Culture Club

Despite its curious name, The Moth is based on a simple idea. Find people who have a story to tell, get them an audience, and let ‘em go. The Moth came to Turner Hall Saturday and there were plenty of simple pleasures. And not-so-simple ones as well.
    The Moth starts with a sort of punk sensibility, it seems—anyone can tell a story if there is something to say. While Moth alumni have included novelists and actors, it’s mainly about people without the pretense of theatricality or carefully considered wordsmithery. Hence, the most moving story of the night brought together the mafia, a corner bar, the Latin Kings and a guy from Wyoming who likes to build things. (I don’t want to play “spoiler” to these stories, since you can hear many of them on The Moth’s website or podcast.) I don’t know how many times Ed Gavagan has told his quintessential Manhattan tale, but it still moved him to tears in the final moments, and I’m sure he wasn’t alone in the packed house at Turner Hall.
    Gavagan’s matter-of-fact style was different than Michaela Murphy’s more theatrical punch (though he did a great imitation of a Wise Guy), which allowed her to capture the crazy energy of her family and its encounter with the Kennedy clan in Hyannis Port. Todd Hanson’s delivery was more deadpan teddy bear, and the arc of his life history gave hope to insecure, deadpan teddy bears everywhere.
    In the second half of the show, local gal Claire Moore (who won the chance to join the roster in a story competition) strolled down 60s memory lane in her tale of high school students restoring the “LOVE” rock in Lake Michigan. And Tom Farley, older brother of Chris, offered a portrait of his brother as he grappled with the transition from college cut-up to professional comedian.
    As hard as it is to imagine five ten-minute stories stretching into a three-hour show, I still wanted to hear more, particularly the eerily bashful accordionist, Pezzettino, who added percussive gypsy stomps to her hot-blooded wheezes.
    Host Andy Borowitz showed that, although he’s primarily a writer, he might be the David Brenner for a new generation. Riffing on the curiously named Pfister Hotel (think about the possible double entendre), and on his stroll through Riversplash (“I met this really unusual guy; he was coherent…), he put the whole room in a warmly snarky New York state of mind.