There was a large video screen hanging upstage at Ms. Anderson’s show, and she stood at a keyboard, or set of keyboards, with other doohickeys in evidence, technically speaking. There were three microphones, side by side in a row. I’m writing this from memory, but what I remember is that through her groundbreaking use of technology in performance, she bent and stretched our little midwestern minds before fully blowing them when she picked up her electric violin.
The central microphone worked normally, but each of the two side microphones piped Laurie’s voice through a filter, so one sounded like a somewhat truculent, authoritative man (an alter ego who has come to be known in later years as Fenway Bergamot), and the other mike filtered her voice into a harmonizing chorus. The videos on the screen alternated between abstract beauty and short vignettes in which she was playing the man character, complete with mustache, and shot with some sort of fish-eye lens, creating a somewhat dwarfing, fun-house-mirror effect. Her electric violin looked like something out of Tron that might also emit a lightsaber’s blade, and I also recall a bit where the lights went dark and the only light was inside her mouth, intermittently visible through the opening and closing iris of her lips.
Those futuristic effects were merely the garnishes of an aural feast that served course after course of poetry and song, alternating effortlessly between humor and beauty and erudition, sometimes all in one verse. The artist herself was, and is, the definition of puckish. She casually wields a beautiful, fairylike face, augmented by hair sculpted into spikes of mischief. Her singing voice, unadorned, is lovely and plaintive, given to chewy consonants and popping stop-plosives when her voice goes into character. The combination of her violin and the computer/synthesizer/keyboard at her fingertips provided a veritable onslaught of musical sound, running the gamut from a quiet, ambient shower to a crashing monsoon.
Can you tell I was smitten? I was, in case that’s not made clear by the intensity of my recall some twenty-six years later. Just imagine, you take that whole package in a dark theater, bring up some interesting, minimalist shafts of green and blue light, strike a few sustained chords like a tired calliope, and then hear her speak:
I met this guy.
And he looked like he might have been a hatcheck clerk.
At an ice rink.
Which, in fact, he turned out to be.
And I said,
“Oh, boy. Right again.”
Let X=X.
You would have been equally enamored. As was my habit, I began to search out everything she had done that I could find, which turned out to be a great deal, as she has been an accomplished visual artist, composer, poet, photographer, filmmaker, electronics whiz, vocalist, and instrumentalist since the 1970s.
There was another song that first night that stood out to me in the same way that “Your Racist Friend” had struck a chord with its social consciousness. This time, the track was “Beautiful Red Dress,” and the theme was not racism but feminism.
I’m sure that I was distantly aware of the 1970s ERA of Carol Burnett and other heroic ladies, but with the much more imperative subject of baseball on my child’s mind in small-town Illinois, it did not occur to me to perform any arithmetic around the topic. So when Laurie Anderson spoke these words to me and my fellow audience members during the bridge of that song in 1990, it was very much my awakening as a woman: “Okay! Okay! Hold it! I just want to say something. You know, for every dollar a man makes, a woman makes sixty-three cents. Now, fifty years ago that was sixty-two cents. So, with that kind of luck, it’ll be the year 3888 . . . before we make a buck.”
It was hard to miss the point, when she put it like that. Here I was, absolutely besotted with this ethereal talent and the plying of her wares, but when I heard that particular line—that was the moment I understood Laurie Anderson to be heroic as well as intoxicating.
Contemporary research reveals the gender wage gap to be a bit of a moving target. President Obama cited the ratio at seventy-seven cents to the man’s dollar a few years ago, but that has been discredited. It’s difficult (for me, anyway) in this age of the twenty-four-hour news cycle and the endless websites devoted to “the truth” to ferret out any purely factual information, unblemished by some party’s agenda. Regardless of the precise number, the gap perseveres. I do find it satisfying that the situation is improving, but the glacial pace of coming equality could use a goose.
It’s been 240 years or so since this nation was founded by an elite group of white men, which seems like it would be a decent enough amount of time to find a balance in the way we reward folks of either gender, as well as those whose genders reside somewhere in between male and female.
