I was on my bike the other evening, riding through a local park, when I heard the strains of “Seventy-Six Trombones” wafting out from the pavilion on the lake. A local community theater was producing “The Music Man,” one of those old standby musicals that gets pulled out for an airing year after year. Judging from the number of cars covering the area, this classic play of small-town Americana had drawn a crowd.
“What is it about ‘The Music Man’ that brings out such a crowd?” I wondered to myself as I stood there, catching sideline glimpses of children and adults in early 20th-century hats and dresses as they ran on and off stage. In the chaos of recent years, the simple ideals expressed in “The Music Man” seem almost out of date and something we would be ashamed of—an Americana we’re supposed to forget as a relic of the racist patriarchy or something. And yet, everyone was sitting there watching, a willing and eager audience.
