JULY 3, 2025 – (Cont.) On the next-to-last day of our annual June visit to Connecticut, we adopted a turtle’s pace, in large part because of the extreme heat, but also because the day was given over to our young grandchildren. They were perfectly content at the local small municipal swimming beach; no long drive away or crowds to contend with once we got there. The reason for the absence of hordes on a blistering hot day is that to get past the high school sophomore (or thereabouts) staffing the outdoor desk at the entrance, you must be a local resident or in the company of someone who is. If sun or shade is what you seek, you’ll find plenty of both. Much is to be said for such laid-back but trim and well-managed swimming hole, complete with life guards, a modest snack shop and row of unobtrusive Port-a-Potties off to the side.
On the opposite shore of the little lake were the wilds of Cockaponset State Park, with 17,000 acres, the second largest state park in Connecticut. In Connecticut, you’re always close to one of the 110 (beautiful) state parks and 32 (wonderful) state forests.
After a wholly lazy afternoon, we picked up our sand and water toys (and in my case, my book that was never opened), cleaned ourselves up and enjoyed a (thin) pizza dinner at “Otto’s,” the stylish pizzeria in Chester with outdoor seating. Byron, Beth, Illiana, and I then drove to East Haddam, just up the river, to hear . . . Elvis.
. . . Okay, fine: Elvis is dead, once and for all. We all know that despite his frequent “return appearances” in the two or three decades after his reported demise. And if we can no longer see him, we can no longer hear him either, at least his “alive” version. But playing at the Goodspeed Opera House was the musical comedy, All Shook Up, which revolves around Elvis’s music. When Elvis was among the living, I wasn’t a fan, and I didn’t become a fan with his Lazarus act.
But first turning the corner on my assessment of Elvis, a few words about Goodspeed. My oldest sister started going there decades ago when her trips down to the cove house (from her home in Boston) were routine. She would always take her Lyme Light guests to dinner, then to the show, and I can attest that these were wonderful adventures. The productions were always high quality, and I attributed this to the relative proximity of the City and its seemingly infinite theater assets from which to draw.
My sister herself, of course, is a highly accomplished professional musician, and has also had far more exposure to the theater than I will ever have. If I’ve enjoyed the Goodspeed performances, Kristina has the credentials to support her acclaim of them. The collection of framed photos and paintings of Goodspeed that years ago she hung on a wall of Lyme Light reflects her affinity for the East Haddam establishment and its fine productions.
As to Elvis, however . . . I must confess that as I age, Elvis’s music seems to age better than I do. The voice—cultivated during his years as a choir boy—is really quite something, and his song-writing . . . full stop. The majority of “his songs” he didn’t write. But fine, Luciano Pavarotti didn’t compose any of the arias he sang either. So be it. Elvis was a superb performer, and without his look and sound, the songs he sang probably would’ve gone nowhere. Pavarotti? I’ll let you think what you wish about that showman.
All Shook Up was a delightful piece of entertainment; a musical with a thin plot—think angel food cake—often clever script, however predictable (icing made out of pure sugar), and solid voices, though nothing that would win a Tony. But I usually don’t attend performances as a critic.I’d rather simply be an audience member with an open mind and an appreciation for what it takes to pull a production together.
Moreover, as a Grandpa, I love to observe our granddaughter’s reaction to plays and concerts. On this occasion, her eyes and ears were glued to the performers, and most of the time she was leaning forward in her seat—all signs that she found the experience compelling. She confirmed this expressly after the show.
The effects endured beyond the Goodspeed and the ride home. The next day she insisted on listening to more music by . . . Elvis.
Now, if only I could get her interested in a little music by . . . oh, say , , , Elgar, but to the best of my knowledge after due inquiry, Elgar never wrote a musical comedy. I jest, of course—not about Elgar not writing a musical comedy (he didn’t), but about influencing our granddaughter’s artistic tastes. I’m all for exposure, but the development of an individual’s taste is, well, up to the individual. (Cont.)
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
