The year was 2002. I was in Manhattan on a bitterly cold January night. The Towers had recently tumbled. I had been one of 17 people on the plain into Newark; I could sit wherever I wanted. I was in the city on some business. But I had an evening. And since I am a theater person, I went to take in a musical.
I went to “Urinetown: The Musical.”
It’s not a well-known show. It’s a satire on, well, any scarce resource and how those in power use the scarcity to build their own wealth and further their grip. (It also makes fun of the musical genre itself, but that’s a whole other story.) Within the plot, you have to pay to pee, and those without resources often break the strict laws and get punished by being “sent to Urinetown.” And yes, given the subject matter, it was tremendously funny to watch the audience rush to the restrooms at intermission.
BUT—right within that musical of lighthearted numbers (on serious subjects), there was one that absolutely caught my attention. If anything could have scared the s**t out of me that night, it was this one: “Cop Song.”
I couldn’t find anything on Youtube from the Broadway production. This one comes pretty close to what I saw. You should take a look. (And because it’s a patter song with a lot of words going by fast, here are the lyrics.)
Yes. That’s right. A Broadway musical. This song said it directly. All the violence of law enforcement, enhanced with the obvious pleasure in that violence. The fun of smacking someone (“hoarders”) with a night stick; the delight in trampling traitors with hobnail boots. And, I’m sure it’s no spoiler because the “Urine-tomb” line almost says it directly: Urinetown is death. The characters named—and taunted by the melody? They are dead. Every one of them.
Like the rest of the audience, I started to applaud when the lights went out and the music seemed to come to an end. But then the orchestra went on—and so did the flashlights. The taunts continued, and the flashlight beams sought out their victims in the audience. And that’s when I realized that what was already a lighthearted but disturbing song was no longer fun.
I thought: This is a police state. They are looking for us.
These are not “bad apples.” These are enforcers, claiming their psychic reward for enforcing. (It doesn’t hurt that the character names are Officers Lockstock and Barrel. There’s something wrong with the whole barrel!)
I know that there are good cops, men and women who genuinely want to do what is right. But as long as the violence of enforcement seems like fun—that’s the first sign of apple rot. The officers I have known and respected talk frequently about the danger of the job, and I get that. I really do. But they also relish the thrill of being an agent of retribution. That doesn’t get talked about so much, but it has been so prevalent with every police officer I have ever met. Even my friends. I hear a lot of talk about reform. What I don’t hear talked about is the damage that springs from this kind of thrill.
I look at the videos and stills from Minneapolis. From Georgia. From Kentucky. I look at the faces of the ones who are supposed to “protect and serve.” They have this same smile! This is pleasurable to them. This is 2. This is what they do, and they enjoy doing it. And I think: I’ve seen this smile before. Not just the last case, not just the last news cycle, or the last week, or last month, or even last year.
I saw it—in a theater. In 2002.