As I have said, throughout my life, women have been in charge of a significant portion of my own little universe, beginning with my grandmother and aunts running the farm business in roles somewhere between CEO and CFO (not to mention driver, cook, laundress, and card sharp), followed by the directors and artistic directors of the Defiant and Steppenwolf Theatres.
Five excellent female persons make up more than half the staff of eight at Offerman Woodshop: Lee, my shop manager, is a small but mighty lady of talent and mirth without whom we would founder. Michele is a fearless surgeon and effervescent giggler, armed with chisel, dozuki, and block plane. Krys (gender nonconforming) has a three-year streak going for best smile and staunchest labor. Jane brings light to the shop, literally, with her intrepid lamp creations of wood and steel, and she also runs the shipping office with Sally, our sage and sometimes mother hen. (Apologies to white dudes Josh, Matty, and Thomas. While I love you equally, this is not your chapter.)
In the film and television business in Los Angeles, Amy Poehler springs to mind as a shining example of a person with talent, integrity, ambition, class, and gumption, whom I consider one of the best bosses I’ve ever had. Nicole Holofcener, as well, is a maverick filmmaker for whom I love working, and Beth McCarthy-Miller is a legend of a director. The splendid talent Diablo Cody. Superheroic Lake Bell. Legendary beauty and famously nice Courteney Cox on her show Mix It Up.
Oh. That’s only six ladies. Out of dozens of producers and directors with whom I’ve played. Oops. Thar she blows. The White Guy Whale of Unfairness! B’Christ, mateys, she eludes us yet! We’ve nary a choice but to keep on her, even round Cape Horn if that be what it takes. We’ll not rest until we are warming our chapped white hands by the flames of her oil, and this metaphor is beginning to erode a bit. . . .
The point is, we must needs keep at it. Hillary in the White House will be a profound, although long overdue, step forward. I’m not here to argue the better or worse of it all (it will be better) but simply add my voice to the momentum. If a group of American people, in this case, the ladies, is not receiving a fair shake, then that is a deficit that must be remedied. The great thing is, like the Super Friends, Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, or Voltron, we can grow stronger as a nation only by utilizing all the powers on the team.
Laurie Anderson is just the sort of person I’d like to see in charge of some decision making, but she will likely remain too wise to be caught wearing any such mantle. I think the reason I am so inspired by her work is because of the sublime balance she strikes between mischief and benevolence. Her voice and her melodies are generally very loving, which makes the social criticisms therein very easy to swallow. On top of this “spoonful of sugar” approach, she also refrains from pedantic language, making us instead engage with her in the arithmetic of her phrasing. She is a storyteller, first and foremost, wrapping her anecdotal morals in showmanship and delight.
Speaking of language, another of her early refrains that has always stuck with me is the phrase “Language is a virus.” Referencing a line from that institution of American letters and Anderson collaborator known as William S. Burroughs, “Language is a virus from outer space,” this simple declaration stuck with me, which I suppose has also had something to do with the fact that a
lot of my own work involves writing and speaking words carrying the very same virus, as it were. In her song of that title, she speaks the lines:
Paradise is exactly like
Where you are right now
Only much, much better.
This assertion moved me. It contains wit, it reminds me of something Mark Twain might have said, but it also inspires me to consider words in general, and their accepted meanings, and the effect they have upon thought. The abstraction of “paradise,” for example, can conjure anything from a vision of the Christian heaven or Garden of Eden, to a tropical island getaway, to an empty room containing nothing but a fine steak, a glass of Scotch, and The Bridge on the River Kwai on the tube.
I am reminded of a dinner in the Offerman household, circa 1982, when I broached the question that was surely on everyone’s mind:
“Mom, why is it okay to say ‘crap,’ but we can’t say s-h-i-t? Aren’t they the same thing?”
“Watch it, Jasper,” said my dad.
“Eat your beans,” said my mom.
