Rock 'N' Roll

by Tom Stoppard

  Havel goes on to explain that Jirous’s opinion of him ‘was not exactly flattering either: he apparently saw me as a member of the official, and officially tolerated, opposition—in other words, a member of the establishment’.

  Havel and Jirous met in Prague a month later: ‘His hair was down to his shoulders, other long-haired people would come and go, and he talked and talked and told me how things were.’

  Jirous played Havel songs by the Plastic People on an old tape-recorder. ‘There was disturbing magic in the music, and a kind of inner warning. Here was something serious and genuine … Suddenly I realised that, regardless of how many vulgar words these people used or how long their hair was, truth was on their side; … in their music was an experience of metaphysical sorrow and a longing for salvation.’

  Jirous and Havel went to a pub and talked through the night. It was arranged that Havel would go to their next ‘secret’ concert in two weeks’ time, but before that happened Jirous and the band were arrested, along with other members of the underground.

  Havel set about getting support for the prisoners, but among the people who might have helped almost no one knew them, and those who did tended to think of them as layabouts, hooligans, and drug addicts. They were at first inclined to see the case as a criminal affair. But for Havel it was ‘an attack by the totalitarian system on life itself, on the very essence of human freedom and integrity’.

  Somewhat to his surprise, his contacts quickly got the point: the ‘criminals’ were simply young people who wanted to live in harmony with themselves, and to express themselves in a truthful way. If this judicial attack went unchallenged, the regime could well start locking up anyone who thought and expressed himself independently, even in private.

  The Plastic People affair became a cause célèbre. The regime backtracked, and started releasing most of those arrested. Ultimately, Jirous and three others came to trial in Prague in September 1976. Havel attended the trial and wrote about it: this was the other text—‘The Trial’—which was a focal point in the writing of Rock ‘n’ Roll.

  Milan Hlavsa, who died in 2001, formed the Plastic People of the Universe (he took the name from a song by the American rock musician Frank Zappa) in September 1968 when he was nineteen. The fact that the Russian invasion of Czechoslovakia had occurred in August was not immediately relevant: ‘We just loved Rock ‘n’ Roll and wanted to be famous.’ The occupation by the Warsaw Pact armies was background, ‘the harsh reality’, but ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll wasn’t just music to us, it was kind of life itself. Hlavsa made the point more than once in his interviews. The band was not interested in bringing down Communism, only in finding a free space for itself inside the Communist society.

  But of course there was no such space, and the story that Rock ‘n’ Roll is telling is that, in the logic of Communism, what the band wasn’t interested in and what the band wanted could not in the end be separated. There were dozens of rock bands in Prague and elsewhere in Czechoslovakia who were ‘not interested in bringing down Communism’, and they prospered according to their lights, in some cases because the ground rules entailed no compromises on their part, in other cases because the ground rules did. The Plastics were among a small number of musicians and artists who wouldn’t compromise at all, so the space for their music and for ‘life itself became harder and harder to find, until it was eradicated.

  The Plastic People of the Universe did not bring down Communism, of course. After the trial, Husák strengthened his grip on the country until the end came thirteen years later. What could not be separated were disengagement and dissidence. In the play Jan tells a British journalist, ‘Actually, the Plastics is not about dissidents’. The reporter replies, ‘It’s about dissidents. Trust me.’ And he’s right. The Rock ‘n’ Roll underground, as Jirous said, was an attack on the official culture of Communist Czechoslovakia, and in case he didn’t get the point, the regime sent him to gaol four times during those twenty years: culture is politics.

  Jirous is one of the most interesting and least known personalities in the story of the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic between the Prague Spring and the Velvet Revolution. He is not a musician; he was trained as an art historian. He joined up with the Plastic People in April 1969 in the brief period before they lost their licence, and he took over as their impresario and artistic director on the long bumpy road from professional status to amateur to outcast. It was his own integrity which he made the distinguishing attribute of the band, and he managed to see their travails as an enviable fate compared with the ‘underground’ in the West,

  where … some of those who gained recognition and fame came into contact with official culture … which enthusiastically accepted them and swallowed them up, as it accepts and swallows up new cars, new fashions or anything else. In Bohemia the situation is essentially different, and far better than in the West, because we live in an atmosphere of complete agreement: the first [official] culture doesn’t want us, and we don’t want anything to do with the first culture. This eliminates the temptation that for everyone, even the strongest artist, is the seed of destruction: the desire for recognition, success, winning prizes and titles, and last but not least, the material security which follows.

