By Michael E. Miller
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
It was the strangest sort of mass hypnosis, like Jonestown without the candy colors and the suicides. Only twelve months have passed since someone somewhere kicked sand across the line in the desert and E Pluribus Unum temporarily, tantalizingly, rang with high truth. Suddenly we were a country of drive, unity, self-possession. We were at war. The nation was hypnotized by CNN; military jargon spilled from the mouths of preschoolers; newsmen and generals beamed brawnily from the dead center of the mother of all wet dreams. Everyone knows where they were when Kennedy was shot, but do you remember where you were when you first fell under the spell of the Rumble in the Gulf?
Laurie Anderson does. "Like everybody else, I sort of stayed glued to TV for the war," says Anderson, the spiky-haired, siren-voiced, world-famous performance artist/composer/dancer/sculptor/photographer/pop singer extraordinaire. And she stayed glued, not only during the war, but during the Thomas Confirmation Hearings, the William Kennedy Smith Trial, even the Magic Johnson Press Conference. She watched as the extensive coverage, the traumatically comprehensive coverage, galvanized the American people. She mulled over the hypocrisies of a nation that thrusts cameras into a rape trial but hog-ties its artists with concerns about community standards. And then she turned her observations into art. Voices from the Beyond, the monologue that emerged from her months of televisual exile, will have its only Miami performance Saturday night at Gusman Cultural Center, sponsored by the Miami Light Project. "So many things have changed in the past year, just been ripped inside out," Anderson says. "I really wanted to talk about a lot of the stuff, so I decided I wouldn't start drawing pictures or doing music. Instead, I would just talk about it."
An accomplished artist and musician who both taught college-level architectural history and staged events on New York City streets, Anderson waited until 1982 to become a household name (assuming your household collects the Heroes of the Avant-Garde Refrigerator Magnets Series). She earned the promotion on the strength of "O Superman," a hauntingly comic synth-song that charted in the British Top Ten, and after three critically acclaimed studio LPs and a series of elaborate multimedia stage shows, Anderson stood alone atop the ranks of fascinating but unclassifiable American performers. Formally and culturally omnivorous, she incorporated everything from drum dances to bruitist poetry to sitcom trivia. She collaborated with artists as diverse as William S. Burroughs, Peter Gabriel, Nile Rogers, and Spalding Gray; customized her own electronic violin so that it spoke like a man; and even directed a feature-length concert film, Home of the Brave. Her spiny hair and lightweight suits, not to mention her quirky, deadpan intonation, became as recognizable (and as imitated) a style as Annie Hall's.
But style can change, especially when the times demand it. Uneasy with the entertainment value of wartime gadgetry, the slipperiness of military speech, and the dementia of a society that often cannot distinguish between reality and representation ("This is the time," Anderson wrote in a 1982 song, "and this is a record of the time"), she decided to temporarily forgo her trademark high-tech dazzlement and elliptical lyricism and concentrate instead on direct address. Voices from the Beyond employs only a single visual image, a slide of a receding highway, and only occasionally resorts to musical or synthesized effects. Moving through a series of personal memories, dreams, and tales of the modern world, Anderson attempts to make sense of the modern American character. A calmer, clarified cousin of her intricate and enigmatic works of the mid-Eighties, the piece has the feel of a speech, albeit a canny, mesmerizing, ennobling lecture.
"In fact Voices from the Beyond did begin as a kind of speech," she says. "The Museum of Modern Art was exhibiting a show about high art and low art, and artists were invited to give talks on the subject. I felt that the high-low division wasn't that interesting a categorization any more. The kind of imagemaking going on in pop culture was a much more striking development. The aestheticization of the Gulf War in particular - making smart bombs look hip, devising a new way to use language, getting people whipped up into this state of euphoria." The first drafts of the monologue were of modest size, but its informal staging left room for improvisation, and Anderson continued to supplement the piece as the year progressed. In its current form, Voices from the Beyond includes roughly three hours of reminiscence, observation, criticism, and speculation, a program that might grow monotonous were it not for Anderson's breadth of knowledge, curiosity, and quirky humor. ("I dreamed of a little town in which all the girls were named Betty," she said in Home of the Brave.)
Anderson, who has been performing mostly in theaters and university auditoriums, finds that some who attend her shows come expecting to see a concert. "Those people," she has observed, "are either asleep after a couple of hours or else they've left." But, she adds, "For the most part I have felt that this approach is incredibly useful. It's very hard to compete with the war images, their multitrillion-dollar images. They attack you via the news, which has a certain authority. It was such a barrage of stuff - presented of course as entertainment - but if you deal with them on the level of language, you can understand it a little better."