I did a gig last Saturday night, not really something that unusual, but it was not my typical show. It was a corporate convention, the kind I normally avoid even though there are extravagant sums to be made, because I hate the atmosphere at those events. However, this was booked by a friend, was in reasonable distance from my home and I was told the employees specifically requested me.
We (my sidekick Bruce and my husband Al) drove in a stretch limousine to the show in San Diego. We watched “Dogville” on our way there. I love Lars Von Trier. The film strangely fit the scene we were presented with when we got there.
“Dogville” is about the exploitation and persecution of women who search only for virtue and the opportunity to do good deeds. However, to limit the film to one topic is to diminish the scope and power of this extremely compelling and complex film.
We got there early and ran around in the suite provided us at the hotel, eating cold pizza and chocolate cake, waiting for the time we were to perform. Finally, they fetched us from the room and brought us down through the kitchen to the banquet hall.
Two large screens filled the spaces between the stage and the doors to the room, so the audience could see up close what was happening. This didn’t make sense, as the room was rather small, hardly a ballroom, which had been occupied by manic teenagers trying to prom.
It looked bad to me. It felt wrong. There was a speech made by a man who was much applauded for seemingly no reason, and who swept past me without acknowledging my presence. Then a woman wearing a NU-BRA tm, allowing us all the ability to enjoy the backless fashions of the moment, underneath her black rayon sheath with rhinestone spaghetti straps and a butterfly back, you know, your “night on the town” dress, started to cry onstage about her sales staff. She was overwhelmed with emotion and had her hand on her chest, as if her heart were about to burst with affection for her employees, and she was trying to push it back in, like the monster from “Alien.” We all had to cope with the lump in her throat for several minutes, as she had to return to the stage after leaving once, because she had forgotten names she wouldn’t have forgiven herself for not speaking aloud.
The rhinestone butterfly lady finally finished, then there was a parade of the staff, mostly young people of color, those that work behind the scenes at hotels, turn down the beds, park the cars, serve the room service, you know, like do everything. It seemed oddly demeaning to me, as a person of color myself, that the maids and busboys had to undergo this kind of odd celebratory lineup, but it seemed that they were very appreciated by the audience. I was glad. Everyone deserves applause.
Bruce took the stage, and I thought he did well. He was funny and got laughs, which is what he always does. Then, I took the stage, after a brief, panicked attack by a nervous woman in another black rhinestone confection, likely to have also needed a NU-BRA tm, but I wasn’t sure. She accosted me directly before I went on the stage to say “language.” I assumed she meant for me to go ahead and speak English.
After about 10 mins. my mic was turned off and the band, comprised of Asian, African-American, and Latino musicians, was hurried on to the stage. They passed me, looking apologetic. “We wish we didn’t have to do this,” they all said with their eyes as they launched in to a rousing rendition of “Sweet Home Alabama.”
Using Lynyrd Skynyrd as a way to ethnically cleanse the stage after I was unconsititutionally censored was the most offensive. I am a huge Skynyrd fan and I consider it unconscionable that they played me off with “Sweet Home Alabama” to give the allusion that they were excising the ‘anti-American’ element from the stage. Skynyrd and I are on the same side. I am proud of the South. I wish I was from the South. I have spent enough time there to know and love it well. “Sweet Home Alabama” is one of my favorite songs, and it was appalling that they offended me with the greatest band in American history.
I was also offended by the five identical blonde women ready to leap onto the stage after I was turned off. What were they there for? It just proves once again, pussy is not supposed to speak.
It’s ironic that Skynyrd was chosen to chase me out of the town like a witch when we are the true Americans. I feel bad because the audience, albeit chilly, would have eventually enjoyed and loved what I had to say. I am sad that they were not allowed the great honor to see me perform in person.
Margaret donated all the money from this gig to the West Memphis Three.
Update 6/3/2004: Omni Hotels stopped payment on their check.