  This comes from Jirous’s ‘Report on the Third Czech Musical Revival’, written in February 1975, a year before he met Havel. It has an epigraph which might have been written by Havel: ‘There is only one way for the people—to free themselves by their own efforts. Nothing must be used that would do it for them … Cast away fear! Don’t be afraid of commotion.’ In fact, it was written by Mao Tse-tung; a long stretch. In Rock ‘n’ Roll, Max the Marxist philosopher says that he is ‘down to one belief, that between theory and practice there’s a decent fit—not perfect but decent’. The equivalence of theory and practice is nowhere harder to achieve than in ‘living in truth’ in a society which lies to itself. In the Czechoslovakia of 1968 to 1990 a Rock ‘n’ Roll band came as close as anyone.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  THE SETTING

  ‘Cambridge’ always refers to part of the interior and part of the garden of a family house in (probably) a leafy suburb of the city: not a modern house. It may be desirable to vary the proportion between the visible interior and the visible garden.

  ‘Prague’ mostly refers to the living room of Jan’s very modest apartment, but there are important exceptions, including some exteriors. Regarding the apartment, Jan’s record collection and the record player are obviously important, and a table with two chairs is probably the minimum necessary furniture. A ‘bathroom/lavatory entrance’, a ‘bedroom entrance’ and an entry door are all implied, possibly in view.

  RECORDED MUSIC

  … is subject to permissions. It is not the intention that the songs between the scenes be played complete, but as fragments (thirty to sixty seconds) breaking off arbitrarily when the next scene is ready to go. (‘Vera’ in Act Two is an exception.) In the first production of Rock ‘n’ Roll ‘sleeve notes’ for each recording were projected during the scene changes. This is strongly recommended: they kept the show going during the blackouts.

  ‘GOLDEN HAIR’

  ‘Golden Hair’ as recorded by Syd Barrett is based on a poem by James Joyce from Chamber Music (in Poems and Shorter Writings, Faber and Faber). Barrett’s lyrics, however, do not conform to Joyce’s poem (where ‘Goldenhair’ is one word and where the phrase ‘in the midnight air’ does not occur). I am grateful to the James Joyce Estate for its tolerance in this matter.

  SCENE CHANGES

  I use the phrase ‘smash cut’ to mean that all the cues for sound and light are called as one cue, so that one state (e.g., music in blackout) jumps into a completed state (e.g., silence and daylight) without fades or builds. Before each scene, if the year changes, the appropriate date is projected.

  CZECH DIALOGUE

  Since this is a reading copy of Rock ‘n’ Roll for English-speakers, I have not included dialogue in Czech. Where Czech is spoken
, the burden of the dialogue is made clear to the reader. I do not know Czech myself, so I have no qualms about actors and directors making their own arrangements to supply the utterance, which in any case is half-buried by hubbub (as at the beginning of the lunch party).

  DIALOGUE

  … in brackets is overlapped or swallowed.

  ACCENTS

  Czech characters speaking ‘Czech’ to each other do so without accents. Czech characters speaking English speak with a ‘Czech accent’.

  MEN’S HAIR

  … is a problem. In Act One, Jan and Ferdinand should start off with moderately long hair which gets, in Jan’s case, very long until they get prison haircuts; after which Ferdinand would let his hair grow again. In Act Two, Jan should have an eighties haircut, though Ferdinand could stay shaggy. Nigel should have seventies long hair in Act One and an eighties haircut in Act Two.

