I met Lou in Munich, not New York. It was 1992, and we were both playing in John
Zorn's Kristallnacht festival commemorating the Night of Broken Glass in
1938, which marked the beginning of the Holocaust. I remember looking
at the rattled expressions on the customs officials' faces as a constant
stream of Zorn's musicians came through customs all wearing bright red
RHYTHM AND JEWS! T-shirts.
John wanted us all to meet one another and play with one another, as
opposed to the usual "move-'em-in-and-out" festival mode. That was why
Lou asked me to read something with his band. I did, and it was loud and
intense and lots of fun. After the show, Lou said, "You did that
exactly the way I do it!" Why he needed me to do what he could easily do
was unclear, but this was definitely meant as a compliment.
I liked him right away, but I was surprised he didn't have an English accent. For some reason I thought the Velvet Underground were British, and I had only a vague idea what they did. (I know, I
know.) I was from a different world. And all the worlds in New York
around then – the fashion world, the art world, the literary world, the
rock world, the financial world – were pretty provincial. Somewhat
disdainful. Not yet wired together.
As it turned out, Lou and I didn't live far from each other in New
York, and after the festival Lou suggested getting together. I think he
liked it when I said, "Yes! Absolutely! I'm on tour, but when I get back
– let's see, about four months from now – let's definitely get
together." This went on for a while, and finally he asked if I wanted
to go to the Audio Engineering Society Convention. I said I was going
anyway and would meet him in Microphones. The AES Convention is the
greatest and biggest place to geek out on new equipment, and we spent a
happy afternoon looking at amps and cables and shop-talking electronics.
I had no idea this was meant to be a date, but when we went for coffee
after that, he said, "Would you like to see a movie?" Sure. "And then
after that, dinner?" OK. "And then we can take a walk?" "Um . . ." From
then on we were never really apart.
Lou and I played music together, became best friends and then soul
mates, traveled, listened to and criticized each other's work, studied
things together (butterfly hunting, meditation, kayaking). We made up
ridiculous jokes; stopped smoking 20 times; fought; learned to hold our
breath underwater; went to Africa; sang opera in elevators; made friends
with unlikely people; followed each other on tour when we could; got a
sweet piano-playing dog; shared a house that was separate from our own
places; protected and loved each other. We were always seeing a lot of
art and music and plays and shows, and I watched as he loved and
appreciated other artists and musicians. He was always so generous. He
knew how hard it was to do. We loved our life in the West Village and
our friends; and in all, we did the best we could do.
Like many couples, we each constructed ways to be – strategies, and
sometimes compromises, that would enable us to be part of a pair.
Sometimes we lost a bit more than we were able to give, or gave up way
too much, or felt abandoned. Sometimes we got really angry. But even
when I was mad, I was never bored. We learned to forgive each other. And
somehow, for 21 years, we tangled our minds and hearts together.
It was spring in 2008 when I was walking down a road in California
feeling sorry for myself and talking on my cell with Lou. "There are so
many things I've never done that I wanted to do," I said.
"Like what?"
"You know, I never learned German, I never studied physics, I never got married."
"Why don't we get married?" he asked. "I'll meet you halfway. I'll come to Colorado. How about tomorrow?"
"Um – don't you think tomorrow is too soon?"
"No, I don't."
~ Laurie Anderson
