Product Description

One of the plays that first announced Sam Shepard as an original voice in American theater, Tooth of Crime is his thrillingly innovative rock drama, published here in a revised edition that is as fresh and provocative as the original was more than thirty years ago.

An aging rock star in a world in which entertainment and street warfare go hand in hand, Hoss must defend himself against Crow, a newcomer who battles him for fame. Combining musical styles and intense dialogue in an unconventional musical-fantasy, Tooth of Crime riffs brilliantly on rising stars and fading legends, and rock lived and died for.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #167038 in Books
• Published on: 2006-02-14
• Released on: 2006-02-14
• Original language: English
• Binding: Paperback
• 112 pages

Review
“Brilliant. . . . By far Mr. Shepard’s best play.” –The Wall Street Journal

“A fascinating, even brilliant work. . . . It is bracingly insightful on the ephemerality and corrupting powers of stardom. . . . Few critics would deny its electricity and imagination on the page.” –The New York Times

“Marvelously evocative. . . . Direct and immediate. . . . A simple allegory of fame American-style. . . . It packs a potent punch not readily forgotten.” –New York Post

About the Author
Sam Shepard is the Pulitzer Prize—winning author of more than forty-five plays. He was a finalist for the W. H. Smith Literary Award for his story collection Great Dream of Heaven, and he has also written the story collection Cruising Paradise, two collections of prose pieces, Motel Chronicles and Hawk Moon, and Rolling Thunder Logbook, a diary of Bob Dylan’s 1975 Rolling Thunder Review tour. As an actor he has appeared in more than thirty films, including Days of Heaven, Crimes of the Heart, Steel Magnolias, The Pelican Brief, Snow Falling on Cedars, All the Pretty Horses, Black Hawk Down, and The Notebook. He received an Oscar nomination in 1984 for his performance in The Right Stuff. His screenplay for Paris, Texas won the Grand Jury Prize at the 1984 Cannes Film Festival, and he wrote and directed the film Far North in 1988 and co-wrote and starred in Wim Wenders’ Don’t Come Knocking in 2005. Shepard’s plays, eleven of which have won Obie Awards, include The God of Hell, The Late Henry Moss, Simpatico, Curse of the Starving Class, True West, Fool for Love, and A Lie of the Mind, which won a New York Drama Desk Award. A member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, Shepard received the Gold Medal for Drama from the Academy in 1992, and in 1994 he was inducted into the Theatre Hall of Fame. He lives in New York.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Act I

Scene: A bare stage except for an evil-looking dark chair with a high back, something like an Egyptian pharoah's throne but simple, center stage.

(HOSS enters.)

HOSS: Song: "Anything I Say Can and Will Be Used Against You"

ANYTHING I SAY CAN AND WILL BE

USED AGAINST YOU

People tell me I look like hell

Well I am hell

I got a torture chamber orchestra

At the Delirium Hotel

I got an hallucination rattlesnake

To twist my skill through

You're my friend

But I'm gonna kill you

Somebody's got to monitor all this darkness darkness darkness

Somebody's got to locate the bomb dot com

Somebody's got to breakout through the night so starless starless starless

Those who would overthrow the status quo

Soul like smoke hole in the sky

Gotta cry gotta cry gotta go gotta go gotta go

Target Arab chic MK ultra satellite blowup

Kill the pain let it rain let it rain

I will disengage your mastery

Until all you love is blasphemy

Then I'll break in through your idiocy

And twist your desire hideously

And when you're the object of complete derision

I'll make you a star on television

Then if you want fame at a greater strength

Speak to my girl Friday the thirteenth

Got no background

Got no files

Crawl through the cable black op ground zero no flight zone

All alone all alone all alone

This is a story which is based on a true story

Which is based on a lie

Don't jack with me Sahib

I'm history

Don't jack with me Lucille

I'm gone

I'm gone

I'm gone

(BECKY enters.)

BECKY: Choogin, Hoss. Choogin. The short is on-line. Wanna peek at the toys?

HOSS: Yeah, let's have a look. Jeweler check 'em out?

BECKY: Clean and blue. Gave his little stomp of approval. You know how he gits.

(BECKY lays out the "weapons" on the floor: Strange looking devices; weird mixture of swords, guitar necks, microphones, CB's, pistols, etc.)

HOSS: Merc's set?

BECKY: Greased, lubed, and banging on all eight. Chaser slammed it up to 180 on the old Ventura Freeway. Said she didn't bark once.

HOSS: Yeah. About time he quit them quarter mile bursts. That double-throat's gotta git time to blow out. Holly made that carburetor back then for a reason. Old-time but it still hauls ass.

BECKY: No question there.

HOSS: Chaser fit?

BECKY: I don't gumbo with Chaser. You know that. He keeps to his own self.

HOSS: You watch him don't ya? Observe?

BECKY: I seen him chase his bacon around the plate with a fork this mornin. Asked him if that's where he copped his handle.

HOSS: So, how's he movin?

BECKY: Same.

HOSS: Did he look inclined to Boogie?

BECKY: He's always got the horns on for Road Rankin, you know that.

HOSS: Then we're good to go?

BECKY: I'd best check the Chart Man if I was you, Hoss. The Gazer.

HOSS: How's that.

BECKY: Just an inklin. A tickle. Won't hurt.

HOSS: We ironed all that through, didn't we? Week ago? I thought Meera gave me a green lane? I don't need hesitation now.

BECKY: Shit shifts, you know. Every two seconds somethin's slidin. He can't suss it all. Tell you the damn truth, some a them chart patterns he's honkin go back to the late fifties. Meera's antique in a lota zones Hoss. I wouldn't bite the whole red apple he throws out, just cause it rolls.

