(classical violin music) - Hi, my name is Lindsey Dinneen.

I am the artistic director of Vida Dance Company and we are so excited and honored to be here today to present to you our new piece "Encounter."

This was choreographed by myself and my dance partner, Joseph Pilgrim, and it is about a chance encounter that leads to a beautiful relationship, and we're excited to share it and premiere it with you today.

Our website is www.vidadancecompany.com and just a really special thanks to Kevin McCloyd, who is the composer of the music.

(birds chirping) (seagulls calling) (soft piano music) (leaves rustling, rain falling and thunder crackling) (soft piano music continues) (sea gulls calling) - Hi, I'm Gale Talliss, executive director of the Folly Theater.

And I would like to welcome you to the Folly Theater's Patrons Lounge for our "Live at the Lounge" series, which we've been doing throughout the pandemic.

During this time, we've been able to feature many of our wonderful local artists because they've been out of work for the last year and a half, and it's been incredible to have them in this intimate space.

We've been loving hearing them.

And now we would like to welcome Daisy Bucket, performing an original piece, "Pansy," with the accompaniment of Danny Baker.

(uplifting piano music) ♪ There's a place I know, ♪ where lives meant to bloom.

It's a place of hope and for everyone there's room.

There's a wild rose that's lovin' life a dandelion and his wife.

Tiger lily, roarin' sound.

But look there closer to the ground, shivering there you'll see.

A beautiful pansy.

Let the pansies grow.

Let the pansies grow.

Let the pansies grow.

And with every chance will show that the pansies grow.

(uplifting piano music) In this place we live we're rooted but we're free.

We take, but also give, that's what living's meant to be.

The lilacs lack a sympathy.

Sunflowers' nose turned up to me Don't pay the weeds no mind.

Like the esters were meant to be shine.

What is it they can't see?

A beautiful pansy.

Let the pansies grow.

Let the pansies grow.

Let the pansies grow.

And with every chance will show that the pansies grow.

The rainbow of colors, they're our sisters and our brothers.

If the world's our garden, why not have variety.

Let them dance, be wild, and free.

(uplifting piano music continues) Let the pansies grow.

Let the panties grow.

Let the pansies grow.

Let the pansies grow.

Let the pansies grow.

And soon the world will know how the pansies grow.

(soft piano music) - This latest video from "Ballet Street Project" features dancers from Kansas City and locations around bridges in the West Bottoms, in the River Market.

We were introduced to the music by one of the dancers, James Kirby Rogers.

It's Phillip Glass's music with Ethan Hawke reciting an Alan Ginsburg poem, "Wichita Vortex Sutra."

I think the choice of this music really makes the whole film.

Ginsburg was traveling through the Midwest by himself when he wrote this poem and it was in reaction to the Vietnam War, to the travesties of the war.

He was overcome by the vastness and the culture of the Midwest.

And I think the dancers coming out of COVID being placed by themselves on a bridge with expansiveness and their movements are informed by the poem, by Ginsburg's words.

It really hit them and helped them sort of work through some of the rawness of emotions that they were feeling at the time.

(soft piano music) - [Male Speaker] I'm an old man now and a lonesome man in Kansas.

I'm not afraid to speak my lonesomeness in a car.

Because not only my lonesomeness, it's ours, all over America.

Oh tender fellows and spoken lonesomeness is prophecy.

In the moon, a hundred years ago or in the middle of Kansas now.

It's not the vast Plains mute our mouths that fill at midnight with ecstatic language.

When our trembling bodies hold each other breast breast on a mattress.

Not the empty sky that hides the feeling from our faces nor our skirts and trousers that conceal the body love emanating in a glow of beloved skin, white, smooth abdomen, down to the hair between our legs.

It's not a God that bore us.

That forbid our being like a sunny rose all red with naked joy between our eyes and bellies.

Yes.

All we do is for this frightened thing we call love want and lack.

Fear that we aren't the one whose body could be beloved of all the brides of Kansas City, kissed all over by every boy of Wichita.

Oh, but how many in their solitude weep aloud like me on the bridge over Republican River, almost in tears to know how to speak the right language on the frosty broad road uphill between highway embankments.

I search for the language that is also yours.

Almost all our language has been taxed by war, radio, antenna, high tension wires ranging from Junction City across the Plains.

Highway cloverleaf, sunk in a vast meadow, lanes curving past Abilene to Denver filled with old heroes of love.

To Wichita, where McClure's mind burst into animal beauty, drunk, getting laid in a car in a neon misted street 15 years ago.

To Independence where the old man's still alive, who loosed the bomb that slaved all human consciousness and made the body universe a place of fear.

Now, speeding along the empty plain, no giant demon machine visible on the horizon, but tiny human trees and wooden houses of sky's edge.

I claim my birthright, joy, reborn after the vast sadness of war gods.

A lone man, talking to myself, no house in the brown vastness to hear, imagining the throng of selves that make this nation one body of prophecy.

Language by declaration as pursuit of happiness.

I call all powers of imagination to my side in this auto to make prophecy all Lords of human kingdoms to come, all knowledge princes of earth, man, all ancient serafin of heavenly desire, devas, yogis, and holy men.

I chant to.

Come to my lone presence, into the vortex named Kansas.

I lift my voice aloud, make mantra of American language now.

I here declare the end of war.

Let the states tremble, let the nation weep, let Congress legislate its own delight.

Let the president execute his own desire.

This act, done by my own voice, published to my own senses, blissfully received by my own form, approved with pleasure by my sensations, manifestation of my very thought accomplished in my own imagination.

