First thing’s first. I have to string you along for a little bit, before I get to the good part (or you can just scroll down through it . . . NO WAIT! I WAS JOKING! DON'T LEAVE ME HERE!). I went into London around 1 o’clock in the afternoon, with the doors for the concert opening at 6:30. That gave me a good few hours to kill, which is what I wanted. I got a day pass for the tubes and headed west. Jumped off at Covent Garden, which once upon a time was a huge fruit and vegetable market in central London. Nowadays, it still has the market feel, but on a Saturday afternoon it was also overwhelmed with buskers and crowds. I wasn’t in the mood to stay too long, so I started walking.
Ended up – a bit surprisingly, since I had no direction in mind – roughly where I wanted to be, in Trafalgar Square. Along the way, I passed Maple Leaf, a bar with a Canadian flag overhanging the threshold and where they put the NHL games on, serve poutine, as well as a selection of Canadian beer. I may have to head back there at some point – once you’ve seen something, you can’t unsee it.
Anyway, I had planned on heading to Hyde Park, a huge royal park in the midst of the city – by royal park, it means that it’s owned by the Crown and used to be used solely by the monarch, primarily for hunting – and Trafalgar Square put my right in line to grab another tube. A few stops down the line and I was at Hyde Park Corner.
It was a great autumn day for walking through the park. The crowds were out, but it wasn’t overly congested. I wandered across green lawns and dirt paths, down to the edge of the Serpentine, the lake in the middle of the park, and on through Kensington Gardens. I was constantly checking my iPod for the time, since the Greenwich Peninsula, where the O2 Arena is, is on the opposite end of town; still, there was at least one thing I had to see before I left.
Drumroll . . . it's the Peter Pan statue, which the one in Bowring Park is based on
It was a bit after 4 o’clock by the time I grabbed the Jubilee line at Green Park – all the tubes I had been on so far were crowded, standing room only, and this one was no exception. Still, it was a straight line with no changes, so the chances for screwing it up were minimal.
The O2 was a pretty surprising thing. It was built only a few years ago about the former Millennium Dome, and the building still has a circular feel to it. It’s huge; when you go in, you’re bombarded by a huge scale of shopping and entertainment. You know how you can walk around Mile One and buy nachos, and then go another few hundred feet and buy slightly different nachos? Well, the O2 was kind of like that, except it was wall-to-wall restaurants, bars, clubs, merchandise, a Cineworld cinema, and the arena itself. Kind of like comparing Tenth Avenue in Pasadena to Yonge Street in Toronto.
I love shows, and I usually aim to be up front, just because I love that experience. When I got to the O2 and meandered down to where people on the floor level were being queued, there were at least a hundred people already there, a good hour and a half before the doors opened. Even I, in all my fandom crazed obsessiveness, couldn’t justify getting in the lineup just yet, so I went and grabbed something to eat – the English grocery stores have fantastic meal deals, where you get a sandwich, a drink, and chips for a decent price – before making my way to the ever-growing lineup, wrapped around itself thanks to the help of metal dividers.
Waiting to be let in, it was like being in the middle of a melting pot. It was mostly young people, but more than a few came out decked in extravagance: blue wigs, face paint, more than a few dressed as Smurfs, the fat guy next to me wearing a pink shirt that said “I Wanna See Your Peacock.” Loves it.
The arena itself wasn’t as spectacular as the building had me hyped up to be. Oh, it was big – 20,000 people for specific events, although the stage cut some of those off for that night, so we’re looking at around 15,000 – but a huge chunk of the seats were so high up that you mustn’t have been able to see a thing without binoculars (something like the last minute Bon Jovi tickets we got in Florida in 2006), and the stage itself looked pretty ordinary, with just a few pink clouds and a candy cane runway on either side (don’t worry, there was a lot of cool crap behind the curtain).
There's a band down there, I swear! You can almost hear "Livin' on a Prayer."
Still, I was hyped. I wiggled my way to a few heads behind the centre runway and stayed put. I will say this about the English concert-goers, they’re way polite. Conspicuously so. In North America, the goal is to get as close as you can, and the hell with the toes you literally have to step on to get there. Here, people asked if they could get up to meet their friends; if they couldn’t get to them, then they turned right around and left. I couldn’t believe it! I even had a bit of personal space for the night. Holy shat, where am I?
