In such hard times, we each indulge desperately in our treats. For me there are the rugalach from Sandy in CA – lovingly removed from the freezer, one each week; there are the new cupcakes which Jess sent in the mail from D.C.; and there is television. In these gloomy days, I have a heightened excitement about upcoming shows I think might make me forget for 30 or 60 minutes all the foul fumes hovering around me.
A couple of weeks ago I saw the announcement of a Bruno Mars special on CBS, Live from the Apollo. I’m a Mars geek, I admit it, and I’m not ashamed. Supposedly this show was going to be a greatest hits kinda thing. I knew better than to expect to hear my early hit faves (love the videos) from Doo-Wop and Holligans, like “The Lazy Song” and “Grenade.” But I did expect a good dose of 24K Magic, as the special was billed that way.
Instead I got an over-produced mix of Vegas flashing lights and faux-Broadway homogeneous melodies, seemingly choreographed by American Idol and using the screaming, screeching audience of Dancing with the Stars. I had cleared the living room. I was ready to dance. Instead I got seconds of a recognizable tune followed by soppy melodrama. The theme seemed to be: Look at Bruno! I’ve become a sex symbol.
Remember what a sweet thing Bruno was singing “Just the Way You Are?” Not in this show. It opens with him running around Harlem as if he was hearing about it for the first time, and blessing it with his presence. He caused girls, girls, girls to be all aflutter as he bopped down the street or leaned out of his car passing out free tickets to the Apollo. He said he had rented the hall, lined up the band and the backup, and was doing all the inviting. Amazing how he managed to fill the hall in gorgeous slender women in their 20s, all weepy with love, waving their hands in unison, and singing along to lyrics of songs I could not recognize. Oh, and then there was Mary, wearing her red dress, an older woman he met on her Harlem stoop whom the producers had placed alone in a box over stage right so that Bruno could patronize her with a love song.
He started out with his band on top of the marquee – the crowd down below was perfectly coordinated in their hand-waving – and then he moved inside. In one section he did an implicit turn as a wannabe Michael Jackson in a red sorta-Thriller-like jacket. He moved into a Motown-ish set: it was soothing at first but then song after song was arranged by someone with little to no courage or creativity. It was boring.
Worst of all, Bruno did gross exaggerated pelvic thrusts – ruining on the spot his rep as a cool dancer, while the young women screamed and hollered. Really? Who get the vapors over hyperbolic humping? When explaining to a friend why I was giving up an evening of West Coast Swing to stay home with a spliff and my 32” non-HD TV, I said that I considered Bruno the heir to Michael’s dance crown. I take it back.
I thought I’d have one night off from misery, but I was wrong. I hold tRump responsible, of course, if not Putin.
This is, finally, one current disaster for which the PoTS is not responsible. He did however manage to ruin the day of one Theresa May Scrivener, through his incompetence with Twitter. This would be amusing if he were displaying some competence elsewhere but he has also been promoting the cause of far right groups in the UK. Really? When is the America which is trying to become great again going to do something about this? A Prime Minister who behaved like this would have lost a vote of confidence in the House of Commons long since.
Posted by: Mike Evans | 01 December 2017 at 05:12