The Lion

Or: One Life in Six Guitars

It is frankly unfair how well Jake Allen plays guitar. Nattily dressed, surrounded by unshaded lamps, his hands unconsciously fly over the frets, the music flowing forth. Each tune is tumbled out like a rough cut gem, each with a separate flashing facet, while Allen himself, untroubled by his mastery, sings them easily as winking.

Playing the role of Benjamin Scheuer (the playwright, composer, and central character) each song follows Ben’s journey of and through music, through his rough relationship with his father and himself. Even the angriest, emo-iest numbers feel well handled, deliberately placed, and admirably pretty. Yet, as the show goes on and Ben’s misfortunes compound, the songs get shakier.

Ben’s tedious hold on his world is mirrored by the landscapes of illumination provided by designer Leo Lei, from great skyscrapers, to tiny flickering bulbs in the darkest moments. Nicely complimenting Ben’s songs in showing humble human moments, bounding expanses where the pterodactyls scream, and hidden worlds that the songwriter can only touch on before they are lost to him forever.

By the end of the show, Allen’s careful gems have turned to germinating seeds, hatching and filling Ben’s story with wild and insistent light. What was pretty, technical mastery turns to wild, passionate play. Though the Lion is not a musical that grabs and reels from the word go, by the last song turns around, an audience may find that they’ve been gripping on to Ben’s story tightly, and may be inspired to head home and find the old acoustic guitar hiding under their own beds, (though, be warned, as easy as Jake Allen makes the union of player and instrument, the movéd audience member probably has a long way to go.)