Recently, by means of succubine trickery and beguilement, I found myself haplessly stuck in the Middle of Nowhere, Vermont (population: insignificant) attending a ballet recital. For four countless hours I suffered through various stages of boredom and depression, flirted with insanity, and listened to the entire The Lion King soundtrack twice, because once apparently just wasn’t enough. My only respite was a half hour interlude that I spent having rancid diarrhea in a restroom bereft of air-conditioning. The whole experience only reaffirmed that I am not, nor will I likely ever be, Viking material.
You see, ballet is like kryptonite for Vikings, both ancient and modern. They just don’t go near the stuff, and if they did, they wouldn’t do it quietly. As impossible as it is to imagine his extrasensory ballet detectors actually failing him to the point that he’d attend one, someone like Trond Troll-Breath would never be able to sit politely through an entire recital. In this ridiculously absurd scenario, he would whip out some smoked whale meat and a large flask of mead and have himself a nice, little feast which would be followed by earth-shattering belching and public urination. He would then saunter on stage and attempt to grope the ladies (only the attractive ones, of course), who would probably use their superior numbers to gang up on him and smack him around a bit. The music would stop playing and he’d scream unintelligible Norwegian obscenities at the audience and then lie down to take a nap because the mead had made him tired, concluding what hypothetically would have been the greatest recital of all time. The other possibility is that he would have gone completely, fucking ape-shit berserk.
However, it doesn’t work like that. Vikings avoid recitals like the plague. Unfortunately, most of us aren’t lucky enough to be Vikings, but that doesn’t mean we don’t still hate ballet. Ever an optimist, as my previous rambles can attest, I did discover a potential sliver of hope for recitals to redeem themselves, and to give audience members a chance to reclaim their own sense of self-worth. As the overly dramatic advertising campaign for that movie based on the book about the little tykes who run around with kites getting butt-raped by savages said many times, “There is a way to be good again.”
I noticed that recitals tend to have lead-in music before the actual show starts. So, rather than playing some lame bell-tolling song over the loudspeakers while everyone farts around trying to find their seats, why not play For Whom the Bell Tolls instead? And then when the recital actually does start and the curtains part, instead of having decorations that are bright and colorful as though the local elementary school kids made them, why not just leave everything sparse and dark and black, possibly with a cool banner or mock-Viking ship on prominent display? And why not dress the dancers in frightening, dark clothing instead of pink tights? And then (this is where it starts to get really good) when they finally come on stage, why not have just four or five of them and leave it at that? Instead of frolicking around they could more or less stand in place and hold electronic instruments instead of batons. Hell, to really stir things up, they could even pace back and forth across the stage on occasion, except for the one who sits down at the drum set because it’s hard to pace when you’ve got a drum set that you have to lug around with you. To finish it all off, the dancers could then commence headbanging to the sounds of their own sweet, sweet metal and the audience would be so happy.