Stereophonic’s Sonic Stardom at the National Theatre

Stereophonic, the most Tony Award-winning show of the 2024 season and officially the most Tony-nominated play in history, is now on stage at the National Theatre.

Yes, that’s right. Thirteen Tony nominations. Five wins, including Best Play. In a theatre town that respects receipts, Stereophonic arrives in Washington already draped in distinction. But accolades aside, what makes this production essential isn’t just its awards haul, it’s the astonishing intimacy of the experience.

Set in 1976, Stereophonic zooms in (mic-level close!) on an up-and-coming rock band recording a new album just as they find themselves teetering on the cusp of superstardom. The studio becomes a pressure cooker. The stakes skyrocket. Success could seal their legacy, or splinter them beyond repair.

Written by David Adjmi and directed by Daniel Aukin, the play mines the agony and the ecstasy of artistic creation. It’s not a glamorized greatest-hits gallop through an era of bell-bottoms and backstage brawls. It’s something far more fascinating.

It makes you feel like a fly on the wall of the recording studio.

Unlike other shows about bands of yesteryear, those jukebox juggernauts or biographical ballads that sprint from dive bar to sold-out stadium, Stereophonic stays, well, stubbornly still.

Audiences are planted inside the recording studio. They watch the takes. The retakes. The arguments over tempo and tone. The side-eyes from behind the soundboard.

The set, masterfully designed by Tony winner David Zinn, is a meticulous recreation of a 1970s studio sanctuary: wood-paneled walls, worn-in couches, cords coiled like sleeping snakes. Through glass partitions, the audience sees musicians and engineers in separate spaces, united and divided by sound. Jiyoun Chang’s lighting design casts everything in a burnished, analog glow, while Enver Chakartash’s costumes capture that effortless ‘70s insouciance: flared denim, flowing fabrics, and just enough rock-and-roll rumple.

But the real wizardry lies in the sound.

Tony-winning sound designer Ryan Rumery delivers an aural atmosphere so authentic you can practically smell the magnetic tape. The faint hiss of analog recording. The muffled thud of drums bleeding through a wall. The click of a talkback mic.

Instead of charting a predictable rise-to-fame arc, this play pivots inward. Its true focus is creation — the messy, magical, sometimes maddening process of crafting sound that feels genuine, gut-level deep. You don’t see the band touring arenas or collecting accolades; you see them in the trenches, wrestling with tempo, tension, ego, and inspiration.

The script lets you overhear those in-between moments that usually go untold: the hesitation before a take; the wordless eye contact that says “again, but different;” the cigarette-break confessions that are almost better than the songs themselves. It’s a behind-the-glass experience that feels like someone handed you the backstage pass, then whispered, “just try to look normal.”

And at the molten core of Stereophonic are its two leading women, whose vocal performances alone are worth the price of admission.

It’s not nostalgia. It’s not parody. It’s not a tidy tribute to a bygone band. It’s a riveting reminder that behind every platinum record is a room full of risk, rivalry, and raw nerve.