The opening act came on around 7:30, a Danish chick called Oh Land. She was a spunky blond, backed up by her two Scandinavian-sounding bandmates, and a lot of fun to listen to, probably because she seemed really jacked to be there. She ran through about a 45 minute set of synth-pop before handing the reigns over to an L.A. DJ, DJ Skeet Skeet. He had the place feeling a bit like a sweaty club by blasting some Top 40 hits and remixes for another 45 minutes.
After you’ve gone to a few shows, I think you start to wonder if they have the same effect on you anymore, or if you just become completely jaded. Turns out though, at least for me, that the feeling of anticipation right before an act comes on, especially one that you’ve waited a long time for, that never goes away. When it got to be a few minutes after 9 o’clock, I was antsy. Then, the lights went down, the curtains went up, and the story started.
The stage was decked out in lollipops and gumdrops, and three decorated screens along the back walls were playing video, in time to a Dr. Seuss-like narration. The cutesy story of Katy going from a black and white glum world with her cat – Kitty Purry is still the absolute best name for a cat, ever – to a fairy tale world of colour . . . well, I don’t think you were supposed to invest too much into the story. Once she crawled through the proverbial rabbit hole into the colour, the music on stage started, and then the opening riff to “Teenage Dream,” before Katy my Lady herself appeared centre stage in a skimpy candy cane dress. God love her.
The concert wasn’t the biggest I’ve seen before, but the scale of the spectacle itself was unsurpassed. Lights, dancers, acrobats, costume changes, a bit of a story running in the background – it had clearly been carefully coordinated, but it still felt fresh, like everyone was having fun.
And then there’s Katy Perry herself. Shite, she’s as cute as she’s damn sexy, and a lot of fun, too. How Russell Brand managed to seduce her, I’m not sure. After “Teenage Dream,” she launched right into my favourite KP tune, “Hummingbird Heartbeat,” and came right out to the front of the catwalk, a few feet away from me.
I guess she knew I liked that song or something.
By the time she got to her third song, “Waking up in Vegas,” she had a casino theme all across the stage, complete with slot machines, an imposter Elvis, and flashing lights all around.
Reappearing in a blue Snow White dress and taunted by two mimes, Katy played the sombre “Ur So Gay,” that viral song from 2007 that helped her bridge the gap between a Christian singer-songwriter to a morals-be-damned pop star in a big way.
The dress slipped away for the next song, when she was covered in peacock feathers, along with a whole Congo line of feathered dancers. Fun fact, when she sings “Peacock,” and gets to the part “I’mma peace out if you don’t give me the payoff,” she gives a peace symbol too! Just like we did!
Seamlessly changing into an evening dress, she took to the centre of the catwalk again, coyly admitting that, when in England, she wanted to get some flirting in. The first guy to take his shirt off, says she, could come up on stage. That son of a bitch.
“I’m from England, and I think you’re fine,” he said as he kissed her hand. Some guys have all the luck – he got a kiss on his cheek and got to plant one on her before he got sent back into the crowd. That’s the kind of thing that stays your profile picture for a long time.
KP classed it up for a minute, opening “I Kissed a Girl” in a sultry jazz style before building to a pop momentum.
Anyway, the mimes had earlier given her a chunk of some special brownie, and by the time she finished this song, she got woozy and passed out. A security guy actually came out and picked her limp body up, and I for one was worried about her. Jaysus, I’d have helped her out. Talk about suspended disbelief.
When she came back, dressed in a slashed-up catwoman suit, things got weird. Well, ok, they were a bit weird before that moment, but they got weirder. Huge chunks of meat and sausages were suspended from cables, smoke billowed out of machines, and the screens were taken up by flashing pictures of a demented butcher. It was the build up for “Circle the Drain,” a song all about the drug addiction of he who shall not be named (seriously, how did he get a girl like Katy Perry?!). Smoke turned into lasers projected all the way across the arena, as the opening beats to “ET” started up. Meanwhile, the screens started flashing the lyrics like an old Atari game. No one can accuse this chick of not paying attention to detail – thankfully though, she has a legitimate set of pipes, and can turn it on. It’s not at all like watching the YouTube videos of her when she was Katy Hudson, awkwardly making banter while tuning her guitar – she knew what she was doing last night, and delivered. No matter what was going on behind her – and there was usually a decent bit – she was always the centre of attention.
