July, in review. (Plus a note.)

A Chorus Line (Hamlisch, M.; Kirkwood, J.; Dante, N.; Bennett, M.; & Kleban, E., 1975). If SoundScan had been around in the '70s and early '80s, I suspect the original cast album for A Chorus Line would have peaked higher than No. 98 on The Billboard 200. These thoughts are absolutely a product of my environment—I was born the same year of the Michael Bennett-spearheaded musical, I grew up in the suburbs of New York City and watched enough TV for local ads to make an imprint, I went to friends' houses where the album was near the front of their parents' collections, I attended a dancing school where "One" was a key showcase during multiple year-end recitals. The album's gold and silver cover imprinted on my mind early, as did the nakedly needy plea that rises from the tumultuous opener "I Hope I Get It"—"I neeeed this jobbb," Sammy Williams' Paul San Marco sings, a sentiment that I understood as a six-year-old, although I wouldn't fully get his musings, "Who am I anyway? Am I my resume?" until a couple of decades later. Zach's unconventional interviewing techniques feel in 2025 less like a shocking anomaly and more like those screening processes that are laser-focused on "fit." (I appreciated Jesse Green's 50th-anniversary retrospective of A Chorus Line and the other big form-smashing musical that premiered in 1975, Chicago, although I do feel like ACL definitely won the long game as far as HR innovations go.)

I have had a rough entry into my 50s, and some of those circumstances led to me spending the last half of July essentially gritting my teeth and holding on until the 31st. Nuno, my cat, has been declining over the last few weeks; in mid-July I brought him back to Angell Animal Medical Center because his left eye was drooping and he was wheezing seemingly uncontrollably, and the doctors thought his ears were the problem and booked a CT scan and ear procedure. The two weeks between the appointment were agony because it was physically impossible for me to console him; if I petted him, or if he jumped on my chest or lap, he would likely purr, and the physicality of that response would irritate him in a way that would make him start to wheeze, and cough, and spit up his food. It took me a while to get him to let me pet him so he could purr in the first place—he was a tentative eight-month-old when he arrived in Allston, and I obsessively read tips about encouraging affection by petting him while he was eating (positive reinforcement)—and this aspect of his malaise just felt extra cruel to both of us.

Tuesday night, tired and trying to will time forward faster and finding comfort in this 1990 Donahue clip of "At the Ballet," I climbed into bed and listened to the A Chorus Line cast album for the first time in a long time. Marvin Hamlisch's music is such a wonder, implicitly telling the audience that even though the characters' tales of life before and after they arrived in the showbiz world were tough, actually performing is even tougher. Have you ever tried to sing "One," with its constantly shifting key and ever-increasing stakes, while burrowed under a blanket and curled up in a ball? It wouldn't have been easy even if my vocal cords and lungs had been in proper shape, but at least I was laughing at myself by the end of its first run-through—just in time for "What I Did For Love," which is sung after Paul completely blows out his knee while running through a tap combination, a requiem for dreams that have passed by whether they've been achieved or not.

This recording of the original 1975 production at New York's Public Theater—captured for the New York Public Library—has grainy visuals but fantastic sound quality, and I'd argue that the LQ video helps accentuate how striking its staging is. I do not recommend watching the Richard Attenborough-directed film, even if flipping across "Dance: Ten; Looks: Three" during its screenings on HBO was a source of childhood mirth. Dance: Ten; Feelings: Fifty.

The Naked Gun (dir. Akiva Schaffer, 2025). Speaking of HBO: The first Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker movie I saw was definitely Airplane II: The Sequel, the space-based follow-up to the trio's 1980 spoof on airline disaster movies that was a staple of the pay-TV channel during the mid-'80s. I was particularly fixated on the Rocky XXXVIII poster hanging in the background of a quick airport-newsstand scene, both because of the haggard expression on what I guess was the titular boxer's face and the idea of a movie franchise running that long. This eventually became an early lesson in how satire at its best was often a bleak prediction of the future.

Anyway, I dropped Nuno off at Angell early Thursday and was a little bummed that I wouldn't be able to spend some of my time waiting for him with a screening of the new Naked Gun, about which I admittedly had some culture-in-2025 trepidation. The danger of taking comedy from the past and putting a hat on its (in this case, already pretty amusing) hat always looms over projects like these, and I didn't want to be taken out of any enjoyment by thoughts about meddling executives asking the film's creative team to add something fourth-wall-breaking in a corny way.

