Our hotel is cool, but really creepy. The universally attractive staff all wear white; some are in shorts, some in trousers and jackets. The rooms are all white, immaculate, stylish, and some of us feel as if we have become inmates in some kind of Stepford mental institution — we're in for reprogramming. Everything is beautiful and perfect, but vacuous. They will help us by wiping out all troubling thoughts and by making us look better.
A man by the elevator — all in white, of course — asked me in a soft, dreamy voice, "Will you be taking some steam today?"
Down by the lounge and pool, it's a meat market. Artificially enhanced specimens of both sexes stroll the grounds. Even the hostess has enormous breasts. The staff speak in sweet, breathy high-pitched tones — like they’re all little girls. Nothing is real. It’s a shocking change from Mexico, even though I realize many of these folks might have come from south of the border.
Walking around the corner for an ice coffee is another world. Gay prostitutes display their tummies on the pedestrian mall. A crew of teens from the 'hood talk tough in a mixture of Spanish and English. Geriatrics whiz by on motorized wheelchairs. And there are fat people.
The bank on the corner has a series of wacky ads that emphasize privacy and how no-one will know from them about your financial affairs. At first this doesn't seem odd in an era of online banking, where all transactions take place in the realm of hard drives, but then I think to myself, maybe there’s more to it. Maybe folks down here have others reasons for keeping their transactions hidden from view. Drug smuggling, for example, is one of the largest industries in and around the United States, so maybe the banks are simply catering to their customers' needs — money laundering and offshore banking.
The venue, the Gusman theater — one of the over-the-top movie/theater palaces that John Eberson built across the country and around the world — is in the center of town. The State Theater in Sydney and the Majestic in San Antonio are other examples. As in some of the others, there is a vaulted, deep blue sky with little stars that twinkle. Fake classical pavilions create a kind of skyline and serve as outposts for spot operators. A stuffed peacock sits on one faux balustrade theater chain — apparently, the peacock was the architect’s symbol.
The place is not quite full. There are some empty seats in the big balcony. But the orchestra, at least, is packed. Maybe I lost some seats to Morrissey, who just did 2 nights ending yesterday at the Jackie Gleason theater in Miami Beach. Maybe others were lost to Laurie Anderson, who was at this venue a few days ago. Whatever, the audience is wildly enthusiastic. By the 7th song or so, they’re up and dancing, a nice mix of younger and some who might even be my age. This being Miami, there are young women intent on displaying their wares. One girl dances like a stripper, or a pole dancer. Most others are slightly less obvious. This seems cheap and tacky to me at first, but by the end of the show I somehow find it hilarious; it’s so over-the-top.
The talk is about Ashlee Simpson, the manufactured rocker, who went on Saturday Night Live and, for whatever reason, decided to rely on her pre-recorded vocal tracks, as these singers often do. However, as I heard it, the band began playing one of her songs but the vocal track that aired live was for a different song. Ooops. Someone is not on that tour anymore.
Sounds like a pretty radical concept, if she’d only gone with it. But the press, who love nothing better than seeing one of these kids they helped build up stumble, had a field day.
I think if a show has enough spectacle, pre-recorded vocals are permissible. Then the show is not about the emotive and personal power of the singer, but about the flash, the sets, the dancing boys and girls, the cool effects and sight gags. One could also say that the singer might be more easily replaced in these kinds of shows. The singer is a just another modular part, like any of the technicians or dancers. This need not be bad, from a purely visual point of view. It means the person can be chosen for their dancing and physical talents. A dark Goth pop spectacle, should one exist, would work best with a pale, dark-haired waif, who moves in a dreamy ethereal manner — a buxom earth mother cast in this role would simply spoil the whole look.
But the Simpson gal doesn't revel in the fakery. They strive for the appearance of a real, punky, expressive young girl fronting a band of her mates. It's realness, but manufactured and carefully manicured realness. So when the curtain is pulled aside and the fakery is revealed, there is embarrassment instead of pride.
Coming out of Miami in the wee hours of the morning, Bobby, who was sitting in the front, noticed that the crew bus was on the wrong side of the highway. There was almost no traffic, so it wasn’t immediately apparent. When he pointed this out to the driver, the driver reacted by moving towards the center. "You’re not going to drive across the median strip, are you!" Bobby exclaimed.
The driver was getting white-knuckled and agitated. A car was approaching in the distance. The driver decided to do a 180. Bobby said "wait, lemme warn the guys in back" (a big sudden turn can throw people out of bunks, smash glasses, etc.). But the driver didn't wait, and stuff and bodies went flying as the bus fishtailed around and pointed itself in the right lane but wrong direction. Bobby had been in a bad bus accident, in which a member of Metallica was killed, so, needless to say, this driver didn't continue on our tour.
