Is the Dead Outlaw musical good?
Well, Does a Singing Corpse Count as “Good”?
Let’s address the undead elephant in the room: this musical’s protagonist is a literal dead guy. If you’ve ever wondered what a decomposing outlaw might sound like belting show tunes, congratulations—your curiosity is about to be rewarded. The music? A bizarrely catchy blend of twangy folk, existential banjo solos, and lyrics that ask profound questions like, “Do ghosts need sunscreen?” Spoiler: The answer is no, but the harmonies are a solid yes.
Critics Are Confused (In the Best Way)
Reviews have ranged from “hauntingly brilliant” to “did someone spike the punch with absinthe?” Highlights include:
- A tap-dancing showdown between the Dead Outlaw and a vengeful tumbleweed.
- A love ballad sung to a jar of pickled eggs (it’s symbolic, probably).
- The fact that the set design smells vaguely of bourbon and regret.
If this sounds unhinged, that’s because it is—but in a way that’s weirdly irresistible, like eating nachos at a séance.
Should You See It? Depends.
Do you enjoy stories where the hero’s greatest adversary is rigor mortis? Are you the type to cry during a power ballad about a coffin’s interior design? If so, grab tickets immediately. If not, just know you’re missing out on the only show where the curtain call might involve a stray limb falling off. The Dead Outlaw isn’t “good” in the traditional sense—it’s more like a fever dream your weirdest cousin would have after binge-watching Westerns. And honestly? That’s what makes it glorious.
How long is the Dead Outlaw musical?
Great question! The runtime of Dead Outlaw is roughly 2 hours and 15 minutes, including intermission—or, as we like to call it, “the time it takes for a ghostly bandit to haunt a saloon, steal a pie, and ride a spectral goat into the sunset.” It’s long enough to tell a tale of betrayal, revenge, and questionable life choices, but short enough that your legs won’t stage their own rebellion against the theater seat.
Breaking it down (because chaos demands structure)
- Act 1: 65 minutes. Approximately the time it takes to microwave 13 burritos consecutively or teach a raccoon to fist-bump. Whichever feels more productive.
- Intermission: 20 minutes. Ideal for: existential reflection, aggressively buttering a pretzel, or questioning why cowboy boots aren’t mandatory attire.
- Act 2: 50 minutes. A sprint through chaos, redemption, and at least one scene where someone shouts “Yeehaw!” unironically. Buckle up.
But time is a social construct, right?
Here’s the twist: While the clock says 2 hours and 15 minutes, the vibes say “eternity in the best way.” You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll wonder if that actor just actually lassoed a prop cactus. The pacing? Let’s call it a caffeinated armadillo—unpredictable, occasionally sideways, but always moving forward. Pro tip: Blink too long, and you might miss a shootout, a ballad, or a philosophical debate about tumbleweeds.
And remember: The show’s length is precisely calibrated to ensure you’ll exit the theater questioning your life choices exactly 12% more than when you entered. You’re welcome.
What is the Broadway musical about 911?
Imagine if a herd of confused moose, a legion of overly polite Canadians, and 7,000 stranded airline passengers walked into a bar—then decided to process a national tragedy through folk-rock anthems. That’s Come From Away, the Tony-winning musical that takes the grim reality of 9/11 and spins it into a story about humanity’s group project that somehow got an A+. No, it’s not a documentary about conspiracy theorists who think airplanes are just really committed pigeons. Instead, it’s a surprisingly heartfelt ode to the small Newfoundland town that hosted thousands of displaced travelers when U.S. airspace shut down. Spoiler: there’s a lot of Tim Hortons coffee involved.
The Plot: More Twists Than a Moose’s Antlers
The show’s premise sounds like a dare: “Let’s make a musical about 9/11 where the biggest villain is limited Wi-Fi.” Over 100 minutes, actors double as both townsfolk and “plane people,” navigating cultural clashes, impromptu BBQs, and a budding romance between a vegan and a chef who’s just discovered all the spices. Key moments include:
- “Welcome to the Rock”: A toe-tapping opener that’s basically Newfoundland’s tourism anthem.
- “Screech In”: A ritual involving kissing a codfish. Yes, really. No, the cod does not get a solo.
- “Prayer”: A haunting interfaith number that’s less “Kumbaya” and more “We’re all stuck here, so let’s vibe.”
Why It Works: Trauma, but Make It Quirky
Somehow, this musical avoids feeling like a “Live, Laugh, Love” poster at a funeral. Instead of focusing on the attacks, it zooms in on the weird, wonderful chaos of strangers becoming neighbors—like a zombie apocalypse movie, but with more accordions and fewer bite wounds. The show’s secret sauce? It treats grief and kindness as two sides of the same loonie (that’s Canadian for “coin,” eh). You’ll cry, but you’ll also laugh at a grumpy New Yorker learning to line dance. Balance!
So, is it “about” 9/11? Kinda. It’s really about what happens when the world stops—and a bunch of humans decide to start singing. Also, there’s a goose. The goose does not sing either, but it’s definitely judging you.
Who wrote the music for Dead Outlaw?
Who wrote the music for Dead Outlaw?
If you’re imagining a lone composer hunched over a piano, muttering “yeehaw” while scribbling sheet music, you’re only half wrong. The musical madness behind Dead Outlaw comes from the dynamic duo of David Yazbek (the Tony-winning brain behind The Band’s Visit) and Erik Della Penna (a multi-instrumentalist who probably has a banjo in one hand and a distortion pedal in the other). Together, they’re like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—if the peanut butter was made from existential cowboy angst and the jelly was fermented in a blues bar.
Yazbek & Della Penna: A Collision of Twang and Absurdity
- Yazbek: Known for turning mundane human moments into musical gold, he’s the guy who’d write a power ballad about a tax audit. For Dead Outlaw, he swaps spreadsheets for six-shooters.
- Della Penna: Brings a gritty, genre-mashing vibe. Rumor has it he once wrote a song using only a chainsaw and a mandolin. (This is unconfirmed, but we choose to believe.)
The soundtrack? Think “Ennio Morricone meets Tom Waits at a karaoke bar run by a sentient tumbleweed.” It’s a fever dream of folk, rock, and Americana—perfect for a musical about a mummified outlaw who toured carnivals post-mortem. Yes, really. Songs like “Ballad of Elmer McCurdy” and “Corpse on a Carnival Tour” aren’t just titles; they’re existential crises set to a toe-tapping beat.
But Wait—Who’s Elmer McCurdy?
Oh, just the actual dead outlaw whose bizarre afterlife inspired the show. Yazbek and Della Penna didn’t just write music—they channeled Elmer’s ghostly vibes. Picture them: one strumming a resonator guitar, the other whispering “what if banjo, but spooky?” into a tape recorder. The result? A score that’s equal parts haunting, hilarious, and 100% unhinged. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll question why that accordion solo feels personal.
So, if you’re craving music that’s weirder than a raccoon in a ten-gallon hat, thank Yazbek and Della Penna. They’re the mad scientists behind the soundtrack that asks: “What if death was just the first verse?” (Spoiler: The answer involves a fiddle.)
