Cats and Hamilton

1985. I'd moved from Minneapolis to my home in suburban Philadelphia because I'd gotten an overseas teaching position in a rural area of China and I'd had enough of Minneapolis. (The city was fine; it was me.) My parents had gone on vacation so I had the house to myself and use of my mother's car. There was much to do. Getting my visa. Buying things I thought I'd need to live in another country, like adapters.

As I drove around doing errands, I played the cassette tape that was in the car, which was the Broadway recording of Cats.

Is there a more reviled musical? Yet it ran forever and grossed $3.5 billion. It's crass to say that commercial success equals artistic success, but that so many loved Cats so much does imply that the songs in it are at least ones you can listen to, and I didn't have anything by Sondheim in the car. I was twenty-five and it was a year of great change for me. I was leaving behind a city I'd settled into and leaving even my country. I'd never been far west of the Mississippi, north of New Hampshire, or south of Virginia. China in the mid 80s still had a bit of mystery to it. If Cats was comfort music, that was fine with me.

2020. I'm having major cancer surgery eight days from now. There is much to do. Getting tests. Buying things I'll need for the hospital stay and for when I get back to the house. As I drive around doing errands, I play the CD I have in the car—my late mother's—which is the Broadway recording of Hamilton.

Is there a more respected musical? It

ran for years and broke many box office records. In 2016, when people would ask me whether I planned to see it, I'd tell them I'd love to but couldn't devote half a year's pay for a ticket. Not a great joke, and one I'm sure was told by many. 

Would I call Hamilton comfort music? Sure, in as much as nearly all music is in its way.