Siren singers steamroll with knockout punches
Mariah Carey and Britney Spears, Lolita-esque contenders for the Princess of Pop crown, came to Chicago within recent days and emptied both barrels in concerts that didn't so much seduce audiences as bludgeon them with special effects, costume changes, cleavage and, in Carey's case, monstrous displays of ego.
In neither show - Carey's at the United Center on Saturday and Spears' at the Allstate Arena last Wednesday - was the quality of the singer's voice central to the performance. Carey occasionally reached for notes that only creatures who answer to "Fido" and "Lassie" can hear, but it hardly mattered; she va-va-voomed in hooker apparel, pretended to do it doggy style with one of her dancers and in general wasted lots of time acting out skits that could only have been conceived by people who spend too much time riding around in stretch limousines. These routines were probably intended to humanize the singer who has sold 128 million records in the '90s, but they only embarrassed her.
Spears, on the other hand, barely sang at all - the sound coming from the massive speakers was empty of human nuance, grit, even the slightest hint of breathlessness (even though Spears was dancing herself into a sweat). That the former Mouseketeer merrily lip-synched her way through a 70-minute performance skimpy on actual songs (I counted a total of nine between outfits and pyro effects) hardly mattered because the pacing was on par with MTV or a video game.
The precision choreography combined DisneyWorld fantasy with a hint of kiddie-porn naughtiness that set back feminism by, oh, 30 years or so, while setting new standards for marketing cynicism. When a "magic carpet" whisked Spears above the audience to sing a new ballad from her forthcoming second album, she dangled tantalizingly just out of reach of the grasping hands.
An image of Spears peered from a stage curtain, shilling for a product designed to enhance her "wholesome" image, but that persona was already old news by the time the concert began. She's moving on from teen-pop songstress to sexy siren, and as if to signal the arrival of the new bolder, bustier Britney, she poured herself into a gold Bond-girl body suit for another new song that declared, "I'm not that innocent."
The show's momentum slowed only once, for a video featuring Spears' bevy of dancers, who outnumbered the musicians onstage eight to five - a telling reminder of her priorities. Spears interacted with her coltish crew of high-steppers as though she were hanging with her pals before the high school dance. But by show's end she was prancing in a coquettish rubber suit while cooing, "Baby, hit me one more time." After selling 11 million copies of her 1999 debut album, the singer is clearly not about to stop pandering now.
If Spears' career hangs on her ability to crank out eye-popping videos for perky pop tunes written for her by others, Carey has at least proferred an image of more artistic substance. She writes most of her lyrics, has a voice the size of Caesars Palace and lately has defrosted some of her icy pop persona with some newfound hip-hop influences.
But in contrast to her milk-and-cookies debut concerts of 1993, when a painfully awkward Carey nonetheless showcased a formidable vocal talent, her current tour is a two-hour travesty that couldn't decide whether it was a concert, a softcore-porn movie, a Vegas schmaltzathon or the worst career move since Demi Moore did "Striptease."
At one point, Carey removed her earrings and got a facial "touch-up" from a couple of toadies. It was an attempt to introduce some down-home, girl-next-door authenticity to her diva routine, but all it did was emphasize just how out of touch the singer is with reality; would Tina Turner or Mavis Staples ever stop their shows to have their nails buffed? Even more confounding were the ill-advised concept pieces, including a boxing match pitting Carey against her evil alter-ego, "Bianca," emceed by a videotaped Don King - as dire as that sounds, it was even more tedious in execution (though it did allow Carey to don skimpy shorts and an extra-tight top).
Carey did manage to sing between the skits. "Vision of Love" still glowed with gospel overtones as she bounced the gutsier side of her voice off a mini-choir, but for the most part the singer's baroque Minnie Ripperton-esque trills, complete with histrionic hand gestures, were little more than pointless displays of technique, designed to hide the banality of songs that payed homage to unspecified "Emotions."
Even the teary ballad "Petals" lacked spontaneity; her eyes have welled up at the same exact moment on every previous tour date, providing a touching close-up for the video cameras.
Was it real or was it an act? Does the answer even matter? In the world of sex and salesmanship ruled by Spears and Carey, the illusion counts for far more than the lack of substance behind it. (Chicago Tribune)
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