I am screaming and punching myself

Stars, friends, champagne and doughnuts: our New York anniversary trip

J and I went to New York to celebrate our one-year wedding anniversary week before last. Traditionally, the first year is the paper anniversary, and as it turned out, that was quite appropriate, because we both got each other tickets for stuff.

The impetus to go to NYC in the first place was, as I mentioned earlier, the historic appearance of Kylie Minogue on American soil, right around our anniversary date! (I got the Kylie tickets.)

And what a show it was! It's not often I use the word "extravaganza" unironically, but Kylie's Monday show on Oct. 12 was a freaking extravaganza. Kylie performed 24 songs in a little under two hours with barely a break. There were eight dancers, a live band with a horn section, impressive sets and a group of movable LED screens that augmented the sets and the atmosphere, and kept the spectacle going whenever Kylie and the dancers had to slip offstage for one of six costume changes.

Kylie came into our world as she was lowered on a big shiny skull with an apparent fire in it (?) doing the classic countdown intro to "Light Years." I'm not sure what the deal with the skull was; maybe giving death the finger after surviving breast cancer?

Apparently, the first costume change didn't work properly, so in what I consider to be a typical Kylie move, she came back onstage in her "space goddess" costume and her dancers handed her a big flouncy robe to sing in. So cute. Honestly, though, that might have been part of the show. I'm not sure; I couldn't hear or understand a lot of what she said between songs.

But I heard what she sang just fine, and she sounded lovely. The voice that seems a little nasal in the studio came out as a beautiful, rich soprano in concert, and only seemed to get stronger as the show went on. Before the finale of "Love At First Sight," she led the audience in a soaring a capella singalong of "Your Disco Needs You."

J took a picture of me watching the show and later told me, "You looked like it was Christmas morning." I couldn't believe I was actually watching someone whose music I've loved for years, and who's been something of a personal inspiration, and that I was so close to her. The dazzling spectacle of Kylie's show was appreciated, to be sure, but what mattered most to me was the honor, if you will, of watching a master do what she does.

I still don't get the flaming skull, though.

J had bought us some tickets as well: two fourth-row seats at "A Steady Rain," starring Hugh Jackman and Daniel Craig. Talk about watching masters do what they do!

The play itself was kinda meh; it would have made a pretty good episode of Law & Order. Two childhood friends grow up to become Chicago cops, and during the course of the play, the role of alpha dog subtly shifts. But, as my friend Gabriel wisely pointed out, people weren't there to see the play itself.

One of my favorite aspects of the play was the casting: it would have been so easy to have Daniel Craig play the bully and Hugh Jackman play the more sensitive lost soul, but they flipped the roles. The result is a Jackman whose showman energy makes him a bad guy you almost hate to hate, and a Craig who seems almost to apologize for his presence. It's fantastic work on both their parts.

Like the Kylie show, seeing Jackman and Craig in person was something of a once-in-a-lifetime event. Now that I think of it, so was our first anniversary.

(When we arrived home, I learned my unemployment benefits would be running out that week, and two days later I got a major case of the flu. But for that five-day weekend, all was lovely.)

Worshipping at The Church of Kylie

By the time you read this, J and I will be on our way home from New York, where we spent a 5-day weekend celebrating our 1-year anniversary, the dear friends we have in the area, the fact that Daniel Craig and Hugh Jackman are on Broadway and the show I never thought I'd be able to see: Kylie Minogue in North America!

The video quality is about what you'd expect for a concert, but dude! She sang while dancers were holding her above their heads in a split! That's a level of showmanship (and athleticism!) that I can only genuflect before.

I've been a Kylie fan for years now, but I came to The Church of Kylie relatively late in Our Lady of The Insured Kiester's career. My first Kylie album was Fever; I had to go into the back catalog to discover the wonder that was Light Years.

J and I went to the Monday night show, while my beloved friend Gabriel caught Sunday's show. Since we heard of her tour in early summer, Gabriel and I have been "squee!"ing to each other over Facebook. He posted a set list from her Oakland show last week, so I was able to put together an iTunes playlist for concert preparation.

And as I listened to her signature brand of dance-pop, I realized part of what makes Kylie so special: there's a fundamental sweetness to her musical persona. Even when she's singing about sex, there's nothing sleazy about it; it's all vague wantings and desirings. She'll lick her lips, but it's with a smile rather than a pornulated pout.

Plus, you get the sense from listening to her songs that she'd be so much fun to be around, that she'd make as good a friend as a lover, if not better (Kylie's musical persona has a history of broken relationships, I'm afraid). 

Now, I realize that all of this is part of her job as an international pop star and gay icon. But Her Holiness does that job better than just about anyone else on the planet. That's what makes her divine.