  Rock ‘n’ Roll was first presented at the Royal Court Theatre, London, on 3 June 2006, and transferred to the Duke of York’s Theatre on 22 July 2006, presented by Sonia Friedman Productions, Tulbart Productions, Michael Linnit for National Angels and Boyett Ostar Productions. The cast in order of appearance was as follows:

  THE PIPER/POLICEMAN 1/STEPHEN Edward Hogg

  ESME (younger)/ALICE Alice Eve

  JAN Rufus Sewell

  MAX Brian Cox

  ELEANOR/ESME (older) Sinead Cusack

  GILLIAN/MAGDA/DEIRDRE Miranda Colchester

  INTERROGATOR/NIGEL Anthony Calf

  FERDINAND Peter Sullivan

  MILAN/POLICEMAN 2/WAITER Martin Chamberlain

  LENKA Nicole Ansari

  CANDIDA Louise Bangay

  Director Trevor Nunn

  Designer Robert Jones

  Costume Designer Emma Ryott

  Lighting Designer Howard Harrison

  Sound Designer Ian Dickinson

  Associate Director Paul Robinson

  Company Voice Work Patsy Rodenburg

  CHARACTERS

  in order of appearance

  THE PIPER

  ESME (younger)

  JAN

  MAX

  ELEANOR

  GILLIAN

  INTERROGATOR

  FERDINAND

  MILAN

  MAGDA

  POLICEMAN 1

  POLICEMAN 2

  LENKA

  NIGEL

  ESME (older)

  ALICE

  STEPHEN

  CANDIDA

  DEIRDRE

  WAITER

  Esme in Act One and Alice are to be played by the same actress; similarly Eleanor and Esme in Act Two.

  Further doubling (or tripling) is optional. The intention is that the twenty characters may be played by a company of twelve. The Royal Court used a company of eleven, with the result that Milan became Policeman 2; however, this is not the preferred option.

  Rock ‘n’ Roll

  ACT ONE

  Blackout.

  THE PIPER is heard.

  Then, night in the garden. The Piper is squatting on his heels high up on the garden wall, his wild dark hair catching some light, as though giving off light. His pipe is a single reed like a penny whistle. He plays for ESME, who is sixteen, a flower child of the period: 1968.

  Light from the interior catches Esme dimly, her flowing garment, her long golden hair.

  The interior shows part of a dining room, lowly lit by a lamp. There is a walk-through frontier between the room and the ‘unlit’ garden, which is leafy with a stone-flagged part large enough for a garden table and two or three chairs.

  The Piper pipes the tune and then sings.

  THE PIPER

  ‘Lean out of your window,

  Golden Hair,

  I heard you singing

  In the midnight air.

  My book is closed,

  I read no more …’

  JAN enters the interior from within, going to the garden, into the spill of light. He is twenty-nine. His Czech accent is not strong.

  The Piper laughs quietly to himself and vanishes, a spring-heeled jump into dark.

  ESME Who’s that? Jan?

  JAN (a greeting) Ahoj. What are you doing?

  ESME Did you see him?

  JAN Who?

  ESME Pan!

  JAN Pan. Where?

  ESME There.

  JAN No. Did he have goat’s feet?

  ESME I couldn’t see. He played on his pipe and sang to me.

  JAN Very nice. Have you got any left?

  ESME Don’t believe me, then.

  JAN Who said I don’t believe you? I came to say goodbye to Max.

  ESME Where are you going?

  JAN Prague.

  ESME Why? Oh, yeah. What about the summer teach-in? Will you come back to Cambridge?

  JAN (shrugs: don’t know) I’m leaving everything here.

  ESME Your records?

  JAN No. Everything else. But now I must go home.

  ESME What, to help the Russians?

  JAN No.

  ESME Max thinks it’s great about the Russians.

  JAN No, he doesn’t. We don’t.

  ESME Ha—some Communists you are!

  Overheard by MAX, coming from indoors. He’s nearly fifty-one, a bruiser.

  MAX Go to bed, you … flower child.

  ESME I’d like to go to Prague, poke flowers into the ends of their gun barrels.

  JAN I’m glad I saw you, Esme.

  ESME Peace and love, Jan. I want to give you something to take.

  JAN What something?

  ESME I don’t know. Come and see before you go. Will you?

  JAN Yes.

