In Defense of Showtime (Showtime) Showtime
Showtime is an aggressively vulnerable form of dance performed beneath the streets of New York City and I will defend the right to Showtime until I die. I recently encountered one of the most engaging, virtuosic displays of Showtime I can recall (and I’ve seen them all).
I’m waiting on the platform at 59th Street/Columbus Circle. 4 or 5 young black men are rehearsing choreography. It’s hotter below ground than above and above ground is intolerable. One dancer removes his ball cap, tossing it from limb to limb. It spins, flips and alights on his braids before floating to his foot. Have you ever tried to manipulate a hat? An impossible feat of puppetry that begets otherworldly, non-human choreography. Another dancer delivers moves with a ferocity I rarely encounter on the subway.
I have enjoyed Showtime on the trains and the occasional public park for as long as I’ve lived in New York City. Daily commutes are interspersed with Showtime, accordion-guitar duos and the duck-taped synthesizer/drum combo who wishes they had your job, your job, your job.
Showtime is a critical public institution. It promises displays of athletic virtuosity in the guise of a disruption. ‘Showtime’ shouted on a moving train signals the penetration of pretense. We all pretend when we’re riding public transportation. I know I do. I pretend I have a right to get a seat; a right to not be bothered by those around me; a right to take offense to noises, sights, sounds and smells that permeate my artificial bubbble of solitude.
Public transit is one of the last frontiers of human interaction. You are forced to confront the humanity of others and reconcile your place within their universe. It’s not about you and public spaces like a subway train remind us: it’s not about us.
Showtime serves a critical purpose. Performances in a public space like Showtime on a moving subway train reconfigure our relationship to our selves and our immediate environment. When I defend Showtime, I’m also defending your right not to like it. It’s accessible art. The price of admission is the cost of subway ride (or the risk of jumping the turnstile). I most often catch Showtime on my ride between 59th street and 125th street on the A or D. That’s approximately 7 minutes.
When Showtime is on your train, you are presented with a choice: witness or withdraw. Will it proffer annoyance or transcendence? You can’t passively ignore it, or ‘accidentally’ not see it. You have to consciously choose NOT to watch. It takes effort to deny Showtime.
How do you respond to performance in a public space? Performances like Showtime challenge what we perceive as public and private. It pushes against the boundaries of socially acceptable conduct. Who determines socially acceptable conduct? In a public space, it’s a combination of the city and/or state defining the space as public, but it’s also the inhabitants. As you pass through a public space, you have a say in how it is produced. What makes a space public? What keeps it public? How do we conduct ourselves in public? How should we conduct ourselves in public? How do you protest in public? What are the rules? Where are you allowed to stand? Who do you talk to? The performance of Showtime is a protest in support of the right to assemble in public that must be protected. You don’t have to like it, but your freedoms are linked to its preservation.
If there is dance on a moving subway train, I’m going to pay attention. I’m always curious how the performance is initiated. Do the artists use the traditional invocation?
Showtime!
Showtime!
Showtime!
What time is it?
It’s Showtime!
Or do they start the music sans intro and begin a more nuanced performance? The sound and the bodies change the artchitecture of a subway car. Their presence is additive, disruptive, and interrogative. Showtime dancers interrogate the public/private divide with their bodies.
Support the Arts in New York City. The dollars you drop in the Showtime hats are the best value for your buck. The performance comes to you. So what if it’s interrupting your podcast. Turn up the volume. Or better yet, turn it off and watch these artists. They’re probably risking more now than you ever have in your life: physically, artistically and legally.
24K Magic lyrics by Bruno Mars, annotated by Genius.com