Not a lot of marriages reach the 50-year mark, and even fewer bands do.

But Ann Arbor-based folk group Mustard’s Retreat has always blazed its own path, weathering changes and challenges across an astonishing five decades.

To celebrate this milestone anniversary, the group has scheduled a handful of concerts— including one at The Ark on March 28—featuring all three original members, who started playing together at the Heidelberg’s Rathskeller in 1975.

David Tamulevich remembers auditioning there as a solo act when he’d only done some open mics previously and was working as a cook at the Brown Jug. Libby Glover, who would later become part of the original trio, was tending bar there when her boss asked what she thought of Tamulevich.

You realize which adaptation of Jane Austen’s classic novel Sense and Sensibility has left the strongest impression on you when—in the opening moments of a stage performance—you find yourself thinking, “OK, that’s the Emma Thompson sister, and that’s Kate Winslet.”

Yes, the much-celebrated 1995 film, directed by Ang Lee, casts a long shadow, but Sense & Sensibility: The Musical, now having its Michigan premiere at Dexter’s Encore Theatre, nonetheless offers its unique spin on the material.

With a book, music, and lyrics by Paul Gordon (who also previously adapted Jane Eyre into a Tony-nominated stage musical), Sense streamlines Austen’s world of characters down to the bone, a move that—given the economic and relational complexities of the story—occasionally makes plot turns confusing.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, dear reader, but first, a synopsis.

Even as I accepted the assignment to attend and write about asses.masses—a daylong collaborative video game art installation brought to Ann Arbor on February 15-16 by UMS—I wondered why I’d made this choice.

It would take me away from my family for nearly an entire Saturday (the program ran from 1-9:30 pm); I’d have to drive from Farmington to Stamps Auditorium on a snowy, freezing February day, all too aware that I’d also be hosting guests in my home the next morning; I had no idea what kind of food would be provided at the event; and while I’m an absolute puzzle fiend, I’m decidedly not a gamer. (The whole idea of Twitch, where viewers can watch others play video games, is something I still struggle to wrap my head around.)

If I’ve learned anything in recent years, though, it’s that I should always follow my curiosity, and I’d repeatedly wondered what this collective all-day video game experience would look and feel like.

My short answer, after attending asses.masses? Community-building. But let’s start with the basics.

Created by Canadian duo Patrick Blendarn and Milton Lim, the game’s narrative involves a herd of donkeys who have been replaced, as workers, by machines, so many of them decide to confront their human overlords and push back against their (existential) obsolescence.

When you’re a theater critic, you sometimes drive home from a show and think, “Huh. Not exactly sure what I’ll say about this one.”

Nate — A One Man Show, presented by the University Musical Society at the Arthur Miller Theatre, is one of those shows.

Because by its very nature, Nate will be a little different at every performance with its extensive audience participation and thus, some improv. The brainchild of creator/performer Natalie Palamides, the hour-long production focuses on a man who blasts toxic masculinity out into the world while nursing a broken heart.

The show fittingly starts with what feels like a punch to the face: the blisteringly loud opening chords of George Thoroughgood’s “Bad to the Bone” playing as helmeted, shades-wearing Nate rides around the stage on a mini-motorcycle. Absurdly silly, messy, performative demonstrations of masculinity (the consumption of a raw egg, meat, and whey powder) followed, in case there remained any lingering questions regarding the kind of guy we were dealing with.

Writers know that sometimes, no matter what your intentions are when you sit down to work, the process may lead you in another direction completely.

Breeda Kelly Miller, who will appear at Ann Arbor’s Schuler Books on January 30, had planned to tell her Irish immigrant mother’s story, Mrs. Kelly’s Journey Home, in book form first, then perhaps adapt it into a play.

“I started writing, and the play just started taking over,” Miller said. “I thought, ‘What? Fine. I’ll just write the play first. There are no rules. I’ll just break this rule that doesn’t exist.’”

The result was a one-woman play starring Miller that premiered in Ann Arbor in October 2021 and has since played on stages around Michigan, as well as locales nationwide and in Ireland.

The play aired on Detroit PBS this past December, significantly expanding Miller’s audience, but also pressing her to strike while the iron was hot and get the book done.

Sequels aren’t exactly rare or novel. As a creative enterprise, they’re safer than a wholly original property because they thread a narrative needle, providing readers/viewers with something both familiar and unknown—a new story featuring characters and a world we already “get,” no exposition necessary.

More recently, of course, we’ve witnessed the rise of the prequel (Wicked, anyone? The Joker? Cruella?), which offers the same artistic advantages but projects backward in time rather than forward.

