its a hard knock life... Anyways, on Monday August 27th I attended La Casita-a multicultural spectacle-in front of the Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian in New York City. The NMAI is one of those huge stone structures erected by rich white people in an attempt to debase the status of non-whites. It is nonetheless a beautiful building in spite of its inference. The stairs leading to the main entrance was crowded with pink people, random tourists, Native Americans–real and pretend–harried Wall Street types and all other folks. The evening was nigh and the weather obliged the endeavor.

I arrived a wee bit after the first act which consisted of a conglomeration of indigenous people jumping up and down. I have seen and heard this before in many subway stations around New York. Therefore I cannot say with absolute sincerity that I gave a shit about this performance. Alas nearly ten years in New York has made me jaded. A really sun burnt woman with white hair oscillated to the music next to me. I could tell she really loved Indians, especially little cute ones blowing pan flutes. I call this type of aficionado a Bushbaum, you know a collector of others…yikes…she’ll not only buy your rug but your soul…look out…keep your cute little indin kids at home!

Up next was the venerable Joy Harjo. She was clad in black holding a saxophone with hands corrugated with veins, her flesh imbued with ink with various designs. She peformed a piece titled 1967 Indian School. Unfortunately I missed most of her performance becuase too many people kept talking to me, “No, I don’t remember you and your breathe smells like shit!” I really did not say that (but you should have Sonny!). For her finale, Stevie Nicks, umm I mean Joy Harjo, swirled about and disappeared into a multicolored mural tapestry designed by Manuel Vega.
The evening could have easily moved toward pretension but instead the audience was offered comic relief by the Aztec storyteller Micheal Heralda. He spent the majority of his performance pontificating the virtues of TORTILLA’S! I was transported back to day camp, “I wanna go home!”
Trying not to roll my eyes too many times, Heralda chastised the audience because we didn’t know what some Spanish word was? Duh! At this moment I must admit I preferred pretension to condescension. Bye…Bye…next. In stark contrast John Trudell brought an air of urgency or was it because the stage manager was threatening him with a clock? I was struck by his size, how could a man of slight stature be so intimidating? I retrospectively surmised it is because he tells the stories of those that cannot speak. Every phrase he uttered rang like an indictment:

“Shaman (make a chant), Theres a Name and History, Maybe dead to this reality, Talks to Ghost, Guns and Money, Spiritual Nudity.”

These words stung and festered in my psyche instigating an alarming parade of imagery and discourse. Flash Back: the land we stand upon is covered in grass, the stone and concrete edifices along Broadway are still conjecture, the sighting of masts in the harbor commences our strife. Quite frankly I was overwhelmed. An existential mind fuck! Whew…mean butch stage manager appears…Trudell’s time is up! What he just began! After his performance I sheepishly approached Trudell…”Do you have a moment?” He adjusted his cap and said, “Barely.” Uh okay “A quick picture?” Again I noted how small he was. “Alright, What are your latest projects?” He sighed heavily, “Im releasing a new CD, The Madness and MoreMe’s on the internet September 8th.” Cool! “What or how do you feel about new media i.e. MySpace–how is that opening your view point to a larger audience?” I think he rolled his eyes, “I don’t know enough about it, but would like to explore the potentional for more possibilities.”
Shortly he migrated toward a gaggle of well wishers as I looked on. One of them eagerly exclaimed, “I’m your biggest fan!”