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Thursday, January 30, 2003
...looking like something hocked up by Liberace during a laudanum-infused Barbarella nightmare.
Thanks to the Mad Coyote for pointing me to this Mark Morford column that I obviously missed:
But there was something very wrong about this, something a little off, and you couldn't put your finger on it right away, because Shania's eight-minute soul-molesting medley was script perfect and Vegas tacky and she hit all her stage marks and sported that godawful glittery faux-goth trailer-park hotpants ensemble thing, looking like something hocked up by Liberace during a laudanum-infused Barbarella nightmare.
Too harsh? Nah. She lip-synched every word. She completely faked it. She was a walking mannequin, all hair and teeth and strings pulled from above. Nothing new there, though as a culture we're probably more accustomed to such simulated performance from non-singers like Britney or J.Lo, rather than someone who professes to be an actual crossover diva "artist," but still.
But then No Doubt and Sting came onstage, immediately after Shania's perfect prerecorded fist-pumping lounge act and just after she tossed around her perfectly shellacked faux sexuality like dimestore confetti, and from the first note of the other acts, you saw it. You got it. And you understood.
They actually sang. They talked to the audience. They were genuinely into the music they wrote and their movements weren't at all scripted and their voices weren't perfect and they were breathing hard into the mics because they were running around the stage, and Gwen was moving and gyrating spontaneously like a love goddess on ecstasy and therein lies the biggest difference: They may still be pop confections, but at least they genuinely taste good.
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