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Burroughs, the writing is everything to him and, being everything, offers its own sort of high. As he will later tell such drug-addled compatriots as Neal Cassady, Allen Ginsberg, and William S. There’s acid in his commentary, but also a reluctant acceptance that words aren’t likely to change so popular a status quo. The “bratitudes/platitudes” he reads from his journal when he steps up to the microphone are as tidy as his appearance, carefully crafted quips at the expense of his Lowell, Mass., upbringing and of America’s postwar cookie-cutter culture. As rebels go, he’s a thoroughgoing neatnik. His white, button-down shirt is open at the collar. His hair is neatly combed, with a touch of Brylcreem to keep it in place.
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On a table surrounded by a tufted, black vinyl banquette sits a typewriter, and as this first song ends, an affably smiling Kerouac (Jeff Johnson) appears beside it, bathed in what, even for folks who weren’t born in his lifetime, will seem an amber glow of nostalgia.
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Bernardino for his period-perfect costumes look decidedly flammable, lipstick is purest crimson, jitterbuggers bounce with a carefree air, and vocalists blend their voices in creamy harmonies: “We, the cats, will hep ya/to reap this righteous riff, bop, bop.” 21, 1969, the day Kerouac left the world behind to do some celestial poetry-slamming on his own, but at this early moment, we’re immersed in a ’50s aesthetic. The evening will soon be leaping around in time, from the mid-1940s to Oct. It’s 1955 or thereabouts, and though the name of the establishment isn’t specified, it might as well be the San Remo, that trendily anti-establishment hangout where Jack Kerouac and his buddies stimulated their nerve endings with Benzedrine and booze for a few heady years and, as a sort of literary afterthought, gave birth to the Beat. Technically, the joint’s a coffeehouse, but the bartender is mostly pouring rye. Cigarette smoke hangs heavily in the air. Tables surround a linoleum-tiled dance floor, a bar is tucked into a corner at the right, and at the far end of the intimate room, Buck Brown sits at an upright piano, setting tempos for a quartet that need make no apologies for arriving on the hep-cat scene a half-century late. The bebop’s already boppin’ as patrons enter the funky ’50s nightspot that designer Giorgos Tsappas has imagined through a postmodern haze for Kerouac: kicks, joy, darkness at Studio Secondstage.