Return of the Dream Girls

By RICHARD CORLISS

Once they were hippies; now they are yuppies. Twenty-five years ago, they might have prowled Bleecker Street looking for Woody Allen or Bob Dylan or a quick fix of transcendence. Now they are back in Manhattan's Greenwich Village in search of an easy key to their past. Most of the crowd filing into the Top of the Village Gate is early middle-aged, with a sprinkling of children. The occasion could be parents' night at a progressive school. Instead it is a rite of commercial nostalgia: Beehive, two hours of songs from girl singers and girl groups of the '60s. Six wailing women, six guys in the house band, the stage a huge steel blue jukebox. Plus 32 wigs, 25 costume changes and 15 cans of Aero Lak hair spray each week. "Our wig designer spends so much time hair spraying," says Larry Gallagher, 35, the show's creator and director, "he has to wear a surgical mask." But that is the only extravagance. Beehive offers no frills, few risks -- just a sweet wallow in the bottomless pool of classic American pop.

The audience devours Beehive like a three-foot hoagie. They may stand up and sing The Name Game ("Sarah, Sarah, bo barah, bonana fanna fo farah, fee fi mo marah . . . Sarah!"). They wallow in Lesley Gore's perky petulance ("It's my party and I'll cry if I want to") and sway to the Motown philosophizing of the Supremes ("Baby, baby, where did our love go?"). They thrill again to the eloquent plaint of the Shangri-Las ("Remember, walkin' in the sand") and the sly taunts of the Angels ("My boyfriend's back, he's gonna save my reputation/ If I were you I'd take a permanent vacation"). They squirm a bit at the references to J.F.K.'s assassination and the Viet Nam War, then perk up for so-fine evocations of Aretha Franklin, Tina Turner and Janis Joplin. The '60s and some of its prime shakers are dead, but the decade's survivors figure they can revive it by repackaging it. Beehive is a cherry Coke cabaret show with plenty of fizz, American Graffiti without the plot, Dreamgirls with no production values, an oldies station at $27.50 a ticket.

The show, which opened last November at Sweetwater's nightclub in uptown Manhattan, has played to healthy houses at the Gate since March and has already recouped its $175,000 investment. A Washington company has extended its run after a sold-out six-week engagement. Beehive's producers will open a West Coast version of the show and are negotiating for other companies in Boston, Cleveland, New Orleans and Dallas, while fielding calls of interest from Japan, Britain, Monte Carlo, Israel and Australia. Our music, it seems, was their music; our past is Beehive's bankroll. "If you're between 30 and 45," says Skip Brevis, 30, the show's arranger and musical director, "you can find a spot in this show. Demographically, it's perfect."

For rock purists, Beehive (which takes its name from the puffed-up hairdos of the early '60s) may be too prefab and refried. The songs are speeded up, the styles are hyped up, and the performances are often camped up. Critics will also note the absence of glamour gold from Phil Spector's girl groups; where is Uptown, He's a Rebel, Be My Baby, Not Too Young to Get Married or the ineffable Da Doo Ron Ron? But Gallagher was not looking to create a Madame Tussaud's of femme pop; he wanted to take an affectionate look at "a girl growing up, coming of age in that period. For me, and apparently for many people in the audience, it's The Way We Were of the '60s." As the decade and the show progress, girl groups give way to woman singers, coy jingles to wham- bam sexuality. Says Pattie Darcy, 30, a blond soul stirrer whose repertoire embraces Gore and Franklin: "It shows women letting their hair down, washing the Aqua Net out, giving up their skintight skirts and high heels."

On those heels, the '80s women onstage do strut and stomp. Jasmine Guy, a Diana Ross with funk, does proud by the Tina Turner anthem River Deep -- Mountain High. Laura Theodore works her heft, raunch and four-octave range on a rendition of Ball and Chain that could raise the dead, including Janis Joplin. And to hear Gina Taylor attack Aretha's Do Right Woman -- Do Right Man (four minutes of riffs that ascend into the ionosphere of emotional pride and pain) is to feel a standing ovation from the hairs on the back of your neck. "We're not trying to impersonate the singers," says Theodore, 28. "We want to capture their edge and essence." Sure, but eight times a week? Gotta be draining. "Aerobically, it's like running three miles," says Darcy. "I break into a sweat halfway through the first act and don't stop till it's over. Still, the show is very good for me. It helps expel my demons. Otherwise they would've locked me up a long time ago."

Future editions of Beehive will be shaped, as this one is, in part by the special strengths of their performers. The audience will remain a major participant, singing along and hamming it up. "Most people know what to expect when they come in, but a few seem taken aback," says Taylor, 32. "It's like going into a museum and being given an easel." Right: the perfect museum for the '80s. The artworks come alive and parade their stuff, just like old times.

With reporting by Elaine Dutka/New York