“ET” segued into my least favourite KP song, but the one that probably made the most sense, considering the mood of the last two: “Who Am I living For?” Not a lot I can say about that; my mind wasn’t radically changed or anything, although she did put her heart and soul into it. Can’t blame her for that.
As the final chords were being played on that one, she put on a sparkling dress while two laced acrobats got harnessed behind her. All of a sudden, they were doing twirls in the background while she was on a raised platform, singing “Pearl,” a song all about being constricted in a relationship and wanting to break out of that.
The stage cleared again, and the dude on the piano started the opening melody to “Not Like the Movies,” the slow ballad that was the closing track on Teenage Dream. She stayed put at the back of the stage, on a swing suspended above the lollipop platform while bubble machines filled up the stadium. A huge curtain opened up behind her near the end, and started playing the sappiest (or cutest, depending on if you’re a guy or a girl) moments from classic cartoon films. D’aww.
She went from an elevated diva to the centre of an acoustic ensemble for the next song. The curtain went down on the set, so it was just her and her band, huddled around a few microphones with a double bass and a bedazzled guitar. That was the setup for “The One that Got Away,” and stripped down it packed a heavier punch, especially since she opened by talking about some of her past relationships, and how it always sucked to see them move on.
The band retreated for the next one, and KP was back in upbeat form, talking about how much she loved England and the people. “Y’alright’ya?” – that’s not just the people at Harlow that say that, apparently! Then, she assured us that she liked getting close to her audience – sometimes inappropriately so, wink wink – and strapping herself into a pink floating cloud, shouting, "I'm coming out there!", she wound up in the middle of the arena, playing her acoustic guitar with beacons of light shining on her. What a glorious rockstar move.
Once she came back to earth, she retreated again, and the video started up. Her carton Kitty Purry was still leading her along the gumdrop road, when she came to a floating chunk of blue. “To find a love that’s true, you must wear the wig of blue.” Awwww yeaah. Things were about to get real fun.
And so they did. She came back with blue hair and a team of dancers, having a time jumping around to “Hot ‘N Cold” from her first album. She changed outfits at least a half dozen times during this song, going behind a curtain for a second or two and reappearing completely different somehow (I knoooow she was layered, but it was still pretty cool), and the rest of the time she was having so much fun that it felt like a huge dance party, and less of a concert. I was alright with that.
As she got ready to jump into “Last Friday Night,” she hauled a bunch of audience members up to the stage to dance with her, as well as with a costumed purple Kitty Purry. After she had cleared the stage of her entourage, one of her teeny bopper audience-picked dancers came back and wanted a hug.
“Do you have a camera?”
The girl was French though, so KP had to make the camera sign. “Yes,” she nodded, but in her nervous hurry dropped just about everything she was carrying. 15,000 sympathetic sighs, but KP wasted no time helping her pick them up and then posing for a self-photo. Another profile picture was made.
The night was on a wind-down, but the pyrotechnics weren’t. For “Firework,” which she assured us was her favourite song, written for anyone with a spark within them, literal fireworks were shot on stage, and a constant stream of sparks covered the back wall. The place went from smelling like cotton candy to smelling like gunpowder in the course of a few minutes.
The stage, so brightly illuminated moments before, now stood darkened, but everyone wanted one more song. If you know her repertoire even slightly, it was obvious what that last song was going to be, but it still didn’t disappoint. “Let me take you to the West Coast!” she yelled as the curtains went back up, and she flaunted around in her blue hair and silver bikini while the opening beats to “California Gurls” pumped from all directions.
Sans Snoop, they actually cut his part out altogether, although the dancers all make the horn honking notion at the right part. If you’re going to close a huge pop concert in London on a Saturday night, you might as well go out with a bang: dozens of inflatable beach balls went sailing through the air, confetti starting blasting every which way, and the lovely Ms. Perry cranked up her candy cane gun and started firing white cream into the audience. Talk about your talkabouts.