Songs stuck in my head, pt. 1

(This could be an endless series, 'cause the worst possible crap gets locked on in the jukebox of my mind.)

Today, I have what is, arguably, one of the worst songs ever to taint the airwaves of AM radio stuck in my head. You know what I'm talking about: "Loving You (Is Easy 'Cause You're Beautiful)." It's awful! It's insipid, it's inane, it's sleazy and it's seriously shallow. It's also physically painful to listen to in parts; this song could, conceivably, kill someone with a big enough metal plate in their head.

You can't do it for karaoke, which ... actually, might be a slightly mitigating factor, now that I think about it. That's the truly horrifying thing: the Minnie Ripperton version is the best version possible of this loathsome song. Check it out here, done with strings and a classically-trained soprano -- it's even worse! The sleaze seems oilier when sung with perfect diction!

Even the soul poured into it by a contestant in what I think might be a Vietnamese (?) version of American Idol can't redeem this icky song. I would give her points for effort, but I'm not sure this song should be sung ever, by anyone.

The MIDI version wants to do horrible, horrible things to you. Whether or not  you let it is between you and your God.

Hopefully, I've spread the disease-like meme of this song around far enough now that it will leave me in peace. It will be replaced with something equally obnoxious before too long, though.

Why I hate America

Well, I don't hate them, per se, I just don't understand how they racked up the success they did, and I change the channel any time I hear one of their songs, and I just sort of generally can't stand them. Wait, what? No, no, I didn't mean it like that! Fine country; lovely people.

But the band, dear Lord. I was reminded of my profound anti-Americanism weekend before last, when J and I found ourselves watching part of The Last Unicorn out of sheer inertia. What motivated me to change the channel? This song.

Radio static

I was planning to do a first-listen review of the new Used album today. Unfortunately, Berth is a live CD/DVD with no new songs on it. And while all 8 of the songs are good ones, and The Used are a great live band, I'm just not as thrilled as I would be for a new studio album. I'll probably blog about Berth eventually, but I'll have to put my hand to it first; I couldn't find it in either of the stores I checked today. Damn, it's hard out here for the world's oldest living Used fan.

In lieu of playing a new album on the 'Pod in the car this morning, I did something I don't often do: I listened to the radio.

The soundtrack to the movie of my life

I totally hijacked this meme from my darling Gabriel at Modern Fabulousity because I was enchanted by the idea. Here's how it works:

1. You're given a list of scenes, from opening credits to end credits, each of which must have a song.
2. Open iTunes and set it to shuffle.
3. Hit play and see what pops up for each scene.
4. Make up a title and pick a cast.

So, here's my cast:

• Angelina Jolie as me (oh, like you didn't see that one coming)
• Ewan Macgregor as Jason
• Helen Mirren as my mom
• Greg Dulli as himself

What's wronger than wrong?

(I'm premiering the "Emily Disapproves" stamp with this post. I'll use that icon to indicate that what I'm writing about should have never seen the light of day, and that Emily the Disapproving Rein-Cat would respond to the post's topic by either making an incessant, repetitive noise or peeing on something the post topic liked and/or ate dinner near.)

The question I pose here is: what's worse than Kidz Bop? That's a pretty tough one, if you ask me, because everything about Kidz Bop is so very awful. But I think I might have found the answer: Kidz Bop videos.

Pissing on The Black Parade

I was a little concerned that the time to review My Chemical Romance's concept album had passed, but Blender just named it the best album of 2006, so I figure it's vaguely topical again.

I've been listening to The Black Parade for the past month and a half, trying to decide if I love it outright or if I've got to qualify the love somewhat. Ultimately, qualification won out; it's a great album, absolutely fantastic in parts, but the nit-picker in me can't leave certain things alone.

Where's Debbie Harry when you need her?

Is it 1981 all over again? Did I miss a meeting where it was decided that white women in pop music should put out singles featuring some of the most lackluster rapping ever heard? I'd like to think it's mere coincidence that Gwen Stefani's loathsome "Wind It Up" is on the air during Fergie's mortifying "Fergalicious" era, but I worry that there's some deliberate strategy at play.

Mind you, I can't imagine what that strategy would be, since both songs only make me long for the tough coolness of one Deborah Harry, chanting that Fab Five Freddy had told her everybody was high and using the word "comatose" correctly in a gorgeous sigh that leapfrogged over an octave.

Return of the 5-foot woman!

(Shown actual size -- I kid!)

She's back! If you thought something had been missing from the world of pop music -- some kind of sweet, effervescent sparkle -- you were right. But this past weekend, Kylie Minogue returned to the stage in her hometown of Sydney, Australia, resuming her "Showgirl" tour after taking a year-and-a-half-long break to battle -- and defeat! -- breast cancer.