Madonna, a bona fide OG of the era in New York that people still most romanticize—the 80s—has been unable to avoid trying to recapture the “magic” of the city ever since she conquered it and then suddenly a lack of anonymity/the end of the 80s never made it feel quite as “majestic” again. After all, Madonna’s whole thing is getting off on the pain of earning something, and once the fame—arguably the most challenging aspect of “commodifying art” to achieve, especially without a predatory Svengali at one’s side—was earned, everything else would feel comparatively easy. Sure, they say mo’ money, mo’ problems, but in M’s case, she’s maneuvered it deftly to her advantage (ahem, offshore accounts and tax havens darling).
Yet it’s evident that some part of her, particularly in the wake of having to get all nostalgic for the purpose of writing and directing her biopic, still seeks to return to the “simpler” days. When her biggest worry was where her next meal might come from (per Madonna’s lore, there were times when she would eat out of trash cans, though her producer, Stephen Bray, attributes that to nothing more than hyperbole). The literal hunger only fueling the metaphorical kind all the more. And it makes one understand that, for as much international recognition as she’s achieved, she’s still that aging club kid trying to make NYC happen again. Because if it happens again, it means she, too, is still youthful, or at least recapturing some of that youth. But New York ain’t Berlin, and there’s certainly not much openness to olds on the dance floor if they’re mere mortals instead of pop icons. No, New York so clearly does not cater to that set, forever sucking the blood of the new batch of youths that arrive each year ready to get down on their knees and suck its cock (there’s a reason the skyline is so phallic).
During Madonna’s clipped performance (offering “Hung Up” and “I Don’t I Search I Find” circa 1:30 a.m., as is her wont) at the Boom Boom Room, cock-sucking was, naturally, the name of the game, with everyone ready to embrace the “blessed” return of New York nightlife. So back in action that it appropriately only seemed to let at least mildly famous people in (including Detox, who sometimes looks more like Madonna than Madonna). But, try as they all might to believe, these are not the days of Studio 54. Made all too manifest by the glowing sea of screens that shot up as Madonna took the bar as her stage. After all, did the party even happen if you didn’t document it for social media? As for Madonna’s message of “inclusivity,” it was a bit hard to swallow considering that it wasn’t a “come one, come all” atmosphere, so much as “come if you’re part of the glitterati.” Because apparently we’ve reverted to Carrie Bradshaw speak now. So to use another Bradshaw parlance, “I couldn’t help but wonder…” if Madonna can live anywhere, why does she keep bothering with this tired old husk of a city? She could post up in Pantelleria, the Maldives, Portofino, Sydney… she could have stayed in wondrous Lisbon (instead extracting an album from it and leaving). She even just bought a goddamn house in Calabasas. But no, a celebrity—nay, a “human being”—has been too long accustomed to believing that New York is the “center of the universe” and that, if you’re not “part of it,” you’re invisible. And that can be very challenging for a celebrity ego to deal with. Especially one who still counts themselves as “real.” And New York, for all its phoniness, remains somehow linked to purported “realness.”
Heralded as the savior of resuscitating NYC’s club scene post-rona, it’s interesting that this is the time people choose not to shit talk Madonna or mock her openly for her age and plastic surgery’d look (sorry to say, it’s not all the work of MDNA Skin). It’s almost as though, because everyone in New York wants so badly to will the city back to a time when it was actually fun, they’re amenable to, for once, fully drinking Madonna’s Kool-Aid. And she’s distributed it many times before, yet during moments in its history when it wasn’t so, well, difficult to stomach. More accurately, difficult to understand what all the goddamn “fuss” is supposed to be about. Among those previous “gigs” are included her Bedtime Story Pajama Party at Webster Hall in 1995 and her cameo at a Misshapes party in 2005 (and later that night, The Roxy, before its demise). For, even after being launched into the fame game, she’s stayed committed to a city that she feels “shaped” her (as if that shaping wasn’t ultimately done by a repressed Catholic upbringing, the death of her mother, constantly vying for her father’s affections and, in the end, Christopher Flynn).
Nonetheless, interested parties still want to position Madonna’s NY reemergence as a sign that “the city is back.” Most importantly, its nightlife. Per Vogue, Corey Tuttle of The Standard stated, “We carefully curated the guest list to those who were here to have a good time, show creativity and spread love.” So… anyone not willing to acknowledge that New York is a cesspool that only celebrities (and mid-level hangers-on) can enjoy as it’s truly meant to be (thanks to the post-Disney takeover cost of living). Mainly because they can afford to bypass the cesspool part altogether. Yes, Madonna is rich, which certainly helps one’s enjoyment of the world capital of capitalism, but no amount of money can deemphasize the flaccidity of dancing around for a horde that’s only there to record you on their phones (the Madame X Tour really was quite brilliant in that way for banning them). And likely not even because they’re fans, so much as Madonna is now a “novelty” and an “unusual curiosity” to younger generations. And for the older ones still interested, it seemed merely another notch on the belt of saying, “I was there.” This includes Andy Cohen.
