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On Thursday morning I saw Lou Reed’s memorial announced in an AM NewYork a student had brought and decided to go on the spot. After class, I caught the 1 and headed north to Lincoln Center where the celebration was being held although I wasn’t sure where. I followed the sound of music to the risen lawn and the rectangular pool by Juilliard and saw looking south where speakers had been set up in front of the Library and along the corridor of trees that leads to the steps down into the Plaza toward Avery Fisher Hall there was a gathering crowd.
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Halloween Parade was playing, and that was certainly a lump in the throat, a song about drag queens who had died of AIDS and were no longer at the parade.
There’s a down town fairy singing out, “Proud Mary”
As she cruises Christopher Street
And some Southern Queen is acting loud and mean
Where the docks and the Badlands meet
This Halloween is something to be sure
Especially to be here without you
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Chairs were set up under the trees though I continued to walk, stand and watch couples, groups talk, and friends track each other down on cellphones. A woman in what could have been homeless clothes with a backpack strapped to her back danced alone with her long-haired head held down facing the ground while a tall elegant woman in a fine cloth coat holding a Starbuck’s coffee cup smiled with her head held high singing along. There were workers on their lunch breaks, teenagers who should have been in school, and many older folks like me on this sunny cold afternoon sometimes a little dark under the trees, still with leaves. We were a common New York crowd, every class, creed and celebrity come to listen to Lou Reed and perhaps remember what used to be.
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Cameras were everywhere, many better than my iPhone which I decided to take out and use. I wanted to focus on the people just like Andy Warhol would have at a Factory party, his Polaroids now my digitals immediately hooked up to the world. The problem was to stay far enough away not to be noticed but to get close enough to film what I wanted. When someone noticed me, the spell was broken. Most weren’t bothered, preoccupied in their own doings, although a man my age sitting in a chair did scowl, a woman turned her head so I couldn’t record her talking, and a teenager looking back sucking on her lollipop widened her eyes just for a moment surprised to see me as if I were some sort of predator at her shoulder. Philip Glass didn’t seem to mind; he sat there nodding his head talking to a younger Asian woman, no photographer worth his attention anymore than the pebbles on the ground or the limbs in the trees, all part of the inconsequential scenery as he leaned listening to the pretty smiling woman.
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My iPhone ran out of charge during Sister Ray as a crazed young man writhed in front of me, camera gone dead as he thrust back his head like a drumstick frozen on the beat. I talked to Laurie Anderson for a minute just to say how much I loved her husband and his work and that no words could adequately express it; he taught me that writing is a conversation, and it’s okay to be redundant if redundant is what it is; you have to be honest, you have to be you because you are the truth. We squeezed hands for a moment and then I was on my way. Walk on the Wild Side began to play, Lou’s music melting into the traffic and the bell a Salvation Army officer was ringing. The Salvation Army at this point in time, in case you don’t know, is homophobic; although that bell continues to be appealing. I gave the ringer five dollars and told him, “Don’t put this in the bucket, this is for you.”
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