I wonder which is more disappointing, a musical that stays blah from beginning to end, or one that catches fire early on but later finks out on its promise of glory. In the latter instance, certainly we're grateful for the sequences that ignite; after all, even legendary musicals have their moments of time killing and less-than-inspired music making. On the other hand, knowing what could have been and then watching the authors settle for an easy pander can be particularly grating.
So it goes with Kat and the Kings, a London import by way of South Africa, that thrusts a dazzlingly talented and ingratiating cast in our faces and then puts them through a marathon without ever coming up with a legitimate reason for their exertions.
The premise could work: a likeable, middle-aged shoeshine man recalls the times when he and his band, The Cavalla Kings, were poised to make it big in 1950s Cape Town. As with The Capeman and Street Corner Symphony, Kat earns much good will in its early scenes, wherein exuberant young men cavort, display their character quirks and harmonize angelically. By the time Kat, Bingo, Ballie and Magoo (Jody J. Abrahams, Luqmaan Adams, Junaid Booysen and Alistair Izobell) sing "Mavis," a goofy novelty tune about women's names, we're with them all the way, thrilled to be in the company of such a zesty bunch. The pace stays relatively quick even with the arrival of Magoo's sister (Kim Louis), who, before being saddled with run-of-the-mill pop ballads and an off stage love story, shapes the quartet into a smooth, marketable singing group.
At this point, however, Kat And The Kings turns to peasant stock, grinding out one innocuous doo-wop tune after another without building on any of its promising story ideas. Though the band members are soon affected by apartheid -- their biggest gig, at the Claridges Hotel in Durban, comes with the condition that they work as bellboys during the day -- South African racism feels far removed from any emotional underpinning here.
Nor are we drawn into the career downfall of Young Kat. Near the end of the night, we're shown, briefly, that he has an inflated ego and gambling problem, and suddenly we're supposed to be saddened at his skid from entertainer to shoeshiner. Far more depressing, though, is the slide Kat and the Kings takes from exuberant musical to hyperactive floorshow, complete with a Dreamcoat-style megamix to end the evening. Of course, the audience jumps up to reward all this with a standing ovation, which only helps perpetuate the lie that a bunch of pop tunes slapped together is as rewarding as, and may even be indistinguishable from, a real musical. Sure, and a shantytown is just a city built lower to the ground.
