{"id":106396,"date":"2017-01-04T16:02:04","date_gmt":"2017-01-04T21:02:04","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=106396"},"modified":"2017-01-04T16:41:40","modified_gmt":"2017-01-04T21:41:40","slug":"miami-2017","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/01\/04\/miami-2017\/","title":{"rendered":"Miami 2017"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/a>

From the cover of Turnstiles<\/i>, on which \u201cMiami 2017\u201d appears.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Something I\u2019ve noticed about the years: each one has a number, and the numbers are consecutive. It\u2019s a reasonable enough system, I guess, but it has its drawbacks. When you\u2019re keeping count, every new year marches in with an aura of grim inevitability. Hardly anyone was surprised when 2017 came along. We\u2019d suspected it would show up eventually\u2014very likely after 2016.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s a fact that some years are just catchier <\/em>than others. Like brand-name drugs, their numbers vibrate with potential energy, the hale assurance that big things are in store. Think of 2020: what a sleek, hard oval of a year, summoning perfect vision, effortless duplication. You can chant<\/em> 2020. You could found a religion around it. Or 2000, the perennial favorite\u2014always and forever the year of the future, of slimming jumpsuits in flame-retardant synthetic fibers.\u00a0<\/p>\n

For obvious reasons, 2017 hasn\u2019t loomed large in the popular imagination. It\u2019s a bit of a dud. It reeks of the random number generator. Until late last year, no one except economists and steering committees probably gave it too much thought. Sure, Cherry 2000<\/em>, a 1987 Melanie Griffith vehicle, was set <\/em>in 2017, but its creators went with the more beguiling 2000 <\/em>for the title. (It\u2019s named after an android who malfunctions during sex.)<\/p>\n

Only one great prognosticator, one seer and visionary, heard the music of this dull year thudding from afar. I speak of William \u201cBilly\u201d Joel, the Piano Man himself, whose song \u201cMiami 2017 (Seen the Lights Go Out on Broadway)<\/a>\u201d is a foreboding indicator of what the year has in store.<\/p>\n

It doesn\u2019t look good, people. It does not look good.<\/p>\n

\u201cMiami 2017\u201d is a fairly straightforward apocalypse narrative, with a twist: it\u2019s not, on the face of it, about Miami or 2017. It portends a future in which New York has long since crumbled into the sea; the narrator, having fled the hellscape, now lives comfortably in Florida, where he\u2019s telling the youth about Gotham\u2019s fate<\/a>:<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve seen the lights go out on Broadway
\nI saw the mighty skyline fall
\nThe boats were waiting at the battery
\nThe union went on strike
\nThey never sailed at all \u2026<\/p>\n

You know those lights were bright on Broadway
\nThat was so many years ago
\nBefore we all lived here in Florida
\nBefore the Mafia took over Mexico
\nThere are not many who remember
\nThey say a handful still survive
\nTo tell the world about
\nThe way the lights went out
\nAnd keep the memory alive<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Yesterday on 99.5 WCRB\u2019s podcast The Answered Question<\/em>, Joel discussed the origins of the song<\/a>, which he wrote in the midseventies as New York stood on the brink of bankruptcy:<\/p>\n

I was living in LA, I think it was 1975 and New York was having a financial crisis at the time. New York was in pretty bad shape. The city was dirty, there were strikes all over the place, there was a lot of crime \u2026 It was national news when New York applied to the federal government for federal aid, and they turned them down. And the headline said, FORD TO NEW YORK: DROP DREAD …<\/small><\/p>\n

As soon as I saw that headline, I said, wait a minute. If New York\u2019s going down the tubes, I\u2019m gonna go down with it. And I moved back \u2026 I just had these apocalyptic visions of buildings burning and skyscrapers collapsing \u2026 I wanted a sound of a siren that was kind of bone chilling \u2026 I had this vision of hordes of people needing to flee Manhattan Island \u2026<\/p>\n

I wanted to set the time and place for when the song was written. And I thought, Okay, this would probably be happening in the year 2017. It seems like far enough into the future to justify me calling it a science-fiction song. And I wanted the perception to be that he\u2019s an old man, he\u2019s living down in Florida now, and he\u2019s telling his grandchildren the story of what happened in New York City.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Take a step back, and you might find\u00a0that Billy Joel\u2019s apocalypse\u00a0doesn\u2019t sound so bad. The destruction he sings about is old news, after all, and at least there\u2019s still Florida. In fact, apart from the utter collapse of one of the world\u2019s major power centers, things seem pretty much the same. Old people are still moving south and telling long-winded stories to their grandkids.<\/p>\n

People called the song prophetic after 9\/11, and again after Hurricane Sandy. But take out all that business about New York collapsing, and the twenty-first century that Joel projected is basically just a hangover from the twentieth\u2014that was his true prophecy. And as of New Year\u2019s Eve, when he played the song at midnight on New Year\u2019s Eve at the BB&T Center in Miami<\/a>, it\u2019s self-fulfilling, too. The New Yorker has absconded to the Sunshine State to spin us an old yarn about human suffering.<\/p>\n

Like a blackout-drunk karaoke rendition of \u201cWe Didn\u2019t Start the Fire,\u201d the more you think about it, the more depressing it gets. I wonder where, in 1975, Billy Joel thought he\u2019d be when 2017 came around. When he played \u201cMiami 2017\u201d live at Madison Square Garden in 1980, and live again at MSG in 2001, and then again in 2006, and then again in 2012, and then again last year, at what point did he realize that he\u2019d still be at it today, getting choppered in to the Garden from his personal helipad for shows on January 11, February 22, March 3? It must be exhausting, to see how little has changed. He suffers from depression, so he has to have recognized\u00a0it at some point\u2014that there would be one year, and then the next year, and then the one after that, each one with the Piano Man still live at the home of the Knicks, and the Sabrett guys still outside manning the hot-dog carts, and the bus traffic still clogging Seventh and Eighth Avenues, and the people of New York still dragging the skeletons of their Christmas trees out to the curb. He plucked a boring year-number out of the congealed mass of boring year-numbers, and now it\u2019s here, almost just like he pictured it.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dan Piepenbring is the web editor of\u00a0<\/em>The Paris Review.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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