Madonna attempted to create the “retro” feeling people wanted by going for a “Justify My Love” meets Erotica era aesthetic, complete with titties out à la Jean-Paul Gaultier fashion show at Shrine Auditorium in September of ’92. That baring of tits was also intended to benefit the LGBTQIA+ community as money raised for the event went to AmFAR. For the PRIDE x BOOM event, Madonna’s Polaroid gambit from the Madame X Tour was back in action, and the money raised here was for the Ali Forney Center (a Gaga favorite as well—#conflict), The Door and Haus of Us. Afterward, Madonna switched from a blue to pink wig—the ones she also wore in her accompanying “art installation” video (P.S. Jenny Holzer wants her steez back) to correspond with the event—to hit up Le Bain, the sister club inside The Standard.
It was there, too, that she did her best to recreate a specific club scene from Truth or Dare. At the time, she was making the “give good face” gesture a lot, but on this night, she opted for straightforward vogueing arms. And oh, how unlike 1990 it all must have felt. Being that Madonna has, up until more recently, been highly averse to revisiting the past, the fact that she’s decided to revert to a “New York club queen” persona who panders by vogueing means that we’ve truly dipped into the bottom of the barrel with regard to ideas for reinvention. Instead, Madonna has opted to reposition this as: “Life is a circle.”
Be that as it may, it won’t change the fact that New York is, to speak plainly, a scam of a shithole. And no matter how many sequins, wigs and painting of faces it tries to dress up in through its clinging masses (the ones who should have known better than to stay this long—that includes Joan Didion and Fran Lebowitz, too), the reality will not be changed. Which is why collective delusion is so important.
Madonna once talked of how NYC felt like an “electric socket” she stuck her finger into because of its energy. She might have gotten some brain damage, like everyone else, from the electrocution. Why else would she bother to continue to subject herself to the pain of trying to recapture a nightlife atmosphere that will always pale in comparison to the way it was? And, regarding that “electric socket” energy, it’s the very kind she’s been accused of—among many other ageist jokes—taking from younger artists every time she kisses them (namely, Britney and Drake [Christina, of course, gets no mention]). To oblige this metaphor, New York City plays the part of Madonna in the scenario, while any naïve ingenue serves as Britney/Drake, all too ready and willing to have their life force sucked out of them if it’s “in service of the city.” They’re still too green to know any better. But what about the, shall we say, older set that keeps holding on to “their” “beloved” city?
For the most part, the fate of the decaying club kid who keeps clinging to clubland is that of Michael Alig, who not so long ago died in relative obscurity after overdosing in a Washington Heights apartment, likely chanting the Lexi Featherston mantra, “I’m so bored I could die.” Madonna is a rare instance of the “forever club baby” who didn’t take a dark turn primarily as a result of the virtue of her fame and fortune. Now she lives on to carry the myth of New York’s “greatness” on her shoulders like so many other Sisyphuses in that town. Touting a pretty message of “oneness” that patently doesn’t ring true when it’s very obvious that everyone sticks to their own ilk in New York, preferring not to mesh with those who “don’t get” what they’re doing. This other false legend about so many unlikely people coming together at any given moment in NY also aids in fueling the inaccurate belief that it is a mecca for “inclusivity.” Yet nobody but “scene queens” and richies were permitted into the Boom Boom Room (a locale Madonna is all too familiar with having to herself, as the “Bitch I’m Madonna” video showcases).
What’s more, New York, despite its reputation for constantly “reinventing the wheel,” in many ways remains perpetually unchanged. And largely because the people in it can’t seem to acknowledge that it’s nothing but concrete fortified by an appeal to nostalgia. Alas, the more one clings to this heady drug, the more depressing it looks from an objective standpoint. Attempting to incorporate the past into this toneless present just seems sadder somehow. Like youths beating an old person with his own cane.
“No Fear, Courage, Resist”—the name of Madonna’s X-STaTIC PRO-CeSS-esque video made to coincide with her cameo at the club—should actually be a mantra people clutching to New York ought to tell themselves. No fear of leaving, having the “courage” to admit the place is shit and, subsequently, to resist the “temptation” to ever return. But no, New York is in full-on “rebranding” mode despite having no new tricks up its sleeve. And yes, like Madonna, it ain’t goin’ nowhere. Unlike Madonna, people don’t seem vexed that it continues to keep reanimating.
