Laurie Anderson
Homeland @ Danforth Music Hall, June 13-14, 2008
By Tina Chu
The first time I encountered Laurie Anderson she was sitting on a larger-than-life armchair introducing a segment of PBS’ Art:21 DVD viewed during my high school art class. I knew nothing about her then beyond my instructor’s insistence on her importance. After Anderson’s Friday night performance of Homeland, at the Danforth Music Hall as part of the Luminato Festival, I offer no contestation to her reputation.
Hours before, however, I was all nerves, anxious for it to begin with little idea of what to expect, yet expecting everything having heard only praise. Once the doors opened and I located my seat, I couldn’t help but stare at the empty stage, scouting for clues. Illuminated by blue tinted lights, a scattering of tea light candles on the floor and hanging bare bulbs, the set was more mystifying than helpful.
Anticipation kept building, as did the voices in the theatre, fusing with the rumbling background music. I spotted Adrienne Clarkson taking her seat in the row before me and met a fellow writer, Erin, from Mooney on Theatre and just as the buzzing of conversation overcomes the music hall, the house lights dim.
The performers filed in: Joey Baron on percussion, Rob Burger on keyboard, Greg Cohen on bass and Anderson herself, all emerging to the roar of applause and cheers. The spotlight was on Anderson and at first with just her voice she begins to carve a portrait of contemporary America.
It’s the voice of an infomercial at times. At others, it’s that divine voice speaking from beyond the light. It fills the space, being soothing yet foreboding, crisper than the air conditioning. Anderson is talking about birds flying in circles without a place to land before the existence of land. It’s a narrative about the origin of memory, where one is to bury the dead when there is no place to do it. Anderson’s introduction alluded to the tension between physical space and place.
In an era of increased globalization and political unrest, where one can live in a country but have no place in it, the concept of homeland is nebulous. Anderson’s performance, endlessly nuanced, asides from capturing American society, addresses the issue and asks what a homeland consists of and at what costs it is maintained.
Provocative, Homeland is inquisitive without compromising wit and humour, delivering commentary and comedy all in one breath. The only elements missing in the Luminato performance were the elaborate visual projections. Yet the effect was not diminished. Anderson’s allusions and her poignant metaphors evoked adequate imageries from the repositories we have all accumulated from inhabiting a media-saturated society. Perhaps to make up for the lack of visuals, Lou Reed (Anderson’s longtime companion and just recently, husband) was later recruited to the stage for the show’s finale.
More than a depiction of contemporary America, Homeland was a reminder of the importance of political engagement and activism. Though the word, homeland, may denote the state, it is also a term that implicates us all in every political decision taking place and acted upon in our names. “Your silence is your consent,” Anderson sang in one piece, “I marvel at how you can be silent in four languages.”
