about watching a musical in a very chill atmosphere eating some fruits while you swing and beat to the rhythm. The weather last night was perfect and that added to the phenomenal musical theatre experience.
Every time I step into the Muny I’m flooded with warm memories and I’m reminded about why I love this place in St. Louis more than any other. It’s not just the charm and artistry of the show; the people I go with is a large part of my experience. I still remember watching Chicago with my friend, giggling like school girls. I remember eating strawberries and cucumbers with my cousin. I remember getting some family together and making a mini picnic before the show. Every year that tickets come out, I decide on who the designated person would be for which show. This is my sixth year as a subscriber and amazing enough, this year has been a scramble. I’m taking my husband to most of the shows. The people I’ve taken in the past years are either not available or not interested and I think about what the Muny means to me. I guess, it’s not the same for everyone. It was love at first show for me. I was a subscriber as soon as I discovered this jewel. It’s not the same for those who have accompanied me. Some have loved it and some have declined a return visit. This is when I think – to each their own.
I know people who spend a lot of money on sports and I guess I’m not one of those people. I’m in the small, exception of masses who could care less about who hit how many balls or threw how many in a basket. There will always be more people who care about that than the arts, but that is life. I’m just one that’s stuck on the other side of the fence.
Well, next week, I’m headed to The Music Man. I can’t wait to hear 76 trombones vibrate through the stands. It’s going to be another glorious night and another glorious memory.
For now, I’m signing out,