"Hope I Live To Tell..."
Madonna Launches 'Confessions' Tour In Los Angeles
05/22/2006 3:00 AM, Yahoo! Music
Lyndsey Parker
An onstage roller-disco complete with a fleet of satin-jacketed rollergirls and -boys. A shofar (Jewish horn) solo and traditional Hebrew incantation by a turban-swaddled man named Isaac, followed by a Fosse-style chair dance and some ghetto-blaster dry-humping. A politicized video montage starring Adolf Hitler, Dick Cheney, Tony Blair, Osama bin Laden, Richard Nixon, George Bush, and starving African children. A futuristic mechanical bull equipped with oddly gynecological-looking steel stirrups. And no less than seven costume changes, including three leotards, one unitard, a Saturday Night Fever Tony Manero leisure suit, a crown of thorns, and an electric cape emblazoned with the rightful title of "Dancing Queen."
All of this may sound like the makings of Cirque Du Soleil, the Eurovision Song Contest, Live 8, a lost weekend in Vegas, and an evening at either the Kabbalah Centre or Coyote Ugly rolled into one. But of course, it was just the opening night of Madonna's much-hyped Confessions tour in Los Angeles.
Proving that music does indeed make the people come together, Madonna debuted her new show-of-shows before an adoring mixed audience of drag queens, moms, grandmas, club kids, and yuppies at L.A.'s Forum on Sunday, May 21 (her first of three sold-out nights at the 16,000-capacity venue). She launched her set with a sultry homage to the Donna Summer/Giorgio Moroder disco anthem "I Feel Love" while dressed in equestrian fetish-wear and brandishing a whip (a nod to both her recent horsey W photo spread and the 2005 horse-riding accident from which she has triumphantly recovered), and from that moment on, she was off and galloping, taking the audience on a truly wild ride.
She showed she could still be shocking after all these years by singing "Live To Tell" while suspended, Christ-like, from a mirror-paneled crucifix; demonstrated her basic but unexpectedly solid guitar-playing skills during "I Love New York" (while looking like a supremely badass rock star in a patent-leather motorcycle jacket and glammy feather boa); revealed some bull-riding moves that would make Debra Winger green with envy; and was basically a walking (make that strutting) advertisement for power yoga as she flaunted her finely muscled, mind-bogglingly age-resistant physique in shiny, second-skin Spandex throughout.
Despite the surprising and disappointing lack of an encore (what, no "Like A Prayer"? no "Borderline"? no "Material Girl," even?), during her breathless two-hour set the Divine Miz M justified not only her audience's love, but her somewhat exorbitant $350 ticket price as well. It can safely be said that those 16,000 fans got their money's worth, and then some.
"Weird, Al," you'll say. But yes, here's a review of the opening of the Madonna tour. Your next question, "For Fuck's Sake Al!!! Why?" Because I am ticketed. Signed, sealed, and delivered, I am to be subjected to the material girl. In a fit of stupidity, I purchased Mrs. B.H. tix to this fandango for Mother's day.
Any chance Ms. M will pull a real self-crucifixion before the smoke and mirrors show rolls into NYC? (God, if you're listening, it's just this one small thing I ask. I recant on the Pam Anderson requests and the multiple college girls / Shakira / that chick from the Black Eyed Peas / every other hottie wishes. 'K?)
2 Comments:
Al,
I assume you scored Mrs. Bangorhard front row seats--because you love her--so here's what you do: heckle the Material Girl. From the moment she walks onstage start yelling "Do 'Papa Don't Preach!' I Made Up My Mind--I'm Keepin' My Baby!!!!" Get all fucked up on Bangorhard Brew and really bust a lung.
You're welcome, Moveitfred
6:07 PM
Here's a true story: I was at the Allman's reunion in the early 90s (I think around 94). Dicky Betts had just gotten out of jail, so it was their first show in a good while. I had a friend reviewing the show for a city paper and we had press passes (down in the orchestra section real close to stage). This super drunk fucking idiot kept screaming "Freebird." The first time got a few chuckles, 'cause everyone thought he was just fucking around with the southern rock thing. Then he did it again and again...we all started thinking, "he really thinks that the Allman's did Freebird." Then he kept going and going. Over and over and over. Finally (after like 100 times of screaming it really loud) a big Harley fucker went over and punched him square in the face about as hard as I've ever seen anyone punched. Needless to say, the lush went down like a bag of pudding.
Maybe I'll try that routine, "Freebird...Freebird..."
7:21 PM
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