  ESME In case you die. Peace and love, Pa.

  MAX Wouldn’t that be nice? Keep your pop groups down, Mum’s just managed to get off.

  ESME (mocks) ‘Pop groups …’

  She goes into the house.

  MAX (uncharmed) Sweet sixteen.

  JAN So. Some sunny day. Thank you.

  Jan hesitates, starts to go. Max turns dangerous.

  MAX Sovereignty was never the point. You know that.

  JAN (cautious, calming) Okay.

  MAX Being Czech, being Russian—German, Polish—fine, vive la différence, but going it alone is going against the alliance, you know this.

  JAN Okay.

  MAX It’s comfort and joy to capitalism, comfort and joy, and your bloody Dubcek did this, not the Soviets—I speak as one who’s kicked in the guts by nine-tenths of anything you can tell me about Soviet Russia.

  JAN Why have you stayed in the Party?

  MAX Because of the tenth, because they made the revolution and no one else.

  JAN So okay.

  MAX Prague bloody Spring? It was never about the workers.

  JAN (Okay.)

  MAX No, it’s not okay, you little squit. I picked you out. I put my thumbprint on your forehead. I said, ‘You. I’ll take you,’ because you were serious and you knew your Marx … and at the first flutter of a Czech flag you cut and run like an old woman still in love with Masaryk.

  JAN Dubcek is a Communist.

  MAX (roused) No—I’m a Communist, I’d be a Communist with Russian tanks parked in King’s Parade, you mummy’s boy.

  JAN (insists) A reform Communist.

  MAX Like a nun who gives blow-jobs is a reform nun. I have to walk this off. Tell Esme to wait up for me, in case Eleanor wakes. Then fuck off back to Prague. I’m sorry about the tanks.

  Blackout and ‘I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight’ by Bob Dylan.

  Smash cut into bright day in the same place, with Max there and ELEANOR already speaking. She is in her late forties. She sits at a garden table. She has her work with her.

  ELEANOR He said you knew him, he was a friend of Jan.

  MAX (catching up) He was Czech.

  ELEANOR He said to tell you Jan wasn’t coming back, he asked for his things …

  MAX Who asked?

  ELEANOR Milos. Milan. I was a bit thrown at the time because I opened the doo
r to him without my falsy and didn’t catch on till he kept staring at my face—he daren’t drop his eyes, it scared him. Doesn’t she know she’s only got one tit? I should keep a bow and arrow handy to put people at their ease—yes, it’s toxophily, the big T, irreversible, thank you, no sacrifice is too great.

  Max silenced, to her name.

  MAX Eleanor.

  ELEANOR He was sucking on a lozenge, he offered me one, gazing into my eyes and breathing eucalyptus at me like a koala caught in the headlights.

  Max perhaps touches her face.

  MAX He was probably staring for the same reason as me the first time I … It was never your, your breast, it was always your face. I love your face.

  ELEANOR You loved my tits, that’s why breasts is plural.

  MAX It makes no difference, you know.

  ELEANOR Well, it does to me!

  MAX Yes—yes, of course it does, I only meant … you know, it makes no (difference).

  He makes to hold her, Eleanor fights him off, tearfully angry.

  ELEANOR If it makes no difference, Max, you don’t have to stop making love to me from behind, it’s all right—all right?

  Suddenly infreefall, they clutch, competing in apology and comfort.

  MAX (finally) My Amazon. Just don’t lose half your bum, that’s all.

  She wipes her eyes, fails at a laugh, blows her nose.

  ELEANOR I had Amazons in my doctorate … false etymologies. Mazos, a breast; amazos, breastless. It makes sense if you’re Greek, but the Amazons weren’t Greek and didn’t speak Greek, so I said the one-breast thing was a language glitch and quite late—nothing about being a tit short in Homer, only killer feminists all round, and vase painters did two-breasted Amazons—case proved, done and dusted. And now this. It makes you wonder. Anyway, I’ve got my Sapphist showing up …

  MAX (protests) You’re on sick leave.

  ELEANOR So she’s coming here, (a quick kiss) It’s all right now.