Review of Ballad Lines: “Pregnancy-themed musical still delivers, but it needs more time in the oven”

London’s Southwark Playhouse hosts the world premiere of this original piece, where the lives of four separate women intertwine through blood, history, and song. Guillermo Nazara shares his views on the show to let us know if its gestation has endured any noticeable complications.

This is their baby. And as such, we can appreciate the love put into its creation. It’s been a long process (over 10 years since its conception) for Ballad Lines to hit the stage. Yet, the fact that it’s finally made it doesn’t necessarily guarantee its place in the London scene. And although there are some strong elements to praise in this work, a decade of development might still birth a premature creature.

Four stories in just two hours. All of them are rather complex. Or at least, that’s how they should have come across. They didn’t, for the most part. The script introduces a sizable array of deep, intricate themes. However, the way they are explored has kept itself distant from those qualities.

I wouldn’t call it shallow, as several aspects in the writing exhibit profundity and introspection. Nonetheless, there’s obviously a lot to flesh out, as the narrative comes off unbearably thin at several moments — some of which may suffer from minor malnutrition.

Sarah has found herself — or so she thinks. As a middle-aged woman, she’s living happily with her partner, Alix, in their recently acquired New York apartment. She’s run away from a family that doesn’t understand her as an LGBT person. And she’s started her chosen one. It all seems to be running smoothly, after the death of her estranged aunt makes her reconnect with her past. A past she didn’t know she had. It’s the tale of her ancestors, dating back to 16th-century Scotland.

One was the wife of a Catholic priest. She is withchild, but her constant doubts about becoming a mother will prompt their attempts to terminate her pregnancy. The other one was in love with a sailor, and despite her family’s objection, she couldn’t bear the thought of getting rid of them — even if that means facing the most catastrophic consequences.

As Sarah embarks on this eye-opening journey through her roots, she will have her own epiphany. Up until now, her whole world has revolved around Alix. They are everything to each other, and they don’t need anything or anyone else — until she realises she wants to be a mother, too. Yet, having a child comes with big sacrifices, and those include losing the woman she has built a new life with.

The show’s premise is dramatically robust; perhaps, too robust for what it can handle — at least, in terms of duration. It’s simply too brief for what it wants to tell. Three major characters with completely different paths, whose sole link is their bloodline, can’t be properly handled in roughly two hours — especially in a musical, which usually requires broader space to delve into the personages’ psyches.

Consequently, none of their plot lines is fleshed out satisfactorily. Sarah is given a little more growth (we would expect so, as she is the real protagonist), but even her recount feels sketchy and lacks a third act almost entirely.

Her bond with Alix evolves too fast — they transition from a dreamy romance to a shattered, irreparable relationship at literally the snap of a finger. They are barely offered the opportunity to reflect on those actions, most of which aren’t paced in a manner that comes off natural, believable, and ultimately, resonant.

If that wasn’t constrained enough, the other two leads are relegated to a mere additional asset. There is conflict, but all the subsidiary parts are missing. As a result, the roles can’t break away from that archetypal status. There’s next to no insight into them, other than their basic motivations. And even the action can’t breathe sufficiently for the viewer to get attached. Consequently, by the time we start to care, it’s all over.

The same applies to Sarah’s tense relationship with her aunt, Betty. Being ostracised in her hometown, her adult self runs away and hopes never to look back. Eventually, she does, and an extremely poignant scene between the two unfolds during the second half of the show. Any queer-identifying person can see themselves reflected in that moment, when all the dirt some relatives have put us through comes up to the surface. It brims with pathos — but that’s the only part of the piece that actually does. And that’s the real tragedy in it.

There’s some interesting analysis of Sarah’s struggles, which both the book and lyrics tackle with adequate deftness. Despite a few minor clichés, the dialogue has flow, and it’s overall engaging. The transitions from spoken to sung-through excerpts are generally seamless and well-established. And Finn Anderson’s verses are both discerning and decently articulated — they’re far from exemplary regarding form (many rhyming decisions are questionable, and some metaphors are rudimentary). However, their sometimes sharp observations exude a commitment to authenticity.

The music, also credited to Anderson, is undoubtedly the piece’s biggest accomplishment. Anderson’s approach, which combines celtic folk with contemporary pop-rock (much in the style of Rent), is packed with memorable tunes, while also exhibiting a few strokes of sophistication. It does take three or four numbers until a proper key change can be heard, but in some way, the use of irregular bars and alternating beats (mixing a 6/8 and 3/4 bar like in Bernstein’s America) disguises those shortcomings to an extent.

There is more structural work to be done, however. The opening number, a choral ballad where all the main characters assemble, should have been merged with Sarah’s arrival at the flat, which would prevent the overexpositional feel in the beginning. Several numbers should be further developed, too — some motifs aren’t exploited to their full potential, although their biggest issue is the abrupt, anticlimactic ending many of the songs suffer from.

At the same time, the historical segments of the narrative lack genuineness. Despite its denunciation of oppressive societal conventions, the characters’ interactions (and even some traits in their mindsets) are overly influenced by a contemporary look, and their credibility is debatable at the very least.

The production is put together with absolute prowess. The staging makes the most of the Southwark Playhouse’s intimacy — TK Hay’s highly evocative design brings dynamism and seamlessness to the performance. Simultaneously, Tinovimbanashe Sibanda’s ebullient choreography adds a touch of spectacularity to the rendition, underpinned by Simon Wilkinson’s lushly atmospheric lighting.

The cast is an ultimate tour de force. Robust acting, remarkable rapport, and powerhouse vocals define the exceptional achievement the troupe, as a whole, delivers. Among them, Frances McNamee gives a stand-out portrayal of Sarah, which brims with nuance, likability, and authenticity. Rebecca Trehearn makes another memorable appearance as Aunt Betty, flaunting extraordinary singing skills and a commanding presence.

It’s not a stillborn. It has a pulse, and the pulse is steady and somewhat inviting. Yet, Ballad Lines needs to take a few extra notes before all its elements can play in tune. If nurtured properly, the show could grow into being the next in line for the Southwark Playhouse’s list of West End transfers. So far, though, its premature state calls for an incubator.

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All pictures credit to Pamela Raith.

Ballad Lines plays at London’s Southwark Playhouse until 21 March. Tickets are available on the following link.

By Guillermo Nazara