I’d been hearing about Branson, Missouri, for at least two decades. Some friends of my parents made several trips there to see various performers, including crooner Andy Williams and violinist Shoji Tabuchi.
My mother wanted to go to Branson, but my father was less inclined to travel in later years. Too bad, they would have loved it. They could have joined a bus tour and been delivered to the door of any one of many, many theatres (which I really, really want to spell as ‘theaters’).
My husband and I had discussed the possibility of a trip to Branson, but our visits to the Midwest were generally long enough to make us more than ready to return home without an additional side trip. The timing seemed to work out during a road trip last month, and now we have a better understanding of what the fuss is all about: family entertainment, God, and country.
Those three in every show, I’m pretty sure you can count on it.
We saw several variety shows, all hosted by a talented, personable performer: Jim Stafford, Shoji Tabuchi, and Yakov Smirnoff. In hindsight, we wished we had seen a really solid vocal act, like Lee Greenwood or maybe the Oak Ridge Boys. I also wished I had seen the Andy Williams show, but didn’t pursue it because I assumed he would do very little singing.
Jim Stafford, a comedian who performed on the Smothers Brothers television show, is also a talented guitarist who recorded a number of songs, including his big hit, “I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes” (“and that ain’t what it takes to love me . . .”). He is one funny guy. He has a low key, wry sense of humor. He’s been doing two shows a day for twenty years. Oh my. No wonder his kids perform in the show, he needs a break. They’re talented kids, but they’re kids, ages 12 and 15, and sorry, but having them do 4-5 numbers felt like padding the show, but hey, it’s a family show and they’re family.
I wandered into the restroom before the Shoji Tabuchi show and was startled to see a huge floral display and women with cameras, taking pictures, in the restroom. I washed my hands, noting the lush orchids by the sink. Apparently his theatre has received awards for best restrooms, something he joked about in his show (the men’s room contains a pool table). The following day at the Yakov Smirnoff Theatre I discovered that the stalls in the women’s restroom display a painting of Yakov Smirnoff, by Yakov Smirnoff, with a velvet curtain to drape over it for the more modest.
The Shoji Tabuchi show offered a variety of music and a very fast-paced program containing many medleys, creative costumes and sets. His adult daughter performed in the show, singing two short solos, dancing and singing in small group numbers, and drumming in two other memorable numbers.
Yakov Smirnoff, comedian, artist, and immigrant, made me cry. Repeatedly. And he cried. He is such a likeable guy, and the Russian dancers were fantastic, but I got the sense that everybody was just so tired. That pace of two shows a day is grueling.
Smirnoff was an art professor when he emigrated to the U.S. with his parents. They didn’t speak English, they had no jobs, no place to stay, and a total of $50 dollars. It’s a very moving story. Then there’s the story of his reaction to the devastation of 9-11. He painted a picture to help the U.S. heal, then paid to have a banner of the painting hung near ground zero, requesting that it be done anonymously. The second half of his show was like an educational seminar on the power of love and laughter, something he feels very passionate about. Somewhere, somehow, between shows, Smirnoff managed to earn a master’s degree in Education.
The town of Branson is more than theatres and outlet malls; it’s a beautiful recreational area that reminded me of the Wisconsin Dells. After one tentative misstep, we found a couple of great restaurants that offered something other than the apparently popular chicken fried steak. We left town before dawn, encountering a prolonged rainstorm of biblical proportions, which might be responsible for me picturing Branson as a sort of Brigadoon, nestled in the hills, shielded from the outer world, where the music plays on and on.
Labels: The Vegas of the Ozarks