Christmas with the Kids

HERE'S A DISTURBING development: I have now attended enough Z100 Jingle Balls and Summer Zootopias for the elevator operator at Madison Square Garden to remember me. Actually, maybe that's not so surprising. I'm probably the only 80-year-old journalist who shows up regularly to enjoy flushed young girls gathered for concerts that sum up the year in mainstream pop music.

And yet I'm not here to ogle the audience. As usual, I've opted to spend the evening in the backstage press area. This allows me access to walk out beneath the main stage, where I can look up the skirts of various singers and dancers. Or at least that's my fond memory of Jingle Balls Past. Tonight's show features a new in-the-round setting that includes the creation of a cleverly named "Worst Seats in the House" section.

The new set-up has eliminated my own access to the best seats in the house. This is made more tragic as Gwen Stefani's all-Asian backing dancers walk past in naughty schoolgirl outfits that would be banned from a live telecast.

At least I've grown really fond of watching happy young millionaires enduring the usual idiotic questioning from assorted entertainment writers. It's become one of my happiest times of the year. Consider Ryan Cabrera, who informs us that the highlight of his year was, "Getting my own ringtone!" That's just likable. The guys from Good Charlotte come through in typical style, too. Some ditz from a cable-access show asks them to pontificate on how music can contribute to world peace.

"Let's face it," one member wisely replies, "there's never been world peace."

It's always good to get a close-up look at young celebs such as Lindsay Lohan and Hilary Duff-as well as the MILFs who always seem to be part of their entourage. There's never any problem getting out to see the show, either. It's a pretty good line-up, despite this year having already offered way too much Maroon 5 and Switchfoot. However, it's disappointing to see that Skye Sweetman didn't have a good enough year to make the cut.

Duff's performing, though, and that's certainly worth watching-even if she doesn't include "Crash World" in her short set. And her song about how the girl can rock is actually the best case against that theory.

The real shining star will be Vanessa Carlton alone on piano, as she suddenly sounds like everything good that anyone's ever made up about Tori Amos. There's also an hilarious hardcore old-skool rap intro for JoJo. Thugs stalk the stage as the DJ calls out for some respect. Then the 13-year-old pop princess prances out, and the gangstas suddenly develop a serious case of jazz hands.

Gwen Stefani steals the show with a real stage spectacle built around studly marching drummers. I take some consolation in seeing that someone's stuck about eight yards of chiffon up the skirts of her dancers. The other big act of the night is Ashlee Simpson. It's as important to see her in 2004 as it was to see Ricky Martin in 1999. Her performance includes the most unfortunate quote of the evening. "This song is called 'Pieces of You,'" Ashlee announces, "and I want to hear you sing!" Good thing the crowd is too excited to bother with snappy comebacks.

I'm making all these clever observations whenever I'm not casing the Talent Gift Lounge. The makeshift tent holds the hi-tech freebies for performing artists, and it's being closely guarded from the front. However, I've maneuvered from behind to locate the lounge's secondary tent. This is where they're storing additional merchandise waiting to be put on display.

Last summer, I was able to sneak in after the show and abscond with a large amount of Citrus Samba Chiclets. Now I've got my eye on a Canon ELPH camera. I wait until Simpson finishes her set to make my move. It won't matter if I get kicked out and have to miss Good Charlotte. I've already seen them this year.

My big break comes as Stefani is heading out through the back of the Talent Gift Lounge. Security is understandably distracted while she poses for some pictures with her band of female schoolgirl assassins. I've noticed some shiny metal boxes through the sheer fabric of the tent. They're sitting on a table that's conveniently close to a slitted opening. These have to be either ELPHs or Swatches.

Stefani smiles for yet another picture. My hand creeps into the tent like I'm some kind of silent-movie villain. I'm careful to grab two of the boxes. It's Christmastime, so I'm thinking of others. Then I deftly slip the loot into my bag without so much as a glance. I won't check out my ill-gotten gains until I'm safely in the elevator-where I discover that I've stolen two containers of Altoids.

At least that's a higher street value than Chiclets.

I come up a loser again later in Atlantic City, where a lot of old people have gathered to see a middle-aged guy play a teen idol. Kevin Spacey is pushing his Bobby Darin biopic Beyond the Sea with a series of tribute concerts, and I've somehow decided it would be clever to see him in the showbiz setting of the Xanadu Room at Trump Taj Mahal.

I would've been better off waiting for the New York City show. It's never a good sign when the ushers are better dressed than the crowd. I'd have gladly bought my own tickets just to get in a better section of the very big room. In fact, I'll now consider buying any ticket to be a smart investment against having to sit next to another dull journalist who can't hack out a review without busily transcribing the entire concert.

Beyond the Sea is a great film that will get lots of bad reviews. Few critics will appreciate how director/star Spacey has made a big-screen version of an in-living-color NBC tv special from 1966. The movie adores Darin. The filmmaker's enthusiasm keeps coming through onstage. Spacey wisely starts things off by noting that he's not here to do a Darin impersonation. His phrasing will still be a casually perfect duplication throughout the show.

I can't be sure about some elements of the live renditions, of course. Spacey's been surrounded by old Darin cohorts, so everything's probably historically accurate. The same can be said for Spacey's shark-skin tux with a chartreuse vest. Interestingly, there seems to be a lot of dedicated Spacey fans in attendance. I guess it's the same kind of contingent that would've come to Broadway and saved Dance of the Vampires if he'd taken over the lead role.

There's even a shout of "Keyser!" as Spacey first addresses the audience. "The bar must be open early tonight," says Spacey, in true showbiz patter. He probably would've said something wittier if he wasn't being an actor playing a performer. Spacey never quite breaks through that barrier, but that just makes for a particularly interesting performance. It also allows for a genuinely touching moment when Spacey slows things down for a spectacular "If I Was a Carpenter" and "Bridge Over Troubled Water."

The set list is vaguely chronological, which allows the night to become truly memorable through some planned obsolescence. "We're not afraid to get funky," Spacey announces, as the 17-piece band gears up for a lousy rendition of the Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons' hit "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You." Bobby Darin could improve on the Rolling Stones, but he simply couldn't handle modern pop. There's a reason he spent his final years trying to become a folkie.

To his credit, Spacey's equally awful at stumbling into Darin's short-lived 70s. That's a real tribute act. The audience joins in for some mass ineptitude. As noted during a recent Zombies concert, old people simply have no sense of rhythm. Everyone tries to clap along with Spacey's tortured dance hit. The resultant sound is like a herd of drunken Clydesdales stumbling through the room. Spacey's having a good time. The audience is having a good time. And I'm having a good time, too, but partly because all of this enthusiasm makes me feel pretty sure that Darin was better off dead back in 1973.