My love for David Byrne is expansive. I would pay money to watch him paint a chair on stage and, with rapt attention, watch the paint dry.
But I assure you, I’m taking much of my glowing prejudice out of this review to share a semi- un-biased opinion.
As of now, February 2022, American Utopia can be viewed at the Saint James Theater on 246 W 44th St in the one and only New York, NY. The setting of the late 1920s theater is important as the Neo-Gregorian style, with idyllic scenes painted atop the ceiling between ornate chandeliers and lush red seats seem to further the play on utopia. I overheard a woman (gender?) in the seat behind me telling her companion that whenever David Byrne is not actively preparing for his shows, he can be seen riding his bike around the neighborhood. I can appreciate this image of the legendary rocker leisurely pedaling around the City - and I believe the hearsay, too, as he did author a book titled, Bicycle Diaries, in 2009.
American Utopia first hit Broadway in late 2019 but due to the COVID-19 pandemic, hit a hiatus until late 2021. I imagine its initial viewers from the Old World had quite a different experience than those of us in the New World, ragged and masked from years of an unrelenting pandemic. Nevertheless, we moved into the theater with masked faces through vaccination status checkpoints with vibrating anticipation. The usher passed out Playbills and informed each group, “The show is nearly 2 hours with no intermission,” as we found our way to our seats.
Waiting for the show to begin, one hears the usual chatter from fans: I once saw David walking around the city, yeah — we were this close! and I remember watching him perform in the late ‘80s. Can you believe that? Once the lights dimmed in the theater and the illustrated front curtain drew up, the crowd either hushed or cheered, both signs of enthusiasm. David sat on a chair behind a desk, an anatomical brain prop in his hand. A silver-chained curtain encircled the stage, hung low with the chain piled up on the ground. Before David (I feel I’m on a first-name basis with him now) spoke, the chained curtain slowly raised, in a way, encircling all of us, wrapping us into the world of American Utopia.
The show was spectacular. Not in a flashy way like The Lion King, filled with costumes and dynamic set design, but in its own, unique way. The simplicity of the set design created a minimal dystopian space for the performers. The costumes, all grey suits, provided a uniformity to the performers and, dare I say, an apt commentary on the hustle of the runway train that is the American workforce. Barefoot performers, contrasting with the formality of their business suits, wear custom harnesses to play their instruments while dancing along to the music. The bare feet seem to be a form of liberation from the “adulthood”, as though within David’s Utopia, the child-self is working to wriggle its way out. And David, dressed identically to the other performers, seemed to imply a communal stake in the artistry of the show, not his art but theirs.
Although I’ve long admired the percussive mastery of David’s music, I had not realized he is also a master storyteller. Hearing some Talking Heads’ songs within the context of a live Broadway show made the words and messages clearer and gave me insight into the person that David is or at least aspires to be. He reveals a vulnerability, trepidation about the current state of America, and yet, there is a through-line of hopefulness.
The audience is taken on an emotional ride throughout the 100 minute performance.
The show, since its initial opening, is an evolving creature, having been adapted and modified to fit current events, including a protest song by Janelle Monåe wherein the names of our Black community whose blood has been shed unjustly are chanted. Amir Lock. Amir Locke. Amir Locke. Say his name. Breonna Taylor. Breonna Taylor. Breonna Taylor. Say her name.
There are moments where I wept, hot tears streaming down to be collected by the mask covering the lower half of my face. There were moments when we, as the audience, jumped to our feet to awkwardly dance in front of our seats, trying to remember how to rhythmically move our bodies in front of strangers as it had been so long now. In those between moments, looking around the theater, heads and hearts nodded to the beat. All the while, the message of American Utopia worked its way into each of us, organically, gently, and best of all — never preachy.
As the show came to a close, the snakelike chain curtain lowered. The spell was broken. And we were released back into the wilds of our existence from the dream that is American Utopia.
I left the show with every one of my cells buzzing, a changed person, even so slightly.