There were issues of censorship in the air all around me: the words that weren’t allowed in school, George Carlin’s “seven words you can’t say on TV,” Tipper Gore’s shamefully overweening efforts to “clean up” the music industry. I became (and remain) a fan of language that is considered profane by the more puritanical factions of society, not because I wish to cause offense, but because its use communicates an adherence to the freedom of speech that is imperative to understanding how all humans can be treated equally. By freely interchanging “shit” and “crap” as a curious kid, for example, I was learning to signify that I was not a member of the vast cabal of conformist thought striving to maintain an atmosphere of oppressive conservatism in the home of the brave (coincidentally the title of another top-drawer Anderson record).
With age, my fascination with the topic of semantics has only grown, because I still deal in language as my stock-in-trade. These very sentences, word by word, I am composing with care to do my best to communicate what’s in my brain into your brain. Neato, right?
Words, though, much like a devastating virus, can be so powerful in the way they afflict a population. For example, there’s a six-letter word containing an n, two g’s, an r, and a couple of vowels that is so powerful that my publisher “really thinks I had better not type it,” no matter the context. That’s pretty crazy, isn’t it? What a couple of sounds can signify to a group of people? In a very real sense, I suppose that word is so powerful because it contains the crushing weight of the sin of American slavery. No matter; I don’t have a need for that word here today, but I would like to examine a few others.
Let’s talk about pussy. Let’s also talk about balls. No, things are not about to get pornographic, I’m sorry to say, but hopefully they will remain juicy. There is a deeply encoded tendency in our society to describe negative concepts with female terminology, and vice versa. For example, in the sports locker room we might say to a weak team member, “Don’t be a pussy.” Conversely, should a woman distinguish herself, utilizing her talents and gumption, we might say of her, “she’s got balls.” I’m sure you can think of more examples—“Don’t be a little bitch,” for instance. (The same goes for “faggot” and “gay,” obviously, but that’s another chapter.)
Every time this sort of imagery is utilized, it subtly but firmly reinforces negative gender stereotypes. This usage must be extirpated from daily use if we are to progress in a substantial way. We have enough trouble with the patriarchal foundations of the language to begin with, without worrying about our naughty bits being misrepresented. For example, a few paragraphs back, I accused Ms. Anderson of exhibiting showmanship, which is anatomically incorrect. However, that’s how the dudes who created our words set it up. We don’t have the word showwomanship. This is clearly bullshit.
One of my favorite pieces of Laurie Anderson’s writing (and performance) comes from the song “The Dream Before” on the Strange Angels record. Here is the last verse, but you really must listen to it, preferably in a comfortable, meditative state for optimal brain-pan impregnation:
She said: What is history?
And he said: History is an angel
being blown backwards into the future.
He said: History is a pile of debris
And the angel wants to go back and fix things
To repair the things that have been broken.
But there is a storm blowing from Paradise.
And the storm keeps blowing the angel
backwards into the future.
And this storm . . . this storm
is called Progress.
Now, this is clearly evocative on many levels, and when I first heard it on that night in the beautiful auditorium at the southern end of the quad at Illinois, I thought that I would never know a greater feeling of catharsis in my life. Her poetry, combined with the delectable noises by means of which she delivers it, is like an extremely luxurious and pleasurable brain massage, like an opiate that taps into your language facility as well as your pleasure center.
In the verse’s first line, she gently emphasizes the “his” in her pronunciation of “history,” which was the first time I had been presented with that particular twist. It has been followed by countless similar examples, fertilizing an endlessly growing awareness of such iniquities in place the world over. Just yesterday, Megan and I toured the astonishingly beautiful Sultan Ahmed Mosque in Istanbul (aka the Blue Mosque), where we learned that the men prayed on the main floor, or “the good seats,” while the women were required to remain out of sight around a second-story catwalk or behind screens at the back of the main floor, or “the shitty seats.” Megan was required to cover her hair with a scarf to be permitted entry, which she excitedly said was “just like Carrie on Homeland!,” but it was not lost on us that I, as a penis owner, was allowed to bare my tawny locks for all the world to gaze upon.
