I finally watched David Byrne’s American Utopia this week. And I’m so very glad I did!

It has been in my queue for over a year (streaming on HBO/Max). Though I was intrigued and had heard that it was good, I wasn’t entirely sure what it was — a Broadway production? a concert? — and my uncertainty has allowed other things always to rise above it on the list.

So Utopia has languished. How apt.

It’s is a Spike Lee film of Byrne’s Broadway show, which before that was a touring production of his 2018 album. It is in fact a concert, it’s also a lot more than that. Maybe “performance art” is the best description. David Byrne sings and enacts his solo compositions as well as a number of Talking Heads hits — all of them full of pointed provocation, nonsense, and poetry. Along the way, he muses about brain development and self-expression, and makes powerful statements about violence and voter turnout. He’s supported with an outstanding international ensemble of twelve musicians, dancers, and backup singers, most of whom are onstage with him the entire time. Everything is impeccably choreographed, compelling, and beautiful. And so moving! It was exactly what I needed.

I read a bit about it afterwards. Met with universal critical acclaim, it boasts a 97% overall rating. Rolling Stone called it “a masterpiece.” Reviewer Erik Adams lauded it as the perfect piece for tumultuous times, noting: “The key to American Utopia’s resonance isn’t so much one of joy versus despair as it is connection versus isolation.”

That was the ticket for me: it’s hopeful because it’s all about connection.

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Anyway, that’s my review. Five stars. Wholehearted recommendation.

It was a sweet synchronicity because I had already been thinking about a Talking Heads tune as the title and inspiration for a Sunday talk —“Once in a Lifetime” (1981). That song has echoed through my unconscious for over 40 years. I still don’t know for sure what it’s supposed to mean — like a lot of Byrne’s work it challenges attempts to make sense.

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?”

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the blue again, after the money’s gone
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground

Same as it ever was, same as it ever was
Same as it ever was, same as it ever was…

What it brings up for me is the existential paradox that every moment is both singular and ordinary. That every experience is both temporary and eternal. That the world in which we find ourselves right now is both “once in a lifetime” and also “the same as it ever was.” The trancelike refrain — same as it ever was, same as it ever was — keeps emerging as the verses describe everything turned upside down and then the singer’s ultimate soul-wrenching, “My God, what have I done?”

Like everyone, I’m concerned lately. I’m upset about the state of society, our nation, the world. It’s one crisis after another, stuck in a seemingly irreconcilable divide, on the brink of every disaster. I’m anguished by the thought that this might be the pivotal moment in the history of life on the planet, and I have no idea how to fix it, and oh my god I hope we don’t screw it up.

But even though these times truly feel uniquely critical, like life or death moments for all of us, unlike anything we’ve ever faced before… I think it’s possible that it’s also, indeed, the same as it ever was. And sometimes I find some comfort in that.

I mean, not to diminish anyone’s concerns. Not to deny myself or anyone the right to completely freak out. For sure, we’ve got some big problems — and — we always have. Absolutely we are facing uncertainty, we don’t know what’s going to happen next; we can guess and predict and take polls and hope or catastrophize; but we can’t be sure what’s coming. And — this, too, is the same as it ever was.

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We’re wired to try to make sense of things — to make sense of ourselves and our lives and other people and the entire world. We’ve conditioned ourselves to make sense in particular ways, according to past experiences, learned lessons, our own strengths and weaknesses, hopes and fears. While we confront a gazillion bits of new information every day — universes of possibility — our natural inclination is to do our best to make something familiar out of it. We process it to reassure ourselves what we already know, what we already want to believe and think. Categorizing and compartmentalizing the Infinite, we unconsciously discard most of the stuff that doesn’t fit into our established paradigm.

But then sometimes our processing gets interrupted. We encounter something new. Or our well-rehearsed strategies don’t seem to be working so well anymore. Or the cognitive dissonance (in our own minds or between ours and others’) becomes so jarring that we are forced to adjust. This is when it feels like a “once in a lifetime” moment. It’s great when these are luminous glimmers of unprecedented ecstasy. Not so great when it seems like the sky is falling down.

In both cases, however, I think this experience of the unprecedented isn’t so much about the circumstances in which we find ourselves. It’s about our inability to process it on autopilot. It’s always unprecedented. That’s the same as it ever was. Every moment is brand new, we’ve never lived this before, the world has never been this way before. Just like always. We’re just not able to kid ourselves anymore.

And while that might be terrifying to recognize, maybe it can also be hopeful. An opportunity for new ways of being. Forced to admit that we don’t know what’s coming, maybe we’ll be more present right now. If we aren’t certain, maybe we’re automatically more open, a blessing. If we can no longer preserve the status quo, maybe we’ll have to be different — kinder, more creative, generous, loving…

This feels like a lot. I hope I’ll be coherent by Sunday. Perhaps, though, it will become even more surreal and dadaist. I don’t know. And I’m going to try to be okay with not-knowing, at least for this once in a lifetime moment.

I can’t wait to be with you on Sunday, July 21. 10:00am at q-Staff Theatre, 400 Broadway Blvd SE in East Downtown. Our new space is on the corner of Broadway and Lead. There’s parking on the street right in front of the theater, for those who need easy access. If you don’t mind a stroll and want to leave those rockstar spots for others, there are spaces up and down Broadway as well as just east on Arno and Edith. XO, Drew

©2024 Drew Groves