At Chicagoās United Center, the first of two concerts there this week, Madonna again slipped the chorus of Gagaās āBorn This Wayā into the bridge of her own āExpress Yourselfā ā itās a seamless match, for sure ā but let it go without comment. Well, almost. She shouted a bit from āSheās Not Meā at the end.
It seems like pretty catty paranoia from the indisputable queen of pop, as if the Material Girl ā a 1 percenter if ever there were ā has adopted the Republicansā new slogan (āWe built it!ā) and its false sense of rugged individualism. Madonna broke ground for women in pop during the ā80s and easily can justify her worldwide love, but her success is a pastiche quilt, a smart synthesis of the best of the best. Wednesdayās show only lengthened the long list of film and music artists she herself flatters by imitation.
In fact, the opening of her two-hour concert ā full of the usual impressive showmanship, heavy hoofing, mish-mash religious symbolism and garish exhibitionism ā finds the Gen-X megastar, now 54, retooling gruesome scenes as if acting in a Quentin Tarantino film. (Or is it ex-husband Guy Ritchieās?) Kicking through a church window and brandishing a machine gun, Madonna and her legion of dancers careen through several violent set pieces, including pointing weapons into the crowd several times then blowing away various assailants ā their blood splattering across the three-story video screens ā while singing, āI wanna see him die / over and over and over and over ā¦ā (āGang Bangā).
Her typical cheap shock tactics aside, itās not exactly a comfortable thing to watch at the end of this particular summer in Chicago.
In a previous statement, Madge has described this āMDNAā tour, supporting her new album (widely lambasted, though I didnāt hate it), as āthe journey of a soul from darkness to light,ā as well as āpart spectacle and sometimes intimate performance art.ā The Broadway-level production does eventually lighten up, though itās mostly artless and nearly all spectacle. Robed monks quickly turn into shirtless hotties (āGirl Gone Wildā), cheerleaders and little drummer boys prance about (āGive Me All Your Luvināā), thereās the requisite cross-dressing and hand jive (āVogueā), and the whole thing ends in a āTronā-meets-Tetris, feel-good dance party (āCelebrationā).
The finest moments, though, are in the middle ā without all the hoopla. She sings āTurn Up the Radioā alone at a mike on the catwalk strumming a guitar, nothing else. āOpen Your Heartā becomes a rhythmic Basque arrangement, with the full ensemble of dancers casually hanging like real people instead of choreographed cogs. (Here sheās also joined by her 11-year-old son, Rocco Ritchie, busting moves and grinning from ear to ear.) Next, āHolidayā actually feels like one, relaxed and spontaneous.
Itās a refreshing, natural few moments, and it gives Madonna a chance to squeeze in some yammering about Oprah (she was last in United Center early last year for the TV hostās big farewell) and delivering an impromptu homily about self-empowerment and treating āone another with dignity and respect.ā
Performer, heal thyself. Your legacy is secure, and it would be cemented for a whole new generation ā Wednesdayās crowd was, well, my age ā if you took Gaga under your wing instead of clawing at her all the time. Go teach her a thing or two. Girl needs it.
Note: Those with tickets for the Thursday night show (and babysitters at home) should be aware the posted show time is 8 p.m., but on Wednesday (and at most other shows on the tour) Madonna didnāt start until 10:20 p.m. (DJ Paul Oakenfold fills an hour of this time spinning records. Zzzzzzz.)
In fact, the opening of her two-hour concert ā full of the usual impressive showmanship, heavy hoofing, mish-mash religious symbolism and garish exhibitionism ā finds the Gen-X megastar, now 54, retooling gruesome scenes as if acting in a Quentin Tarantino film. (Or is it ex-husband Guy Ritchieās?) Kicking through a church window and brandishing a machine gun, Madonna and her legion of dancers careen through several violent set pieces, including pointing weapons into the crowd several times then blowing away various assailants ā their blood splattering across the three-story video screens ā while singing, āI wanna see him die / over and over and over and over ā¦ā (āGang Bangā).
Her typical cheap shock tactics aside, itās not exactly a comfortable thing to watch at the end of this particular summer in Chicago.
In a previous statement, Madge has described this āMDNAā tour, supporting her new album (widely lambasted, though I didnāt hate it), as āthe journey of a soul from darkness to light,ā as well as āpart spectacle and sometimes intimate performance art.ā The Broadway-level production does eventually lighten up, though itās mostly artless and nearly all spectacle. Robed monks quickly turn into shirtless hotties (āGirl Gone Wildā), cheerleaders and little drummer boys prance about (āGive Me All Your Luvināā), thereās the requisite cross-dressing and hand jive (āVogueā), and the whole thing ends in a āTronā-meets-Tetris, feel-good dance party (āCelebrationā).
The finest moments, though, are in the middle ā without all the hoopla. She sings āTurn Up the Radioā alone at a mike on the catwalk strumming a guitar, nothing else. āOpen Your Heartā becomes a rhythmic Basque arrangement, with the full ensemble of dancers casually hanging like real people instead of choreographed cogs. (Here sheās also joined by her 11-year-old son, Rocco Ritchie, busting moves and grinning from ear to ear.) Next, āHolidayā actually feels like one, relaxed and spontaneous.
Itās a refreshing, natural few moments, and it gives Madonna a chance to squeeze in some yammering about Oprah (she was last in United Center early last year for the TV hostās big farewell) and delivering an impromptu homily about self-empowerment and treating āone another with dignity and respect.ā
Performer, heal thyself. Your legacy is secure, and it would be cemented for a whole new generation ā Wednesdayās crowd was, well, my age ā if you took Gaga under your wing instead of clawing at her all the time. Go teach her a thing or two. Girl needs it.
Note: Those with tickets for the Thursday night show (and babysitters at home) should be aware the posted show time is 8 p.m., but on Wednesday (and at most other shows on the tour) Madonna didnāt start until 10:20 p.m. (DJ Paul Oakenfold fills an hour of this time spinning records. Zzzzzzz.)
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