All realms within my consciousness fulfilled 60 miles from Wichita near El Dorado.

The golden one, Shambhu Bharati Baba, naked, covered with ash.

Khaki Baba, fat-bellied, mad with the dogs, Dehorahava Baba who moans, "Oh, how wounded, how wounded."

Sitaram Onkar Das Thakur who commands, "Give up your desire."

Satyananda who raises two thumbs in tranquility.

Kadi Pada Guha Roy whose yoga drops before the void.

Shivananda, who touches the breast and says, "Ohm."

Srimata Krishnaji of Brindabad.

Who says, "Take for your guru."

William Blake, the invisible father of English visions, Sri Ramakrishna, master of ecstasy, eyes half closed, who only cries for his mother.

Chitanya, arms upraised, singing and dancing his own praise.

Merciful Chango judging our bodies.

Durga-Ma covered with blood, destroyer of battlefield illusions.

Million face Tathagata gone past suffering.

Preserver Harekrishna, returning in the age of pain.

Sacred heart of my Christ, acceptable Allah, the compassionate one, Jaweh, the righteous one.

In chill, earthly mist, houseless, brown, farmland plains, rolling heavenward in every direction.

One mid-winter afternoon Sunday, called the day of the Lord.

Pure spring water gathered in one tower where Florence is set on a hill.

Stop for tea and gas.

(soft piano music) - I'm Krista Eyler.

I'm the composer and co-writer of "Overture: the Musical."

Now you're about to watch one of the songs from this show called "The Kitchen Symphony."

Now I joke that when I was composing this, I would call it "The Kitchen Sink" 'cause I was throwing so many notes and throwing so many words in it, and it is a really fun ride to watch.

And it's a little bit of Kansas City history.

It has to do with the Kansas City Philharmonic in the 1950s.

And there was a women's committee that raised money every year to help keep the Philharmonic afloat.

And one of the ways they did this was through a cookbook fundraiser.

So this song is very much in the style of an old book musical like "The Music Man," where it's a lot of fast and funny dialogue.

And there's a little bit of twist in this song and I hope you enjoy.

(piano music) - A royal flush, Sam Hill, a royal flush.

- A royal flush.

- A royal flush.

- A royal flush.

- A royal flush damn.

Damn, damn, damn.

- Gentlemen, eh-hem, (woman clapping) (piano music) ♪ Time to spend endless hours ♪ tasting, mixing, adding flour, spot of pepper, braise the beef, beat the yolk.

A masterpiece.

Frying up a Spanish onion, watch chicken till it's done.

Then, all at once, say "Magnific."

It's a kitchen symphony.

So many cooks in the kitchen.

So many spoons in a ball.

So many sisters for their Misters saving something beautiful.

So many cooks in the kitchen, putting it all on the line.

Cut, chop, to the top.

It will come out right on time.

- Horderves for every Sunday, Chatam punch, cherry bundt cake, lobster, Pacific salmon, turbot off we go.

Have you ever seen a such splendor chocolate chip cherry heaven?

Taste sensations come alive.

We're only two and 25.

- So many cooks in the kitchen.

So many spoons in the bowl.

So many sisters for their Mister saving something beautiful.

So many cooks in the kitchen, putting it all on the line.

- Cut, chop, to the top, It will come out right on time.

(piano music) - Can you believe they're still calling us a cow town?

It's been two years since that flood washed away the stockyards.

Cow town.

- Hey, did you hear, we're getting a baseball team.

- The Kansas City Athletics?

They better be.

- I hear your stock took a tumble.

- Union Station's going under- - Hell, I'm sick of politics.

- Why is my cigar not lit?

- Got myself a brand new Chrysler.

- Highway's new, let's take her yonder.

You can thank Ein' for that.

- Eisenhower, we'll drink to that.

- So many cooks in the kitchen.

So many spoons in the bowl.

So many Misters sipping snifters.

How long till we all go home?

So many cooks in the kitchen, counting every dime.

Slash, burn, all I heard say goodbye two bucks of mine.

- One cup, half pint, two cups, one pint, two pints, one quart, two cups butter equals pound.

- One cup, half pint, two cups, one pint, two pints, one quart, two cups butter equals pound.

- Of course my Arabian cinnamon finger sticks were accepted immediately.

- As were my marinated shrimp.

- Four sticks butter.

Three cups sugar.

Four teaspoons Arabian cinnamon.

(symbol and drum music) - Whoa.

(symbol and drum music continues) - As I said, my marinated shrimp were also accepted.

Marinated shrimp.

Three quarts water.

One sliced onion.

Five pounds marinated, completely naked, raw shrimp.

Raw shrimp.

Completely naked raw shrimp.

Raw shrimp.

Shrimp, shrimp, shrimp.

- Mix together, turn it over every 10 minutes.

- Simmer 15, simmer 15, stir, stir in cayenne pepper.

- Mix together, turn it over every 10 minutes.

- Simmer 15, simmer 15, stir, stir in cayenne pepper.

- Cinnamon.

- Cayenne.

- Cinnamon, cinnamon- - Pepper, pepper, pepper- - (piano music) - One cup, half pint, two cups, one pint, two pints, one quart, two cups butter equal pound.

- One cup, half pint, two cups, one pint, two pints, one quart, two cups butter equals- - So many cooks in the kitchen.

So many spoons in the bowl.

So many sisters for their Misters saving something beautiful.

- So many cooks in the kitchen.

Putting it all on the line.

Cut, chop, to the top, Cut, chop, to the top, Cut, chop, to the top.

It will come out right on time.

(applause)