America was at war in the Persian Gulf when Paul Taylor created Company B to a medley of chirpy World War II-era songs by the Andrews Sisters. Marking the opening of the 94th Jacob's Pillow summer dance festival – with the nation once again fighting a senseless war in the Gulf – a new generation of Taylor dancers has returned with Company B. Behind the frenetic jitterbugging and youthful flirtations, silhouetted men in khaki, shoulder imaginary rifles, crumple in slow-mo, or move unseen like ghosts. The disconnect between the gauzy propaganda of the war machine and the reality of mechanized slaughter landed with the greatest effect in Alex Clayton’s solo to the giddy ‘Tico-Tico’: flexing, twisting, buckling, wrenching and shuddering with a virtuosity that barely masked fear.
The swellegant and seemingly invincible John Harnage strutted and soared as the 'Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy' – rescued from a dreary posting as Company B’s timekeeper by a sympathetic captain who recruited other jazz musicians to jam with him. Taylor killed him off, too, by the end of the song.
No such cynical note was appended to ‘Rum and Coca-Cola’ whose lyrics wink at prostitution on a tropical isle housing American military bases. Taylor benightedly turned that into a carefree romp for a flirtatious ingenue – which newcomer Payton Primer demolished with the self-possession and daring of a far more seasoned trouper.
Back in the day, the Andrews Sisters’ repertoire often aimed to distract from the grim realities of war and the draft. Some of the songs Taylor chose and his treatment of them haven’t aged well. Yet the anti-nostalgic Company B landed with bracing clarity. Its casting reminded us that the jump blues and Lindy Hop that form the piece's backbone were Black traditions appropriated and repackaged by a white music industry.
The opening night program was bookended by Bach: Brandenburgs and Esplanade, one courtly, the other quotidian, both rigorous and beautiful, bristling with restless energy and mysterious emotions.
Brandenburgs opened on a cast sheathed in forest-toned velvet, the male corps dancers’ arms stretched taut like rockets set to fire skyward. Invisible forces deflected an arm into a downward curve, or drove the men into push-up position with one leg angled up like an antenna – but mostly they were springing up and darting around in dazzling geometries. Though the men outnumbered the women, Madelyn Ho, Gabrielle Barnes and Jessica Ferretti matched them in speed and élan, grounding the movement in majestic extensions and tight balletic balances.
John Harnage reigned barechested over this elysium, extending a gracious hand to each of the women in turn and sweeping them gallantly through the air. Intimacy was hinted at by a tender tap on a pectoral; Ferretti swirled and eddied around Harnage then swept a flirty hand across her brow in farewell. Barnes was a live wire, playfully fluttering a cockeyed leg at the audience, spinning a tornado around Harnage. The whole culminated in a sublime riot of giddy spins, tilts and lightning-fast leg flicks.
Esplanade remains a miracle of immoderate joys and impenetrable griefs, crafted from variations on walking, running and hurling oneself onto the ground – or into the arms of a partner at the far end of the stage. Oddities punctuated these heroics: Jada Pearlman riding Devon Louis’ abs like a surfboard while he rippled his arms and legs. The women hobbled by a mysterious pain, staggering and clutching their lower ribs. Madelyn Ho blown about as if by the wind, her feet skittering wildly.
The amazement on Emmy Wildermuth’s face when she raced down an allée of dancers to find an audience staring back at her, then hightailed it back upstage, perfectly captured the spirit of Esplanade. As did: the mischievous twinkle in Gabrielle Barnes’ eyes, unperturbed at being the odd man out; the intensity with which Devon Louis flew through the air and the devotion with which he cradled Wildermuth; Elizabeth Chapa’s distant gaze as she sat perfectly still, radiating acceptance of some tragic fate, while the ensemble dragged themselves on hands and knees like beasts of burden to surround her as dusk fell.
The double Bachs suffered slightly for want of a live orchestra, and felt constricted on the Ted Shawn Theater’s tight stage – the dancers appearing to rein in their exuberance to navigate intricate traffic patterns without collision.
The program nonetheless got a magical boost from the idyllic Berkshires setting. The Pillow remains an oasis for dance, though myriad challenges, including pandemic closures, have tested it in recent years. Ensconced in the historic barn of the Ted Shawn Theater, you could almost forget that the White House is gunning for spaces that nurture the arts and intellectual life. A single program by the small but mighty company Taylor built – and first brought to Jacob’s Pillow in 1964 – bears out the folly of these attacks.
