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Madison Square Garden, New York December 14, 2001 By C. Bottomley Z100's Jingle Ball offers a glance into the state of Pop Nation 2001. The territory is a jam-packed Madison Square Garden. The populace is primarily comprised of 15-year-old girls unable to sit still for more than five minutes. Many of them possess vocal chords that can rearrange intestines with one well-placed scream. Gaining a passport isn't easy for the artists who are here - the lone requirement is mastering the craft of hit-delivery - but oh, what unmentionable delights await when you're once admitted! Despite having the No. 1 single in the country this year, Lifehouse were the most uncomfortable owners of the dream - during their set, they never looked like they belonged. Maybe it's because they lack another song as strong as "Hanging By a Moment." Or maybe singer Jason Wade's perpetually concerned look was due to the fact his bandmates are as anonymous as supermarket baggers next to Wade's Aryan health. Such matters are important to Pop Nation. Mariah Carey knew the value of being seen, and as the night's host was keen to show, she was no loopier than before she danced on broken crockery. Dressed in a thigh-length red silk sheath, she got in a mention of her altruism. Her "Hero" has been re-released to benefit the victims of the World Trade Center collapse. She also warbled a few bars of "All I Want For Christmas Is You" before tottering off to leave the announcing duties to Z100's team of aging DJs. Carey's brief demonstration of her multi-octave range - all frill and no thrill - was in stark contrast to Brit Craig David, who entertained the crowd with an acoustic set. Judging from the sexual tall tale of "7 Days," he's a storyteller who doesn't waste a syllable. The two-step star is also fond of autobiographical rhyme, throwing the lines "Who'd have thought I'd be/ On the phone with Puffy" into his take on the Diddy's "Bad Boy for Life," while his guitarist twanged the Captain Beefheart beat. Missy Misdemeanor Elliot had a sorrier tale to tell. Swigging water like she had arrived via the Sahara, Elliot asked us to bear with her because she was just released from of the hospital and, more importantly, was in a pair of patchwork leather pants so tight it prevented her from moving around much. Judging by her performance, Elliott is something of a liar. During both "One Minute Man" and, of course, "Get Ur Freak On," she leapt into the crowd to be bum-rushed by adoring representatives of white suburban America. Elliott was the hard-working James Brown of this postmodern T.A.M.I. Show. Backed by two roaring hype men and four gyrating dancers, she reached deep into her bag of show biz tricks. Hits barely ran two minutes before they were flipped, big ups were given to Aaliyah with a hand-waving "Rock the Boat," and the delirious "Get Yr Freak On" was saved to the head-spinning end. Any last words, Missy? "Don't drink and drive. Don't do drugs ..." Kids, that's what known as a class act. Jewel's two-song set paled by comparison, although the road imagery of the new "Standing Still" anticipated a day when Jersey girls in Jingle Ball T-shirts could drive themselves into Manhattan. Post 9-11, "Hands" has become obligatory, and, so it seemed, is the noxious Five for Fighting, who serenaded the crowd with "Superman" while images of firemen, policemen and George W. Bush (gesturing like Patton) were shown on the Garden's giant screens. Judging from the howls of patriotic appreciation, not only could Dubya give Lifehouse a run for their money in the sex appeal stakes, but at least 15,000 women will be voting Republican for the first time in 2004. Unless Enrique Iglesias tosses his hat in the ring. The singer's recorded work suggests he could run on the wishy-washy ticket - the flamenco guitars, insipid club beats and global rhythms are as cosmopolitan as Taco Bell. But on stage he adds mucho star power. Downplaying his Valentino looks in a beanie and sweater, Iglesias treated the crowd to a seducer's master class. A 14-year-old was pulled from the audience for a "Hero" serenade, and by the time he finished the song on his knees before her, I was a believer in the female orgasm. The sweater came off to reveal a T-shirt. The T-shirt came off to reveal a tank top. Savoring the anguish in "Be With You," he stroked his abs ... and left before we could get too carried away. Enrique was certainly a hit with my row-mates, but one lass wise beyond her decade said she was just as eager to see Alicia Keys. "She's a real talent who writes her own songs," she explained with braces momentarily flashing. "She's going to be around for a long time." Amen to that, my orthodontic sister. When the DAT machine mauled the backing track to "A Woman's Worth," Keys took to the piano for a solo flight through "Alone." The audience did the rest for "Fallin'." Refusing to sacrifice a note for effect, Keys rode her songs' emotions with the unearthly maturity of Aretha Franklin. More importantly, the freshly minted material already sounded classic. Keys' ascendancy is one of the year's great comforts. Pink, who followed Keys' stark testimony with the appropriately titled "Get the Party Started" - all drum machines and raunchy horns - shows encouraging signs of sticking around, too. In low-cut parachute pants that demanded a smear of Nair, her voice thrived away from her videos' gloss, and she reminded this aging teenybopper of Cyndi Lauper's punky smarts, particularly when delivering the pure guitar pop of "Don't Let Me Get Me." Unusual? Perhaps. Missundazstood? No. She came across loud and clear. The message Jay-Z received from Z100 probably had a large briefcase full of cash handcuffed to it, and in exchange he plowed through a vintage set of pure hip-hop platinum. The DJ cued the records. Jay-Z's pal Damon Dash did silly dances. Two hangers-on sat looking bored upstage and the Burns of Brooklyn did his thing, pacing back and forth on "Izzo (H.O.V.A.)" while claiming he was "still not guilty," giving it up to the late Notorious B.I.G. and Aaliyah, and leading call and responses on "Jigga What? Jigga Who?" After an introduction to the ways of "Big Pimpin'" by a gangsta in a Chicago Cubs jersey, it was rather hard to take O-Town seriously, and the Making the Band band apologetically went through the motions of being a poor girl's 'N Sync. A shame, really, as their songs are cheekily appealing - from the nocturnal emission anthem "Liquid Dreams" to the crowd-baiting "Fanatic" to the closing "All or Nothing." "I want it all," they sang, "or nothing at all." Gathering their coats and heading for the doors mid-set, Pop Nation 2001 opted for the second. |
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