The Pilgrimage

Madonna, the legendary entertainer and agent provocateuse, did a one-night stand in LA last Thursday night. The venue, which held 56,000 people, was Dodger Stadium. The Concert was billed as the THE STICKY AND SWEET TOUR promoting her new album, HARD CANDY. I think the titles say all you need to know about the content of the material girl’s material.

But that didn’t dull the ardor of the Faithful who flocked to her in numbers rivaling those of the Pope. My seat cost 350 bucks. The seats two rows in front were 400. And heaven knows what the fifty rows in front of them cost. These high price tickets were situated on the playing field (near second base), directly in front of The Madonna Grotto: a giant band shell framed with big pink letters: “M.”

A small group of us gathered first at a private service at The Gaybor’s house next door. A bartender served up the holy martinis, and the wafers had lashings of goat cheese and sun-dried tomatoes. In the scant hour we had, we anointed ourselves with gin, like decadent acolytes in preparation for the journey to the Divine One. At 6:15 a stretch limo arrived, and 11 giddy men and one rather large Lesbian lumbered into the awaiting vehicle. And off we went carrying extra bottles of wine and champagne. And when they ran out, we got into a decanter of cheap vodka, provided by the limousine company. When that ran out, we downed a similar one of bourbon.

The limo joined a procession that began on the Hollywood Freeway, and made its way downtown. But after a two-hour drive, the traffic came to a complete halt. We were forced to do the last mile on foot….just like the pilgrims at Lourdes (Madonna’s daughter’s name incidentally). We joined thousand of others who had also abandoned their vehicles and streamed into the Stadium. Needless to say most of the devoted followers had never been to Dodger Stadium before, and had only the vaguest idea of what happened there when Madonna wasn’t in town.

The crowds surged forward with but one purpose in mind: to get seated before SHE made her entrance. Each ticket holder had to go through several checkpoints in order to receive the stigmata of Madonna Pink (a color lifted from the dress that Marilyn Monroe wore in her DIAMONDS ARE A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND number, that Madonna had appropriated for her “Material Girl” video). The garish paper wristband granted us entry into the inner sanctum of the playing field. A sea of fans surged forward and we were directed to our seats. I was given an upgrade for reasons that no one bothered to explain. Delightful as it was to get closer to the Goddess, it did separate me from my group. And I found myself squeezed into a small coterie of strangers. My seat was not there to be sat in, incidentally. It was merely a demarcation of the place where I would stand. No one sat. Not once, not in the three hour affair.

Our late arrival was perfectly timed, because as soon as I got into position the giant Letters “M” lit up and the crowd went berserk. Out came Madonna in a white top hat standing in a white Duisenberg, surrounded by dozens of dancers and band members. The lights exploded around the stage and never once stopped moving or changing color, and never repeated their patterns. But the most staggering affront to the senses was the sound from the speakers. The base blasted so loud that my clothing literally vibrated, and my heartbeat tried in vain to get in sync with the pulsing sound.

Suddenly the concert began, and off we went through a sequence of Madonna’s hits. Everyone in the crowd knew the words by heart and sang along with her. They waved their hands and took photos on their i-phones. Suddenly there was a huge scream as another blond entered the stage. She sang a few bars with Madonna and then exited with a “Bye, bye Britney,” augmented by a kiss on the hand. I had to assume Miss Spears had made an appearance. Shortly thereafter a guy started singing with Madonna and I was forced to turn to the awestruck penitent next to me, who hissed, without even looking: “Justin!” This I took to be Justin Timberlake. It was rumored that Madonna was trying to patch things up between him and Brittany, since the latter’s much publicized collapse.

It is hard to choose a favorite of all the songs or all the dance numbers in the show. They sort of blended into each other. The loveliest moment, though, came when Madonna, and what looked like a rag-tag band of gypsies came downstage and she sang her big hit from EVITA: ”You must love me.” Needless to say the lyrics and its message collided as Madonna implored the crowd, “You must love…..me.” We all shouted back: “We love you Madonna.”

But the high point of the evening came when a triptych of the now iconic painting of Obama flashed on the giant screen. The crows roared its approval. And Madonna added that we all needed to fight the bigoted backers of Prop 8 who had successfully banned gay marriages in the recent election. The crowd went wild again and vowed revenge against the wretched Mormons. (And true to their pledge stormed the Tabernacle on Santa Monica the next day and raised a ruckus….an unsuccessful one albeit. But a ruckus nonetheless.) “We are not getting into the box cars,” someone shouted. A chorus of voices shouted back, “No, we won’t.” But someone else, who was clearly not on the same page, shouted the Obama mantra: “Yes, we can.” Which only served to confuse the entire issue.

The remainder of the concert is a bit of a blur. The effects of the alcohol and the pounding of the beat disoriented me. Three hours later, after a final selection of requests from the audience, Madonna took a not very graceful bow. On the giant TV screen we could finally see her standing alone, without the dancers or the band, a middle-aged woman so toned and taught, she looked like an East German distance runner from the 80’s. Some wag said she was starting to look like Beef Jerky, which I thought unkind.

Suddenly the stadium lights went up and the crowds quickly left. I looked around for my merry band but there was not a familiar face in sight. I stood there alone in my section and waved my arms hopefully. None of my companions spotted me, but two lovely women in their mid 30’s came up. One said, “I know you.” I replied eagerly: “And I know you.”…not at all sure if I did. “No, no." she said, “You’re an actor.” “That may be,” I said “but right now I am a lost one.” And these two darling women produced a cell phone, located my group and escorted me over to where my limo waited. We hugged and kissed and I collapsed into the limo and we all went home.

What to make of all this? I came away from the concert assured that Madonna was not, as she had once claimed, “a virgin, touched for the very first time”…nor for the very last time…given the spectacle of her kissing one of the female dancers full on the lips. She is not much of a singer, and her animated guitar playing seemed more theatrical than real. She does dance a lot; I‘ll give her that. But her real legacy, as one number so vividly illustrated, was that she has had more different looks than a leopard has spots. Several dancers were positioned around the stage each dressed in a previous get-up that Madonna had made famous. She sang a song with the lyrics, “I’m not you!” and pushed each image of her former self away. Leaving her latest incarnation, that of a sinewy, fifty-year-old, with blond shoulder-length hair whose greatest masterpiece is herself: the ever-changing, never-ending phenomenon that is MADONNA.

© Bruce Gray 2008