[ No. 12 ]

Pop gods, popsicles and pop art

by Ishmael

The first time I was allowed to attend a concert on my own was in the mid-70s. I went to see my then idols, Abba, who were performing at an open air concert venue. I remember sitting excitedly amongst thousands of fans on a green hill looking down to the stage area. It was a warm summer's night, and the sky was peppered with stars -- just the right atmosphere for 'Fernando'. But Agneta and Frida were so far away, all I could see were two white blobs trilling away like canaries in the distance. The last time I attended a live concert was a couple of years ago to see Brian Ferry in a sports stadium. The original lounge lizard crooning in a sports stadium! Puhleaze! Ferry's late-night smoky bar airs evaporated in the bowels of that monstrous whale long before they reached my ears. I should add that neither performance had a giant, spectacular stage show of the kind we are used to seeing today. It was a case of the singer and the song. On both occasions I left feeling cheated.

I haven't been to a concert since, and have no intention of doing so again -- even if some of my die-hard faves decide to front up. I have no interest in seeing them live anymore. When I think about it, I never have. Apart from the fact that I've always been suspicious of mass gatherings, I've always preferred worshipping my pop gods before the altar of television. I prefer them on CD or video. Since the early 80s, when sophisticated videos became an integral part of selling a song, I've believed that pop performance was heading away from live performance towards the controlled visual aesthetic of pop videos. Events like The Who's 1982 satellite concert (which was seen by 40 million people in 32 countries), the escalating costs of organising giant multimillion dollar extravaganzas like the Rolling Stone's Voodoo Lounge Tour and U2's Zoo TV may yet prove me right. As Marshall McLuhan pointed out, the global village is fast becoming the global theatre.

Over the last 30 years or so, we have elevated the pop star to such heights that it was inevitable he or she would drift further and further away from us. Accessible popsicles are as rare as virgins in a brothel. Our adulation is pushing them further and further away. After the violence and deaths at the Rolling Stones and The Who concerts of the 60s and 70s, popsicles know that they need us to keep their lights glowing, but they're also afraid of us. That's why they've created the barrier of the giant stage belching flames and fumes. Between them and their screaming audience is a black pit, a moat to keep the enemy at bay. Body guards and the temples of gleaming rock architecture guard the pop gods from the bloody talons of their worshipers.

This dehumanising process makes the music subservient to spectacle. Today stadium concerts have more in common with sporting events than with music. You go to be part of the energy, to be sucked up and away from yourself for a couple of hours. To join the swaying, seething, hypnotised masses. It's a Dionysian celebration of song and wine. But if you want to enjoy music and the voice you listen to a CD or watch a video in the privacy of your own home.

As someone who's always been more in tune with images, I consider the visual output of pop stars as important, and in some cases more important, than the music they make. Marilyn Manson's latest album cover, for example, is, for me, a supreme moment in pop art. With his pale, hairless, skinny body and red eyes, he has perfectly captured the eerie, robotic androgyny of late 20th century sexual preoccupations. Madonna's video for "Frozen", with its Mediterranean echoes, is another esoteric masterpiece. These images are an extension of the pop performer communicating with his or her audience. A picture is worth a thousand words because the visual is our primary mode of communication.

I loved the way U2 performed before a complex grid of giant television and multi-video sources during their Zoo TV tour. The chaos of images and sounds merging to create an abstract form of alienation was exhilarating. Where did U2 begin and the illusion take over? Were U2 just an illusion afterall? Maybe they weren't even on stage, and we were just watching holograms. At this point I think of the Grace Jones's twelve-man battalion marching across the stage during her song 'Demolition Man'. Which one of those androgynous figures was Grace? Was she on stage or backstage taking a leak? It's a game of discreet revelation and camouflage, and pop stars are master manipulators.

In fact, I never understood the hullabaloo over fly-by-nighter popsicles who tried to mime their way through concerts or television appearances either. To them I say, learn to move your lips in time with the music. And don't drop the fucking mike! Pop music is about transience, image and illusion. Everyone of our idols is manufactured and don't let 'em tell you otherwise. Therefore, it makes sense that some of the wannabees are going to fake it. So what? As long as you can dance to it, who cares? (Bring back Betty Boo!) Most popsicles who are great on CD sound shithouse when they perform live, anyway.