Reflections on a Rainy Day

The rain began as a kind of uncertain tapping on the roof, the tentative, hesitant fingers of a visitor at the door, uncertain of his welcome. Then the tapping went silent.

I don’t know what time it was, maybe 4 a.m. I always awaken when it rains, afraid I might miss something. I love the sound and feel of a storm. My mother used to say I was born on the worst day Oakland ever had, when rain flooded basements and wind sent garbage cans clanging down the streets.

I guess that’s why I have an affinity with storms, the way some people are drawn to the sea or to the mountains.

I lay there listening hard, my wife breathing gently next to me, the dog lying on his own couch nearby. I knew if I stayed awake the rain would return and it did, tap-tap-tapping like the gentle drums of March.

And then as if some door were flung open by a mystical force the full storm blew into town with a mighty roar, all of its wails and rhythms combining to create the kind of music that only nature can provide.

It reminded me of a play I had just seen, a musical, that blended the throbbing, soaring strains of gospel with the sometimes hard, occasionally angry rhythms of rock.

It’s called “The Last Session,” and is all about living on a small planet, about being together and about caring for each other.

I lay there thinking about it as the rain fell.

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I wasn’t going to write about the weather. My intention was to write about “The Last Session” at the Tiffany on Sunset. But it just seemed right somehow when dawn came, wet and gray, that the two should intertwine.

I heard a radio weatherman say the day was gloomy, but I don’t look upon rain that way. Rain sings of rebirth and renewal. It freshens the earth and cleanses the sky. “The Last Session” had some of those properties.

It’s about a singer-composer named Gideon. He has AIDS and decides that rather than suffer the pain of a slow death he’s going to take his own life. But first he wants to record songs for friends. He wants one last session.

I know what you’re thinking. This is the weather guy saying we’re in for a gloomy day. This is a theme saying we’re in for a gloomy play. Not so in either case. Rain makes the world glisten. The play does too.

Steve Schalchlin, who wrote the music and lyrics for “Session,” will tell you this isn’t about dying but about living. “It’s not an AIDS play,” he said between acts the other night. “It’s about caring. I survived because of how much caring my friends have shown me.”

Schalchlin has AIDS. He’s in good shape with protease inhibitors and he hasn’t even thought about suicide, but other elements of “Session” are autobiographical. His attitude of hope and redemption weaves through the glory of this production like a hymn.

“Can we really say we’re out there on our own,” Gideon sings, “when together we’ve been going it alone?”

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I’ve known Schalchlin since the birth of “The Last Session.” His long-time partner Jim Brochu wrote the book. They gave me a tape of the first tentative exploration of the theme and you didn’t have to be an expert to know this was something special. Music that touches the soul defines itself.

The Schalchlin-Brochu production isn’t a dirge but a celebration. Funny, sad, ironic, uplifting, thought-provoking and burning with life, it raises questions while it offers answers, and both dwell in those places of the human experience that link us to each other.

One of the characters sings to Gideon, “You’re more than just a song, you’re more than just a rhyme, you’re more than just a tune that fades away. . . . “

That’s what “Session” is about. It renews the spirit as rain renews the earth, calling for an evaluation of each other as humans rather than straight or gay, man or woman, sick or well. The play is important because it delivers the theme with style and talent. It’s an L.A. guy with an L.A. song.

The play is also important because even though the fight against AIDS is gaining strength, the murder of gay men in Laramie, Wyo., and Sylacauga, Ala., tells us we’ve still got a lot of linking to do.

Outside, the rain has stopped and the quality of light is shifting from a hard gray to a softer, gentler radiance. New growth on the oak trees assumes an emerald shimmer. The whole world glows. That’s the way it ought to be.

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Al Martinez’s column appears Tuesdays and Fridays. He can be reached online at al.martinez@latimes.com