Some concerts you go to, and you’re just enthralled by the musicianship happening on stage that you forget about all other things. That wasn’t the case here, but it wasn't the point either. The Katy Perry show was all about just that, being a show. It was entertaining, it was fun, it was huge, and it was a milestone I’d been waiting a good few months for, and which I owed it to at least a few people to make the absolute most of. Believe you me, I did – what a time, not something I’m likely to forget.
The worst part about any show of that scale, though, is the leaving. 15,000 people, like herded cattle, trying to make for a few exits. I was parched, but no where in the arena was still open, so I figured I’d wait until I got to Liverpool Street. The line moved surprisingly fast, but once outside it was pandemonium, as the only exit was through the North Greenwich station. Crowd control was in full force, and once you got sucked into the doors, you moved with the crowd and didn’t dare stray. I was actually really impressed with how fast things moved, considering the size of the crowd, and again pleased as punch with how freakin’ polite everyone was, no matter how tired or cramped (or both) they were.
When I all of a sudden got to the door of the tube, I figured it would be a miracle if I made the next train. I made it.
I got off at London Bridge and planned to take the Northern Line to get to Liverpool Street via a quick stop at Moorgate. As quick as the line had moved, I still needed to be aware of the time; the last train to Harlow out of Liverpool Street was at midnight, and it was 11:30 by this point. No worries though – at least, I thought so.
Once I got off the train, I saw that the Northern Line was down for this weekend. Uh oh. I ran back to a tube map, desperately checking to see where I should go and finding no route that didn’t take me halfway across town in the opposite direction. Ok, don’t panic; just get a taxi.
I ran up the escalator to where the taxis were lined up, and knocked on all their windows. None of them were working. Now, I’m not a businessman, but it would seem to be that if you’re in the taxi business, and a desperate guy comes knocking at your window, it would be in your best interest to take him where he’s going, instead of doing crossword puzzles. But I’m no businessman.
Anyway, one driver told me the bridge was having some problems and traffic was backed up, but I’d be best to check for a cab in the vague direction he pointed in. Ok, says I, fully aware of the fact that by now, by train was leaving in about 15 minutes.
I did not find a cab. Instead, I did the only thing I could be sure of: I ran. Now, I can’t be completely sure of the details, since my mind was going in a hundred directions (it was mostly planning on the inevitable call I was going to have to make to someone at the Maltings, telling them I didn’t make the train but, for the love of God, not to tell D. Nix), but I just checked the route on Google Earth, and it’s about a kilometre and a half. You need to keep in mind, though, that I was only half sure on the direction – every so often I’d find a sign that told me I was going in the right direction – and I was even less sure of the distance. I just had to keep pushing on.
By the time I knocked on a police car window to ask where Liverpool Street Station was, it was about 5 minutes to midnight. The train left at 11:58. Sprinting til my lungs nearly gave out, I tore down the station stairs, through the platform, and jumped onboard the train in the last few minutes. I couldn’t make an ending like that up if I tried. If I hadn't made that first tube in Greenwich or had gone even slightly in the wrong direction when I ran like a madman out of the station, I would have been stuck in London, simple as that. I was even thirstier than when I left the stadium, so I went to the bathroom to wipe down my face and put my head under a sink.
“Not drinking water,” the sign said. Well, I can have a sip at least.
You know when you start peeing and there’s no way in hell you’re choking off the flow? Same thing here; once I started, I didn’t care how much beaver fever was in the water, I was not stopping. I’m still here now, so I guess it didn’t kill me.
What an end to an epic night. I had fish and chips waiting for me back at Harlow, and I barely had time to lay my head on the pillow before I completely passed out. Talk about your talkabouts.
Looking back on the whole evening, it really does feel like a waking dream. Candy canes, gingerbread men, lollipops, a freakin’ goddess, and a soundtrack of pure, unadulterated pop fun.
Please, pretty please, can we do it all again, next Saturday night? Come to think of it, I’m going to be on a beach in Barcelona then – maybe the teenage dream doesn’t have to end after all.
Cheers,
rb
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