As it turned out, it was probably better that I waited until Friday to see the movie. Nuno's doctor called at around 12:30—a bit early, I thought—to update me with results from the CT scan and to let me know that the procedures on his ears had been canceled because they found at least one brain tumor, maybe more, the neurologist hadn't yet weighed in. The anticipation for relief I'd been holding in for weeks fully broke, and I found myself involuntarily screaming, then apologizing, then screaming some more. When I hung up I called my parents, then I texted my downstairs neighbor Kelsey. I spent the afternoon at her place. She's a nurse at Boston Children's and she has a firmly matter-of-fact bedside manner and the ability to be honest about doctors' findings, all things I needed and still appreciate to this moment.

Nuno had been too out of it from the CT scan's anesthesia to get a proper neurology consultation, so I had to bring him back to Angell on Friday for that, and an eye exam, and possibly some other tests. This time I had a more defined plan for breakfast—the closest place that was open on Thursday at 7 a.m. was the Jamaica Plain outpost of Boston's vegetarian cafe Life Alive—and the rest of the day: Breakfast, then sauna, then The Naked Gun, then a manicure.

When I arrived at The Friendly Toast in Chestnut Hill, people were milling outside the restaurant—it was a few minutes after opening, so I at first figured that they were just waiting to go inside. It turned out someone had pulled a fire alarm inside the attached mall, so everyone had to wait until the Newton Fire Department showed up and gave the all clear. I was able to distract myself from waiting thanks to a phone call from Andrew that was a huge balm, and by the time we were off the phone things were back to normal, and I was able to eat.

I bring this up because when I saw The Naked Gun a few hours later just up Boylston Street, the movie was halted by—can you believe?—a fire alarm, which went off only a few minutes after I'd reacted to one throwaway gag with an honest-to-God, straw-in-the-mouth spit-take. I was the only person in the theater, so I didn't feel too nervous about leaving my strawberry Sprite, buttered popcorn, and Sno-Caps behind for the evacuation, which was brief.

The movie, by the way, was a blast—exactly what I needed to get my mind off the MRI that I'd signed off on right before entering the theater. My initial worries were tempered by raves from critics I respect and wrestlers I enjoy, both of whom noted that they laughed a ton, which was definitely something I needed on Friday. Liam Neeson was spot-on; Pamela Anderson was smashing; and I full-on cackled multiple times during the film's 89 minutes. I don't want to give too much away, because a lot of the comedic thrill comes from being delighted by the gags that keep coming, even if all of them don't hit. But I will say that the Z/A/Z style of movie is actually perfect for the phone-addled age because it rewards those who pay full attention all the way through to the end of the credits. Those jokes like the aforementioned Rocky poster, or any number of split-second bits that aren't commented on but are still bust-a-gut hilarious, may not be called out, but they'll land and maybe even stick some four or so decades down the road. 33 1/3 out of 33 1/3 Drebins.

Jane Inc., "elastic" (Telephone Explosion Records, 2025). Jane Inc's "2120," from her 2022 album Faster Than I Can Take, is one of this decade's very best songs, a churning rebuke to the idea of giving up, and the rest of the album is absolutely fantastic, blending future disco and existentialism. Her new album A RUPTURE A CANYON A BIRTH, out October 17, is inspired by the aftermath of a car accident Carlyn Bezic was in; "elastic," the first single, is a slick-sounding dance cut charged with what she calls "the vibration of unbridled fear." Five out of five rubberband girls.

Nuno's MRI came back and he has a few tumors; the one that was most visible on the CT scan isn't even the one the neurologist finds most concerning. That one is what she called a "'blanket' like mass on the floor of the skull under the brain on the left side," and she thinks it's causing the facial paralysis on his left side and the sinus problems that are resulting in the wheezing; she also thinks it could potentially respond well to radiation. I have a consult this week and a lot of things to figure out after that. Right now, he is home and on a bunch of different medications—two oral and two applied to the left eye as of now, with another one on the way—and he has a bunch of shaved patches and is still wheezing when he purrs. But he's eating and swanning around the house and looking out the window during the day and hopping into bed with me at night. Instead of having me pet him before we fall asleep he presses the not-shaved side of his body into my leg, allowing both of us to take comfort in each other's presence, for now at least.

This has been the second installment of my monthly reviews, which should appear on the last day of whatever month they’re covering—I really did have a plan to write this up on Thursday afternoon. I hope you understand. Other regular features will be rolled out soon. If you have a suggestion for something you’d like me to cover or a regular bit, I’m all ears.

Recent radio show playlists—well, it's just one new playlist, as I only managed to eke out a single show in July—are archived at maura dot com. Recent Rolling Stone reviews, which include writeups of Kesha (yay!) and Alex Warren (ehh), are archived at Rolling Stone. Earlier this month, I appeared on CBC’s The Commotion to talk about that Kesha record, too. Would you like me to write for you, or to appear on your radio show or podcast? Drop a line.

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