Laurie Anderson
Rockefeller Park
June 19, 2013
It was a typical, tranquil early evening in downtown Manhattan’s Rockefeller Park. The sun was still shining as parents kept watch of their toddlers running and falling on the grass, teenagers played soccer, young couples held hands with the satisfied looks of those who have plenty of time on their side – and drones circled overhead. Alright, so maybe it wasn’t that typical. They were actually toy drones, part of the show that was about to start. But let me rewind a little.
Since 2002, the River To River Festival has occurred every summer, using various locations throughout lower Manhattan to stage free cultural events. In the month’s after 9/11, that particular area of the city was essentially a graveyard. The Festival was a way to take back the city from the tourists/gawkers who were so obsessed with the ruins of the World Trade Center, it bordered on necrophilia.
I was at the park for Laurie Anderson, empress of the avant-garde. Her accomplishments are way to long to list, but it’s worth noting that 10 years ago, she was NASA’s first and only artist-in-residence. This experience inspired the one-woman show, The End of the Moon. Overall, she would probably be considered the world’s pre-eminent performance artist, which some of you might be responding with “No shit, Sherlock.”
Anyway, right before the show, I get a text from my friend Scott who was supposed to stop by around that time. Like me, he had recently been laid off and had an interview with a recruiter a few hours before. The text mentioned that he was going to be late as “u passed out.”
Now, Scott has what I can only describe as a “unique” sense of humor. For example, he’ll say something like, “Your friend was going off again about how Springsteen’s new stuff is just as good as the old stuff.” The joke being that this guy was actually Scott’s friend, and I barely knew him. Plus, the fact that he expressed an opinion on Springsteen we both found ludicrous. It was Scott’s way of busting balls by kiddingly absolving himself of being friends with this person. So when I saw “u passed out,” I wondered if he was joking around or just made a simple mistake. Twenty minutes later, I got my answer with the text “I meant that I passed out.” Good to know.
At this point, the show was already in progress, starting with various electronic bloops and bleeps. This lasted somewhere between 5 to 10 minutes. I enjoy the sounds of robot flatulence echoing throughout the Hudson River as much as the next person, but everything in moderation.
It was during this time that two identical looking young blonde women with an Orange County vibe passed by. One said to her clone, “I guess the show hasn’t started yet.” Could you blame her for thinking that?
The thing about watching a Laurie Anderson performance is that anything can seem like part of the show, including the blondies. At one point, a 30ish guy with a clipboard whose red hair almost matched his carrot-colored khakis asked people if they were registered Republicans. He was met with silent smirks. Was this real or staged? Asking people in downtown Manhattan if they’re registered Republicans is about as useless as asking Red Sox fans if they like Derek Jeter. Certain questions answer themselves.
A half hour in, Scott still hadn’t showed up. That almost seemed performance art in itself. Would he make it? Could he even find the park? He was never good with directions. It was a shame, as once the odd noises faded away, he would’ve appreciated when the actual music portion of the show started up. The sweet sounds of viola and cello gently floated throughout the park, a peaceful sonic contrast to the small drones hovering by the stage.
Since I was last at Rockefeller Park a few years ago, the stage had been moved. So instead of the concert being dwarfed by the towering, expensive real estate of Tribeca taunting you, everything was now framed by the more affable, scenic backdrop of Jersey across the Hudson. It was a welcome change.
At 8pm, Scott finally showed up an hour late with his girlfriend, Fiona. He looked tired, which I completely understood. Being unemployed could be emotionally and even physically exhausting. Humor was an absolute necessity during times like these. With this in mind, what sounded like a bugle playing “Taps” started to play as dusk slowly fell. We were far from the stage, so it was hard to tell if it was a keyboard replicating a horn, or an actual horn. Doing my best Albert Brooks, I said to Scott and Fiona, “It’s good to hear that Laurie Anderson is playing ‘Taps’ for my advertising career.” Nine weeks unemployed can do wonders for your gallows humor. Scott smiled and shook his head, while Fiona laughed. It was my first time meeting her and we got along almost immediately.
At one point, the music did another drastic shift, this time to the hybrid of R&B/Soul/Hip-Hop known as “New Jack Swing” that had been popular in the late 80’s/early 90’s. Keith Sweat and New Edition alumnus Bobby Brown and Bell Biv DeVoe were some of the more well-known artists of this genre. It was so dominant back then even U2 got in the act with “Mysterious Ways.” One of the trademarks of “NJS” were videos where the artists would do what a friend of mine has coined “the kick yourself in the ass dance.” The “Roger Rabbit” was another move popular at that time. I started to do some moves too. I didn’t kick myself in the ass though. Life was already doing a good job of that. Gallows humor, people.
Anderson started to chant “Internet is the new dragnet.” Like the toy drones, it was another reminder that this was a topical show. It was supposed to make everyone reflect on the NSA scandal, but the music was making me think of a 25 year old video that had Bobby Brown and his pals dancing in bicycle shorts and suspenders. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P0FKzPfsxA4)
Seeing someone who was a major part of the downtown NY scene of the 70’s and 80’s that brought so much great music and art to the world co-existing with the 21st century downtown of obnoxiously expensive condos, annoying people with clipboards asking personal questions, hedge fund managers and baby carriages was interesting. It’s as if she were reclaiming lost territory, Anderson’s mere presence a reminder that without people like her who helped make that area of Manhattan so vibrant, current residents would be living in the suburbs, and not the city. And if you want to be the next Laurie Anderson and based in NY, you’d have to live in a suburb like Maspeth or somewhere else in Queens that’s not as costly as Manhattan or Brooklyn. If you really think about it, that’s more odd than anything Anderson has ever come up with.
The show was called “The Language of the Future,” except that it was easy to get nostalgic for a past I never experienced and imagine what it must have been like to be in the arts in NYC 40 or 30 years ago. Then, as now, the city was under attack. The difference is that it used to be terrorized by poverty. Now it’s terrorized by prosperity. There doesn’t seem to be much use for any kind of middle ground.
When I got back home, my girlfriend, who was half-asleep, asked if I had heard about James Gandolfini. Uh-oh. Questions phrased like that never have good answers. I asked what happened, but like the guy with the clipboard, I was simply asking a question that answered itself.
It turns out Gandolfini, while he died in Italy, lived in Tribeca. In fact, his apartment was on Greenwich Street, where we had just been at the Gee Whiz Diner. After the initial shock and sadness, I started to realize that he was probably one of those parents who took their kids for walks in Rockefeller Park. I wondered if during one of those beautiful sunny summer evenings, he ever squinted across the Hudson with his home state staring back at him and realized just how fortunate he was to make it to the other side. He managed to thrive on an artistic and financial level, hitting the ultimate jackpot.
Yeah, turns out nothing really typical about this evening.