TAP DANCING,
by John Gregory BetancourtMartha Peckinpah sat alone in the back of the theater, watching a dress rehearsal for Stardust Whammy. Floodlights bathed the stage in silvers and blues, glittering on the sparkle-sewn tuxedos on both dancers. Computer-synthesized Brahms swelled to dizzying peaks as the men rat-tat-tatted to a stop.
Brilliant. That’s what the critics would say, Martha thought. Only she knew better. There hadn’t been anything new or fresh in the choreography, and the kid on the left had been a half-beat slow on at least a dozen of his repartees. But nobody else had noticed. Standards had fallen, and tap had died a lingering death. This revival was the best she’d seen in the last five years, though, and it might run all of a week before closing. She felt a hollowness
