If you’ve ever stood on a street corner in South Minneapolis during the first weekend of May, you know the feeling. It’s a vibrating, low-frequency hum of drums and brass that hits you right in the solar plexus before you even see the first papier-mâché mask. This isn't just a parade. It’s the May Day Parade, and for nearly half a century, In the Heart of the Beast Puppet and Mask Theatre (HOBT) has been the erratic, beautiful, and sometimes struggling soul behind it.
But here is the thing: a lot of people think HOBT is just "that parade group." Honestly, that’s like saying Prince was just a guy who liked the color purple. It misses the point entirely.
The theatre, housed in the historic Avalon Theatre on Lake Street—an old cinema that once showed adult films before being converted into a sanctuary for radical art—is a weird, wonderful relic of the 1970s "free theatre" movement. It’s survived gentrification, massive budget shortfalls, and a global pandemic that nearly wiped it off the map. To understand why it still exists, you have to look at what they actually do inside that building.
The Avalon Theatre: More Than Just a Dusty Workshop
Walking into the Avalon feels like stepping into the workshop of a giant who has a hoarding problem, but in a creative way. There are rows of disembodied heads. Huge, spindly hands made of cedar and cloth hang from the rafters. It smells like flour, water, and old wood. This is the birthplace of "Main Street" puppetry—not the tiny finger puppets you see in libraries, but massive, towering structures that require four or five people just to move an arm.
Founded in 1973 as the Powderhorn Puppet Theatre, the group eventually rebranded to In the Heart of the Beast. The name itself is a provocation. It’s a reference to living within the "beast" of modern industrial capitalism while trying to find a human pulse. Sandy Spieler, who was the artistic director for decades, helped shape this philosophy. It wasn’t just about putting on a show. It was about ritual.
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Why the May Day Parade Actually Stopped (And Why It Came Back)
We have to talk about 2019. It was a rough year for the organization. They announced that the 45th annual May Day Parade would be the last one they’d produce in the traditional format. People panicked. The community felt like a limb was being amputated.
Why did it happen? Money. Plain and simple.
The parade had grown so massive—drawing upwards of 50,000 people—that the infrastructure costs were eating the theatre alive. Security, permits, and trash pickup for a free event aren't cheap. HOBT was basically a small non-profit trying to run a city-wide festival on a shoestring budget. It wasn't sustainable. They needed to decentralize. Now, the event has morphed into the "Free the MayDay" movement, where the community takes more ownership. It’s less of a top-down production and more of a grassroots swarm. It’s messier. It’s different. But it’s arguably more "Heart of the Beast" than it ever was when it was polished.
The Art of the Mask: It’s Not Just Cardboard
People ask me why they use papier-mâché. Isn't that for elementary school kids?
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Actually, HOBT uses a specific, labor-intensive process involving clay molds, brown paper, and flour paste. It’s cheap, sure, but it’s also compostable. There’s a deep-seated environmentalism baked into their DNA. They aren't interested in plastic or high-tech animatronics. They want the sweat of the puppeteer to be visible.
When you see a puppet like the "Tree of Life" or the massive sun that traditionally ends the May Day ceremony at Powderhorn Park, you’re looking at hundreds of hours of volunteer labor. That’s the "secret sauce." HOBT isn't a professional troupe that performs for an audience; they are a catalyst that performs with a neighborhood. They’ve done residencies in schools across the Midwest, teaching kids how to turn their personal stories into physical objects. It’s a form of therapy, really.
The Tragedy and Resilience of Lake Street
In 2020, during the civil unrest following the murder of George Floyd, Lake Street was the epicenter of a global reckoning. The Avalon Theatre stands just blocks away from the Third Precinct. While many buildings around it were damaged or burned, the theatre survived.
In the days and weeks that followed, the theatre didn't just sit there. It became a hub. It became a place for murals, for mourning, and for using art to process trauma. This is where HOBT earns its keep. When the community is hurting, they don't just put on a play; they provide the masks and the space to express things that words usually fail to capture.
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Beyond the Parade: Year-Round Puppetry
If you only visit in May, you're missing out on the "Puppet Labb." This is their experimental wing. It’s where emerging artists get to mess around with shadows, strings, and avant-garde storytelling.
- Shadow Puppetry: They do things with overhead projectors that will blow your mind. It’s low-fi but high-concept.
- The Winter Solstice: Often overshadowed by May Day, their winter programming focuses on the "internal" beast—finding light in the deepest dark of a Minnesota January.
- Workshops: You can literally go in there and learn how to build a giant head. It’s one of the few places left where that kind of folk knowledge is passed down.
Honestly, the survival of In the Heart of the Beast Puppet and Mask Theatre is a miracle of stubbornness. They’ve faced eviction threats, structural issues with the Avalon, and the constant struggle to define what "community art" means in a digital age. But they stay. They stay because Minneapolis needs a place that feels a little bit wild and a little bit unpolished.
How to Actually Support Local Radical Art
Don’t just show up to the parade and leave your trash on the grass. That’s the "tourist" way to engage. If you actually care about the survival of In the Heart of the Beast, you have to engage with the "beast" year-round.
- Volunteer for Build Sessions: You don't need to be an artist. They need people to rip paper and stir paste. It’s meditative, and you’ll meet the most interesting people in the Twin Cities.
- Attend the Small Shows: The mainstage productions are where the real storytelling happens. These aren't kids' shows. They deal with climate change, racial justice, and the complexities of the human condition.
- Donate Directly to the Avalon Fund: Maintaining an old cinema is a nightmare. The roof alone is a constant battle.
- Buy the Merch: Their posters are legendary. Seriously. Collectors hunt for old May Day posters because the graphic design is top-tier folk art.
In the Heart of the Beast Puppet and Mask Theatre is a living organism. It’s not a museum. It’s a messy, loud, cardboard-and-paint manifestation of what happens when a community refuses to stop playing. Whether they are navigating financial crises or leading thousands of people into a park to welcome the spring, they remain the heartbeat of South Minneapolis.
Go visit the Avalon. Look at the masks. Realize that everything you see was made by hand, by someone who lives down the street. That’s the real power of the beast.
Next Steps for the Culturally Curious
- Visit the Avalon Theatre: Check their current calendar for "Puppet Labb" performances or open studio nights.
- Check the May Day Status: Since the reorganization in 2019, the "parade" isn't a single entity. Look up the "Free the MayDay" coalition to see how different neighborhoods are celebrating this year.
- Follow the Artists: Many HOBT alumni, like those at Monkeybear's Harmolodic Workshop, are doing incredible work with puppeteers of color in the Twin Cities. Expand your view of what modern puppetry looks like by following these offshoots.