I was sharing breakfast with Dobby, the house cat, when it struck me that it was nearly the end of August. The classic red-and-white East Hampton Star calendar was staring at me from across the kitchen, and I asked myself, “How is it already Thursday?” Dobby meowed back at me, sharing similar feelings.
It’s the time of year where we start to consider which boxes should hold our cashmere, and which ones our jeans, and which — if not both — we are going to donate to the Ladies Village Improvement Society. The nights are starting to feel a bit shorter, and they’re certainly getting colder; everyone’s skin is leather-tanned, and the evening drink has switched back to white wine from its summertime special, rosé.
Last Thursday, I sprinted over to my mechanic to have my taillight fixed because — apparently? — one of them was out. An officer had stopped me on my drive home the night before at around 6 p.m. and gave me a heads up. After about 10 minutes of twiddling my thumbs, and an Apple Pay tap later, I had a new taillight and was on the road to see a theatrical work-in-progress scheduled to debut Off Broadway this fall.
My friend Meg Gibson shared a hard-copy invitation with me, and so in the downpouring rain, I found myself walking up to the steps of the Masonic Lodge in Sag Harbor (also known as Wamponamon Lodge #437 of Free and Accepted Masons). I hadn’t been since I was a little boy: Many moons ago, Sophie Flax and I did a fun photo shoot in that building with the piano and on the steps in old-timey clothes for a Halloween edition of the Express Magazine. I remember musing to myself about the men who used to sit in that room, and what they’d chat about . . . but on this night in particular, the setting took a twist!
Martin Moran — a Broadway veteran and Obie Award-winning writer and performer — performed his one-man show-in-progress, touching on topics about community and identity as a gay man and a New Yorker. The room was balmy (perhaps not surprising, considering the building itself was built in 1845) as Mr. Moran greeted the audience and thanked everyone for coming. The show, which started promptly around 7, took us down a path of the actor’s personal memories, through his childhood at a Catholic School in Colorado, living through the AIDS epidemic in New York, and again through the Covid-19 pandemic.
After the performance ended, most of the audience stuck around and chatted with Mr. Moran. I said good night to new friends I’d made, as well as to the friend who’d invited me, and navigated my way home through the flooded streets of Sag Harbor. A waterspout had touched down a few hours earlier a bit farther west on Long Island, and the storm was passing wildly through our neck of the woods.
Friday night was quiet — both personally and around town; there weren’t a lot of party events on the go. It had rained all day, with a hard wind out of the northeast, and I had expected the weather to have convinced everyone to actually stay indoors. But when I ran into town for a few things, I found the shops were crammed full. Wasn’t everyone ready to drop onto the couch, order takeout from Chen’s Garden, and spend the night indoors? Dobby meowed and agreed.
Saturday night was roaring at Guild Hall, however, and the stage lights were on full blast: G.E. Smith was hosting his “Portraits” series — which to me, has become a summer staple. It’s a night when you can let your shoulders relax, laugh a little, and listen to music legends in one of the best theaters in the region.
I grew up going to Guild Hall. I went not just to see performances and productions my parents were in, but productions my parents produced and directed. I joined the Teen Arts Council when I was 15 and later came back as a gallery assistant and then as the interim programs coordinator for Guild Hall’s educational department. My mother also grew up at Guild Hall, spending late nights at the John Drew Theater watching her parents in rehearsals and tech, and, later, acting in the productions that her mother would make the costumes for and her father would choreograph — Morgan Sturges is my mama! Every time I’m back in this space, I remember this legacy. Bill and Karen Sturges were part of the Guild Hall Players, an actors troupe, and would put on a play with all local talent. I recently found an article from The East Hampton Star, dated Nov. 24, 1966, in which my grandfather had to end the interview with the news reporter because he was headed back to Guild Hall to finish striking the sets on a production going up with Hughie King and Harry Van Tassel.
So, reader, G.E. Smith is a Guild Hall Player — he is back every season, with this year marking the 11th season of “Portraits.” Saturday night’s program was an evening with Smith and John McEnroe and his wife, Patty Smyth.
Smyth (who you may remember from the band Scandal, or from her duet on “Sometimes Love Just Ain’t Enough” with Don Henley) aced the space with her smokey, sultry voice, making the audience laugh the minute she got on stage. She wore a yellow pantsuit with a platform wedge, and a silver slip lace shirt. After a few songs, McEnroe joined his wife and G.E. on-stage, and I, frankly, had to pick my jaw off the ground. I’m almost never starstruck, but McEnroe is just as excellent on the strings as he is on the courts. I snapped a quick video to send to my P.R. agent — that is, my very close friend, godmother, and unofficial aunt — and she replied: “Where are you?? Is that John McEnroe??” and, a few seconds later, “That is John McEnroe playing a Les Paul Junior.” She later shared that one of her friends has his sweat rag from the 1983 U.S. Open.
After about 15 songs, with pauses in between for a quick interview and conversation, they closed the show by coming out into the audience, dancing and singing. Smyth sat on the lap of patrons, danced with those in the front row, and twirled with the woman sitting next to me (who’d been gossiping about some of her friends who just got back from their girls trip to Lake Tahoe). Smyth did an encore and played the guitar she got for her 11th birthday. Her guitar teacher and family were in the crowd.
I suppose the lesson is: Never assume you’ve already seen it all at Guild Hall.
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Frankie Bademci grew up in East Hampton and holds master’s degrees in art history and visual art. He now writes dispatches for The Star and East magazine from all the best parties, art openings, haute hippy happenings, random bar run-ins, literary soirees, and society scenes.
