OutKast at the Theater at Madison Square Garden; The First Ever Madonna Convention; Jon Spencer
I was walking through the long-ass tunnel that leads to the Theater at Madison Square Garden?it's sorta the carpeted twin brother of that block-long subway transfer between Times Square and Port Authority?when I fully realized that I'd paid $60 to see OutKast. I'd ordered the tickets as soon as they went on sale, without a second thought, and now, looking at my stub to check my section number and seeing the price, it hit me that if you pay that much to see a ballgame, you get waiter service at your seat. And here I was instead in a half-assedly decorated BMT station passing itself off as a "Theater."
Next thing that hit me was "Gasoline Dreams," then "ATLiens" and "SpottieOttieDopaliscious," also "Skew It on the Bar-B" and "Elevators (Me & You)" and "Da Art of Storytellin'" and damn these guys have a lot of great songs. Seeing such energetic performers frontload like that and still have enough for a big finish ("Rosa Parks," "Ms. Jackson" and "B.O.B.," as it turned out) reminded the critic in me what the fan had been on about: these guys put out their fourth good album at age 25. They're humongous talents operating on humongous budgets. How many times has that happened?that a major label made a whatever-it-takes investment in developing real artists' careers?in the last 10 years? Twice?
OutKast's Big Boi and Andre have natural chemistry. It's expressed in their every gesture and ad lib, and even in the complementary colors of their costumes, so they don't have to force it at all. In fact they hardly went near each other, working opposite sides of the crowd most of the show. After a costume change, Andre wore high-waisted, lime-green genie pants with no shirt, while Big Boi sported an orange-and-black version of what in Rodney Dangerfield's Easy Money was introduced as the "Regular Guy Look," i.e., a matching patterned bowling shirt and Bermuda shorts. They're larger than life, those two.
They brought harmony to hiphop in at least three ways?by resolving playa/poet duality, rendering the East-West question moot and then, literally, by writing ensemble-sung melodies worthy of coexistence with the strangest art form going. It's live-hiphop law that choruses will be off-key, but OutKast is touring with three well-rehearsed backup singers, and even Andre's solo falsetto in "Red Velvet" ("Little did he know that/Waiting in the closet") was dead-on. They've also got two Funkadelic-style guitarists, a bunch of the guest rappers from Stankonia (including protege Slimm Calhoun, BackBone of "We Luv Deez Hoez" and Big Gipp from Goodie Mob, who stole the sartorial show with his fringed suit cut from a Confederate flag), a four-man step-dance team and a DJ in their touring ensemble. Their stage set makes it look as if they're all in a hollowed-out sequoia.
Most in the crowd appeared to be college students. Probably a few had only just caught on to OutKast with this season's heavy rotation of "Ms. Jackson." Andre prodded the audience with "You think Stankonia is OutKast's first album?" while introducing the 1993 single "Player's Ball," and everybody screamed in the negative, but that song, "Hootie Hoo" and "Ain't No Thang" (all from debut album Southernplayalisticadillamuzik) didn't get much response. Even at the show's peak moments the whole place wasn't dancing, unfortunately?partly because the low-ceilinged house was packed too tight, and partly, I think, because young rap fans are so accustomed to not getting their money's worth, they don't even know to want it.
Adam Heimlich
But that's not why I don't like Madonna. In fact, that's one of the reasons I do like Madonna. My feelings for Madonna are complicated. I like that Madonna is slutty. I'm slutty too. I have dreams of helming an underground postmillennial feminist revolution that embraces the pursuit of cheap sex. I would lead a vast army in the total destruction of outdated social mores such as marriage, traditional two-parent child-rearing and heterosexuality. But that's a whole other story.
Another reason I like Madonna: I'm into the whole transformation thing. I like the crucifix-laden-punk-chick turns gangster moll turns s&m dominatrix turns Zen free spirit turns rodeo queen schizophrenia. I like that she's a fag hag because I'm a fag hag too. As Mink Stole once told me, "All you really need in life is a lot of gay friends who like to cuddle." Wise words.
Like I said, my feeling are complicated. To sort out my Madonna dilemma I decided to drop in at the First Ever Madonna Convention, held down the street from my Hollywood apartment at the regal Palace Theater. It was raining, but the place was packed with cheery revelers dancing the night away to a full Madonna back catalog. Tinsel and balloons hung from the ceiling and the walls were festooned with posters. It was like prom night at Madonna High, only the kids weren't kids, they were older, old enough to drink at the overpriced bar, old enough to perform delightfully lewd dances to "Like a Virgin."
Despite its name, the convention didn't seem quite like a convention. There were only a few booths hawking Madonna gear, no panel discussions on Shanghai Surprise and the demise of the Penn/Ciccone partnership. There was one guy selling picture discs and the original Blond Ambition bustier lay limply on a mannequin, but that was about it.
Nobody seemed to care. These people were here to party, to share that sweet Madonna love, to bond in their mutual adoration. The whole thing made me nervous. There's something about fan conventions that lodges a pang of melancholy in my heart. Something about this kind of obsession I find somehow...lonely. But that's just me.