HOSS: Git his ass down here!

BECKY: All righty. Don't sting my tail just for flaggin a dingo. I'm yer cold bitch, remember?

HOSS: Just buzz his booty! Now!

BECKY: Yabadaba Honk Man.

(BECKY exits.)

HOSS (alone): Chingaflack! Tickles, inklings, cross-information! I'm good to go, here! Can't get stoved up by bad help and superstition. I need the points! Can't they see that? I'm winning in three fuckin states! Controlling more borders than any a them punk Markers. The El Camino Boys. Bunch a slump chumps. Threw down on that whole raggedy tribe back—back when? El Monte Legion Stadium? La Puente? What was it? Done deal. They were sliming. Where's the history here?

(MEERA enters with BECKY. He carries his divining paraphernalia—strange boxes and electronic projection devices that look all jerry-rigged and somewhat outdated—maybe even an old 45 record player. MEERA gets completely tangled up in the wires and plugs of his equipment.)

HOSS (to MEERA): All right, slick face, what's the skinny? Can we move now? Becky tells me you're hedging.

MEERA: Pretty dicey, Hoss.

HOSS: What! I knew it! I knew it! Week ago you give me green lights! Solid. No question. Now, it's no slice. What's the sudden shift?

MEERA: Patterns, Hoss. Meshes. I'm sussing every way I can to keep up but some of my equipment is just getting blown away by all these new waves. I can't even read some a these ciphers. Watch. I'll show you.

(MEERA begins to set up his boxes, plugging them in, transferring wires, adjusting screens and keyboards, etc.)

HOSS: I don't wanna hear this! If we needed new equipment, why wasn't I informed? I'd be glad to pay for new equipment. I thought we were up to date here.

BECKY: A new Gazer wouldn't hurt.

MEERA: I'm the best there is. Hoss knows that.

HOSS: I don't know that! I'm running on faith ninety percent of the time. Wing & a prayer!

MEERA: Just take a look at what I've got. That's all I'm asking. It's come down to techno-improvisation, Hoss. That's the only way to play it. All the data's bastard-info now. Vague vectors. Nothing pure. No essence source. It's all been scarfed and scarred to the bone. Take a look.

(MEERA casts an image through his device.)

HOSS (staring at image): What's that?

MEERA: The El Caminos.

HOSS: I didn't bring you down here to look at pix of Roadkill! I'm ready for a Matar, man. A major Matar! I wanna move!

MEERA: You'll blow it.

HOSS: I'll blow it? What do you know. I've always moved on a sixth sense. I don't need your crossed up, half-assed chart mix! We might as well be staring at box tops from Quaker Oatmeal. Might be more current than this shit.

BECKY: You gotta play privey to the Charts, Hoss. You never went against the Charts before.

HOSS: That was before. When Charts were Charts. Everyone was tuned to E Major back then. The Killing Floor was level. I'm falling behind now! Maybe you don't understand that! I'm falling behind because I'm still tuned to E Major!

MEERA: Not true, Hoss. No verdo. Lookit this. Take a looksee. (He changes the image again.) The El Caminos are about six points off the shuffle. Mojo Root Force is the only one even close enough to flutter and Mojo's got no turn of foot. Never had that bottom gear.

HOSS: Mojo? That Fruitcake? What'd he conk?

MEERA: Phoenix, Hoss. He slipped it while the Caminos threw camp, thinking he was outa range.

HOSS: Phoenix? That's my Mark! I claimed that ticket! He can't take Phoenix!

MEERA: It's done, Hoss. Least according to this jibe.

HOSS: That's against the Code! That's an out and out cry-down against the Code! Didn't the Keepers chop him?

BECKY: Keepers are getting usurped too, Hoss. Everybody's on the buy-back.

HOSS: When did this shit happen? How come I'm the last to find out?

BECKY: We thought it'd rattle you too much.

HOSS: Rattle me! Nothing rattles me like knowing there's doo-dah going on behind my back!

MEERA: We weren't trying to keep it from you. Just treading for the right timing.

HOSS: I'm gonna git that chump. I'm gonna have him clean. Mojo Root Force. He knew Phoenix was on my ticket! He's trying to shake me. That's it, is it? Thinks I'll jump borders and scam suburban shots.

MEERA: I wouldn't give him a whole lota credit for strategy, Hoss.

HOSS: Well, I'm gonna crunch his bunker clean through. You watch.

BECKY: You can't bump against the Code, Hoss. Once a Marker strikes and sets up colors, that's his turf.

MEERA: Yeah, you can't strike claimed turf, Hoss. They'll pop you right outa the game.

HOSS: He did it! He took my mark! It was on my ticket!

MEERA: He'll just claim his wave system blew and he didn't suss it til it was too late.

HOSS: Well, he's gonna suss it now. I'll get a short fleet together and blow him out. He's gonna git so spun he'll think Phoenix is on the other side of the Antarctic.

BECKY: You gonna drop class? Is that it? Run with the Claimers? Sacrifice Solo Rights? You'll be a Gang Bopper again. A Punk Chump. Exile Bandito Trash. I ain't runnin with no Exile.

HOSS: I need the points! That Gold Record is not gonna wait for me to get straight with the Code. I'm not coppin to Ethical Suicide here, and miss a shot at a monster Matar. I need the fuckin points! I need a Kill!

MEERA: Best to hold steady, Hoss. This is a tender time. Lookee here. Just take a peep. Bits and choppers, but it scans.