With all this in mind, allow me pause to sing the praises of prolific, Michigan-native playwright Joseph Zettelmaier (now based in Florida) for breathing new air into an old form with his latest play, The Men of Sherwood, now having its world premiere via Penny Seats Theatre Company through December 8.

While most sequels lean in hard on a story’s central character, depending on their allure to draw fans back, Zettelmaier instead kills off a beloved, charismatic hero and asks: What happens to a story’s minor characters, the followers, when the nucleus that long held them together perishes? Can a body, without its beating heart, function? (And even if it can, should it?)

U-M basketball fans will get to hear perspectives about the team’s past and its present at 6:30 pm Monday at Literati Bookstore, when sports writer Mike Rosenbaum will talk about his book University of Michigan Basketball, 1960-1989: From Cazzie Russell to the NCAA Title alongside past U-M players Tom Staton and Antoine Joubert, and current U-M basketball play-by-play radio personality Brian Boesch.

“I’m leading the event,” said Rosenbaum, who grew up in Oak Park, and graduated from U-M with a communications degree in 1980. “So I’ll probably go over a few stories that [Staton and Joubert] talked about for the book … and then we’ll probably have a discussion about this year’s team. Brian’s close to the team. He’s interviewed all the coaches, and he can give us some insight on what’s going on … and talk about what to expect with the new coach [Dusty May].”

Staton and Joubert are just two of the more than 40 people Rosenbaum interviewed for his book, which has been years in the making.

I don’t have a ton of specific fears, but if pressed to name a few, I’d go with snakes, climate change, overdrafting, mass shootings, and the epically baffling big novels of James Joyce.

So kudos to the University Musical Society (UMS) for helping me confront that last fear this past Sunday, via the Elevator Repair Service’s stage adaptation of Ulysses, which was at the Power Center in Ann Arbor on October 19-20.

The much-studied, fever-dream doorstop of a novel—clocking in at nearly 800 pages—unfolds almost entirely within the confines of June 16th, 1904 (reportedly the date of Joyce’s first sexual encounter with future wife, Nora). Since the book debuted in 1922, Joyce’s life and work have been celebrated annually on June 16th, a day called Bloomsday, named for the character at the center of Ulysses, ad man Leopold Bloom.

When a stage musical’s inspired by a campy, 1990s tabloid story about a half-human, half-bat boy who’s discovered in a West Virginia cave—I mean, you just go in expecting a weird show, right?

But nothing can truly prepare you for the level of weird achieved by Bat Boy, staged October 10-20 by U-M’s musical theatre department at the Encore Theatre in Dexter.

With music and lyrics by Laurence O’Keefe, and a book by Keythe Farley and Brian Flemming, Bat Boy follows the titular character as he’s housed, and socialized by, a local veterinarian’s family. Buttoned-up wife and mother Meredith Parker (Aquila Sol) is the first to emotionally connect with Bat Boy (Aaron Syi), naming him Edgar and teaching him to speak. Teen daughter Shelley Parker (Stephanie Reuning-Scherer) is initially disgusted by Edgar but comes to love him, too, while her father, Dr. Parker (Jamie Martin Mann), jealously watches his emotionally distant wife lavish maternal love upon Edgar. 

The show, particularly the first act, has been somewhat streamlined (a good thing) since I first saw it many years ago, but its high body count, black tragicomedy core—think Heathers crossed with a bewildering nature documentary—remains intact. 

It seems a too-painful irony that U-M art professor Rebekah Modrak while working on the new book Trouble in Censorville: The Far Right’s Assault on Public Education and the Teachers Who Are Fighting Back had to work around censorship laws.

Modrak’s co-editor, Nadine M. Kalin, is on faculty at the University of North Texas, “and in the middle of working on the project, Texas created a new law saying that you can’t essentially do work around diversity,” Modrak explained. “So we, at the University of Michigan, had to create an email address for [Kalin] and sponsor her as an academic so she could use our email address as she worked on the project, to create some distance for herself and some protections. And I thought, wow, maybe this is the future of the country, where we have blue states, where work like this is being done, and we protect academic refugees from red states who are being censored.”

Even with this awkward workaround in place, the pair managed to gather oral histories from 14 public school educators who’d been harassed (or outright dismissed) in recent years because of, among other reasons, their gender presentation, or the topics they taught in class, or the books they offered on their shelves.

“The impetus for the book was that they wanted to be able to tell their own story because their stories were so—the way it was being told by parents or outsiders in the community, or by the administration, was such a distortion from the truth as they understood it,” said Modrak. “So they wanted to be able to tell that. A few of the teachers did go to the media in order to try to get that story out and were punished further for it.”