After all, how could anyone possibly be unhappy? There was rare video footage, an Austin Powers impersonator and a lipsync contest, which seemed to be what everyone had been waiting for with bated breath. Contestants were invited up from the audience and the stage soon filled with men and women (mostly men) mouthing the words to their favorite songs. The crowd roared appreciation or shouted jeers. Eventually only three competitors remained, all of them with highly stylized routines and costumes that must have taken weeks to prepare. These people were serious, serious about Madonna, serious about winning.
Erika, a handsome man in stockings and a blonde wig, did a fabulous rendition of "Vogue." Two muscular men with their shirts off gyrated erotically to a ballad. But the ultimate crowd pleaser was Silhouette, who, with her chap-wearing dance partner, did that hoedown thing from the Music album. Her hair was perfect. The cowboy hat was perched at just the right jaunty angle. She had a shy, endearing sort of look on her face, a mixture of concentration, nervousness and delight. When the song was over everyone went wild. It wasn't until later, passing by her in the hall, that I realized Silhouette was a man, albeit a very pretty one. He told me he was a makeup artist, which explained the perfect blue liner and contoured cheekbones. He and his chap-wearing pal spent the rest of the evening being pawed and ogled at. Madonna wasn't there, but Silhouette provided the next best thing.
Madonna's absence at the convention was not the void it might have been. Instead of her presence you got the yearning for her presence, the hollow space filled by men in platinum wigs and ball gowns, breathlessly professing their adoration. And that was nearly enough. Like all people who badly want to be loved, Madonna gives a whole lot of love herself, a whole lot of acceptance and understanding to those who deserve it most, her fans. For them she is womanhood turned to 11, the virgin/whore, mother and sister and everything in between. Madonna's embrace of her sexuality allows others to feel comfortable with their own.
You know, now that I think about it, maybe I do like Madonna. Maybe her dubious singing ability and wet blanket screen presence don't matter. Maybe it's not about that at all. Maybe it's about accepting yourself for who you are. Maybe it's about being whoever you please. Maybe it's about finding success despite mediocrity, which is a beautiful thing if you can swing it.
Like I said, my feelings are complicated.
Jessica Hundley
The Blues Explosion has evolved during its 11 years of existence, and Spencer's gradually moved away from the postmodern, anti-rock sleaze-core he broke off the Pussy Galore model to initially start the Blues Explosion. In fact, they didn't perform a single song from before their 1994 Orange album, much to the disappointment of fans screaming for "Afro." Even Spencer's appearance has been updated. He came out donning new longer hair and a big, bushy hippie beard that seemed to say that despite his downtown fabulous tight-leather-pants, his days as a pretty-boy Calvin Klein model are behind him (thank the Lord).
What's remained the same, however, is that Spencer commands a stage. This is the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion playing New York. It's his band; his town; his club. And just a few songs into the show, perched above the moshing youngsters and swooning ladies who'd pushed their way up to the stage, he reminded everyone that he knows it: "Y'all can just kiss my ass, cuz your girlfriend still loves me," and you just know he's right.
Over the years the Blues Explosion shtick has had the tendency to paint the band into a corner. Spencer is legendary for his over-the-top Al Green meets the Cramps routine, but after a decade of doing it (and doing it with a gumption and a passion that are both amazing and inspiring to witness), it sometimes feels a bit played out, as shtick is wont to do. But it's clear that even with their respective side projects, the sweaty, jittery-eyed Spencer, the cool, indie rock aloof Judah Bauer and spastic, rhythm machine Russell Simins all realize that the collective Blues Explosion whole is greater than its parts. So when the shtick started to feel stale to the band, they decided it was better to explore new, more conventional territory than break up or just go through the motions year after year.
The change was most stark about an hour into the show when Spencer stepped back and fired up the theremin. The knowing crowd rejoiced because they knew that meant it was finally time to get "Sticky" and take things into the extended encore with a psychedelic noisefest that is part soulful tribute to Otis Redding (Spencer writhing around on the ground while pumping a series of baritone "I Love Ya! I Love Ya!"s into the mic), and an ear-piercing noise-rock assault that can go on so long that some people in the crowd will cover their ears and freak out. But after no more than two or three minutes of theremin wizardry, the band shocked the crowd by taking things down about 30 notches and calmly closing the set with "Magical Colors," a slow, sweet love song that's probably the most commercial thing they've ever recorded. And then, just to make sure they'd properly reminded everyone of their dominance, they tested both their own and the crowd's stamina during a brilliantly sloppy, gut-bucket encore that included "Blues X Man" and concluded with a storm of dueling, demented guitar riffs and the multiple stop-then-restart playfulness of "Get Down Lover."
By the time Russell Simins finally got up from the kit and threw his drumsticks into the crowd, no one was thinking about what the new record would be like. Everyone there that night realized that even if the Blues Explosion did an album filled with Carole King covers, they'd still kill when they took it on the road.
Mike Bruno