T.E.E. & the death of Andy Warhol

Listening to Kraftwerk's "Trans Europa Express" (T.E.E.) on the radio, you become rather hypnotized by the electrobeat, transported back to a different time. The lyrics, quite minimal, evoke those aimless days staring out the window of a train in Mitteleuropa. Although you could attempt to evoke this experience riding the subway, the underground landscape here—punctuated by a some harsh lightbulbs now and then, occasional graffiti and fascinating clumps of trash—isn't quite what Kraftwerk had in mind in the early 1970's, staring out the window of a classic DB rail car. But I digress. The lyrics (and the T.E.E. train) eventually come around to Iggy Pop and David Bowie. Which reminds me of the fabled New York nightlife of the 70's and early 80's. Iggy and Bowie are still around, possibly through the miracle of megavitamins and various surgical procedures I know nothing about.
But one fabled superstar disappeared 19 years ago this week. While I was listening to T.E.E. (which was itself a famous silver European train no longer in service), I noticed TimesSelect serving up the obituary of Andy Warhol, who died under peculiar circumstances never quite clarified. Warhol was NYC nightlife, the elusive pop artist whose picture was snapped seemingly everywhere at the zenith of his career. Instead of rehashing his movies and books, instead I simply note that certain clubs and personalities thrived because of his extraordinary chameleon-like personality, for Warhol was the original neural network incarnate.
Wild rumors circulated at the time of his death that New York Hospital, purely through incompetence, let him die. While his obituary states that he suffered a heart attack after routine gallbladder surgery, it was a peculiar death, one perhaps not thoroughly investigated due to the lack of next-of-kin pressing for an investigation. At age 58 (younger than me), we lost a seemingly immortal figure, one who despite tremendous wealth and power in the world of commercial art, suddenly perished in a Manhattan hospital bed, shrivelled like a withered flower. NYC's chief medical examiner, Dr. Elliot M. Gross, was quoted as saying: ''It was an unexplained death of a relatively young person in apparently good health.' And Andy was gone.
While some of today's nightlife hot spots evoke the spirit of yesteryear, nowhere in the clubs can be found a contemporary American artist who embodies those dizzying contradictions, celebrity mixed with commercial genius, or a keenly astute eye for life and art that Warhol had. It was Andy's Age. A famous illustrator told me a story in the mid-80's about a dinner party she attended. Warhol, who frequently wore wigs and spoke in strange phrases to cover up his social anxieties and also enhance the mystique of his complex personality, seemed adrift at this high-power table. So he simply refused all food, declaring, "I only eat candy." Of course, this story has been retold by numerous people in numerous ways, placing Warhol at innumerable similar functions. But you get the point: in this age of pharmaceuticals, cellphones, and global jihad, we haven't got anyone like Warhol. In contrast, Kraftwerk, like Iggy and Bowie, have undergone perpetual reincarnation in slightly different forms. Had Warhol not gone for gallbladder surgery that day, where would he be today? A sobering thought.

Tags:   andy warhol, kraftwerk, new york hospital, nightlife, trans europa express

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Posted on 2/21/2006 ( Permanent Link )
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