A NEW MUSICAL HAS ARRIVED TO
PUMP UP PATRONS FOR DECADES TO COME

Allen Moyle’s 1990 film Pump Up the Volume starred Christian Slater as Mark, a graceless, socially awkward high school student in Phoenix, Arizona, a town so conservative that even the Saguaro cactus wore Bush/Quayle campaign buttons. Unable to fit in, Mark resorts to setting up an FM pirate radio station in his parents’ basement. Sitting behind his microphone, the self-conscious, tongue-tied teen experiences a transformation to put Lawrence Talbot to shame, metaphorizing into foul-mouthed “Happy Harry Hard-on,” howling his angst nightly, mocking parental attitudes, exposing the questionable practices of his high school’s faculty, and occasionally, faking the act of masturbation.  “Hard Harry” initially attracts a small band of loyal listeners, but with each broadcast their numbers grow. All Mark wanted was to be heard, now he must face that his listeners have become fanatic followers.

Music was central to “Hard Harry’s” broadcasts and the movie’s soundtrack—assembled by Dennis Herring, Ron Saint Germain, and others—gathered universal praise. (And rightly so, Moyle’s film introduced me to Leonard Cohen and I am eternally grateful.)

This facet made the film an ideal candidate for the Broadway Musical treatment, far more so than either King Kong (2013) or American Psycho (2013) at least.

The creative partnership of Jeff Thomson and Jeremy Desmon tackled the project, and after the necessary infusion of blood, sweat and tears, the world premiere of Pump up the Volume—The Musical, was set to open in April of 2020 after several high-profile New York workshops. However, this was 2020; COVID-19 opened first.

And the rest, as they say, was screwed.

With only seven performances, the staged concert production at the Hollywood Fringe is the kick-off to reclaim that opening stolen from them by fate, and from what I saw on the stage of the Hudson Theatre, they’re going to trample right over fate on their way to those bright lights of Broadway.

With music by Thomson and book and lyrics by Desmon, the show remains remarkably faithful to Moyle’s script. There are some minor changes. Mark (Anthony Norman in the role originally filled by Slater), is now a new arrival to Arizona’s “Bird City,” where his father (Robert Mammana) has taken a new job with the local police. This is a smart adjustment that amplifies Mark’s isolation as the “outsider,” while fusing the father/son tension to the drama’s core conflict of whether Mark will escape apprehension. The introduction of a romance between a pair of avid fans of “Harry”—the studious overachieving Paige (Darcy Rose Byrnes) and the school’s foremost slacker Mazz (Aaron Gibbs)—demonstrates music’s power to unite people, in addition to providing the opportunity for a moving love duet between the two.

From the very first note of the show’s opening number “Speak to Me,” it was immediately apparent that Producer Zachary Harris—in conjunction with Casting Directors Michael Donovan and Richie Ferris—had assembled an ensemble capable of knocking an audience’s teeth out.

Again, this was a staged concert production at the Hudson: no sets, scant props, token blocking, minimal lighting, and actors with scripts in hand. But with Norman’s first solo “When the Words Won’t Come,” followed by “Keep Talkin’”—sung by Jasiana Caraballo as Nora, the journalism student who deduces Mark is the mysterious “Harry”—the audience quickly forgot what wasn’t on stage because of what was: Thomson and Desmon’s masterfully constructed piece; Dave Solomon‘s shrewd staging; Anthony Zediker‘s sharp, solid music direction; Veronica Vorel’s crafty sound design (ensuring that every word cut through the rock-heavy score with clarity); and Matt Richter’s lights, with just enough atmosphere to keep us rooted in each emotional beat.

There are more standouts from this cast of standouts: Amanda Angeles and Madison Miyuki Sprague as Stacey and Tracie have some delicious moments of comic relief as a Tweedledum and Tweedledee pairing, only far more adorable. Tarrick Marcel Walker, Bryan Munar and Lus Rodriguez also shine as the rest of the student body of Hubert Humphrey High School.

And Will Riddle as the friendless, troubled Malcolm—whose actions shred the veneer of “teen comedy” from Pump Up the Volume while bending the narrative flow down dark rapids—fills his portrayal with a throbbing pathos.

There are two performances I suspect I’ll carry with me for some time. One is Michele Ragusa as Cresswood, the duplicitous school principal who cloaks her Machiavellianism in just the right measure of panache.

Then there’s Caraballo, a petite performer with a presence somewhat larger than you’d expect if it were the Statue of Liberty standing downstage center. My eyes were always drawn to her, but my ears won out every time. Caraballo’s singing conveys a refined yet elegant strength, as if one were hearing a pearl wrapped in silk.

There’s a staggering accumulation of talent onstage at the Hudson, but it’s Thomson and Desmon’s work that provides the amber binding it all together.

It’s only after leaving the theatre—and indulging in some concentrated reflection—that the flawlessness and evolution of the show’s fifteen songs and two reprises fully strike you. Often, too often, Broadway musicals achieve a kind of engineered “perfection” in their construction, resulting in productions that may appear polished, yet feel sanitized. There is no trace of that in Pump Up the Volume, no suspicion of calculation. Yet, there was, of course.  (With apologies to Hermann Hesse: no peasant ever accidentally chopped wood and found an angel in the fire.)

It feels wrong to say Thomson and Desmon crafted a naturalism, because it doesn’t feel constructed—it feels innate. The songs chart an emotional landscape. From the aching depths of “When the Words Won’t Come” to the rugged heights that rise in the first act finale “Pump up the Volume,” and finally across the fraught terrain of Mark and Nora’s journey toward the rousing final summit “Keep the Air Alive,” what emerges isn’t a polished depiction of reality, but something even more powerful: emotional truth. And nothing about the show’s design feels obligatory—no song inserted just to fill a gap, no number wedged in to bridge a narrative lull or nudge the story closer to the eleventh-hour climax.

When it was released, some critics dismissed Pump up the Volume as “just another teen comedy.” But others recognized it as a serious social critique disguised in coming-of-age clothing.

In hindsight, the film was prophetic—anticipating influencers, podcasters, YouTubers, and the toxic rise of figures like Andrew Tate and Alex Jones. It saw the shape of things to come.

Back then, near the end of the Reagan era, the film was quietly, radically political. Now, as we (hopefully) near the end of the Trump era, its message has only grown more urgent: Speak up. Especially against those in Washington, D.C., who are actively undermining democracy.

We didn’t listen in 1990. Let’s hope we are now. Perhaps COVID halting the musical’s trajectory was necessary. Now, when Pump Up the Volume lands on Broadway—its next logical step—it won’t just arrive with glowing reviews, but with a disillusioned, fired-up audience packing the house and spreading the word, until patrons flock to it not just for the message, but because it’s a damn great musical. And with the majority of roles written for teenagers, it will tour and fill regional, community, and school theatres for decades to come. Good!

photos courtesy of the production

Pump Up the Volume
Los Angeles premiere
Knot Free Productions
150 minutes, with one intermission
played June 6-16, 2025
for more info, visit Pump Up the Volume