
Some people know Laurie Anderson only as the one-hit wondress behind “O Superman.” David Bowie knows better. He selected the prolific and versatile multimedia artist to debut a new (and as yet under-wraps) musical work at the High Line Festival. His selection criterion? All participants are “artists and acts I’d go out of my way to see.” Recently, Bowie went out of his way to talk to Anderson about birds, wheezing and the fine art of making visual music.
David Bowie: This is the first year of the High Line Festival. What, other than my irresistible charm, tipped you over into participating?
Laurie Anderson: I think festivals designed by artists are so much wackier and riskier than the ones designed by institutions. Maybe because the institutional festivals often have themes, and you always get the feeling that artists are trying to squeeze their work into the theme.
What piece will you be debuting at the festival? Would you give me a few teasers as to its subject—or even its content?
I’ll be playing with two of my favorite musicians: Skuli Sverrisson, who plays bass, and Peter Scherer on keyboards. We’ve been working on these combinations of electronics and real instruments—like violin and hurdy-gurdy and weird electronic wheezing.
And the songs?
Some of them are real shaggy-dog stories with a beat. A lot of them are pretty political. There’s one called “Callin’ Em Up,” which is about the troop buildup that keeps happening no matter what anybody says or does. And a song about heat, and another one about experts. And birds are in almost every show I do. No idea why, really—I don’t even particularly like them. Maybe because they’re free?
One of the bird stories in the show is inspired by a bit in the Aristophanes comedy The Birds. It’s about a lark, and it’s set in a time before the world began. And there was only sky at that point. No land at all. Only sky and billions and billions of birds. Then one day, the lark’s father dies. This is a big problem—what should they do with the body? There’s no land. The birds try to work this out, and days go by, and finally the lark has an idea. She decides to bury her father in the back of her own head. This is the beginning of memory.
You once made a wonderful piece of work with plaited strips from a New York newspaper, and a Chinese newspaper, I think. I love to see your gallery shows. How do you keep a balance between what you do musically and how you interpret it visually?
I’ve always loved to make visual music. But these days so many shows are multimedia that it puts me off a bit. I mean, the streets are multimedia: huge screens everywhere. In live shows I often go the opposite way—making a lot of mental pictures.
You don’t know this, Laurie—as we’ve never really talked about it—but we both share a long-lasting love for Ken Nordine. He’s at the Kitchen on the 16th and 17th for the festival. I remember hearing him around 1960 on the Armed Forces Radio in London, and the effect of his storytelling had me ordering his album Word Jazz. It took what seemed like a year to arrive, but it meant so much to me. I have my copy to this day, pretty scratched up, and the cover’s all frayed, but it works, dammit. When and where did you first hear him, and what impact did he have on your work?
The first time I heard Ken was in Chicago, late one night. He was doing a show about how you can wake up and start wondering what exactly is in the refrigerator. I mean, that was the whole show. And I completely fell in love. Then, many years later, I had the pleasure of working with him at the Meltdown Festival in London. We did a piece titled Mr. and Mrs. God. It was a phone-in show. To this day it remains probably the highlight of my working life.
Anderson plays the Highline Ballroom May 17 and 18.
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