It’s complicated, to be sure. The cultures of the world, including ours in America, are steeped in centuries of tradition and bad habits. Plus, there are important, significant differences between men and women that also must be paid fealty, in the realms of health care and childbearing, for example. All we can do is continue to unravel this intricate puzzle in which our patriarchs have ensnared us until everybody is earning a wage commensurate with everybody else. There will always be assholes, and there will always be saints, and both can oftentimes be found within each of us. If we can make things equal based on gender and race and creed, then we can be free to just focus on the asshole/saint ratio.
My first meeting with Laurie Anderson in person was at her apartment in 2014, and she couldn’t have been more friendly and welcoming—a good thing, since I was somewhat freaked-out to meet her. I’ve met a lot of famous folks whom I admire, and I’ve generally become inured to being starstruck, but as you can tell from the content of this chapter, she was an artist whose work had profoundly shaken up my life in the best way.
We launched into a cordial “get to know ya” chat, and I described the idea of this book and the sorts of notions I was hoping to convey. I’m not certain if she was even aware of her brattiness, or if it is just her nature to be devilishly inquisitive, but my planned interview of her quickly became an interview by her, of me. She kept me at ease while peppering me with questions about my book and my life. Of course, this was very seductive to me, as I would love nothing more than a person I so admired to have any interest whatsoever in my story. It was like a much more benevolent version of Edmund Pevensie’s first meeting with the evil witch Jadis in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, wherein she plies the helpless lad for information with Turkish Delight and flattery. Laurie was probably not even aware of my pathetic situation, but I was nonetheless under her power.
“It’s a list of Americans who inspire me,” I managed. “The kind of people you wish would run for office but are too smart to ever do
that.”
She told me that I seemed like a pretty all right sort, and that maybe I should consider running for office.
“Um. Okay, thanks,” I laughed, “but the book—”
“I’m thinking, like, a depressed American city . . . once great, that you could bring back to its former glory. . . . Huh . . . what about Detroit? I think you would make a great mayor of Detroit. I’ll tell you what,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m happy to answer questions for your book, you know, give you an hour or two. But if you would run for mayor of Detroit, I will get fully behind your campaign.”
I have to admit to taking a considerable pause to think about this idea before coming a fair distance back around to my senses.
“Well, I had better, you know . . . stick to acting and writing and stuff. I’m probably not really cut out for politics.”
“Suit yourself,” she replied, her grin as impish as that of Robin Goodfellow. It just occurred to me that she would be an amazing casting choice for Peter Pan, perhaps as adapted by Caryl Churchill.
Our second meeting was arranged after a few instances of passing in the night like ships, one or both of us on the road, away from New York City. I asked Laurie if she could get together in the first week of December, to which she replied, “Hmm . . . I could meet late Wednesday after the Dylan show at the Beacon if you’re uptown—should be elevenish—could meet at the top of the Time Warner building where there’s a good view at that hour of paper shredding in surrounding offices. . . .”
Done. That Wednesday turned out to be the day that a grand jury decided not to indict New York City police officer Daniel Pantaleo in the choking death of Eric Garner that had occurred on July 17, 2014. The verdict of “no indictment” sparked nationwide outrage and protests, coming as it did on the heels of Michael Brown’s similar case in Ferguson, Missouri, outside of St. Louis. Eric Garner’s murder-by-cop was the case about which media factions were up in arms—not over how in the world there was to be no trial, but over whether the term choke hold was the appropriate language to describe Pantaleo’s arm, crooked around Garner’s neck from behind in a “hold” that was clearly “choking” him. I say “clearly,” because the whole episode was played ad nauseam on news outlets for days, leaving little question as to the officer’s unnecessary violence, which the grand jury blithely exonerated.
Gumption: America's Gutsiest Troublemakers Page 27