Madonna's
Confessions tour kicked off in late May in Los Angeles, but
the excitement has been building for weeks. At least
in my little corner of the world--if the release
of a new Madonna CD is cause for celebration, word
that the woman is going on tour can induce everything from
hysteria to pandemonium. By the time Madonna and her
entourage finally krump their way to the East Coast,
nearly four months will have passed since that
afternoon back in March when I first got The E-Mail, the one
announcing plans for the upcoming tour, the one with
the subject heading that gasped, "Why is she
doing this to me again???"
I didn't
even have to open it. It was from S, and I immediately knew
who the "she" in question was, and I
knew very well what it was that she was "doing
again." My heart started to race. I was suddenly
short of breath. Why was she doing this again? And why
were we acting like this again? We were all veterans
of, among other things, multiple Madonna shows.
Weren't we past the age of getting into a froth
over a concert? Weren't we too old to be
behaving like this? Age-appropriate quandaries would have to
wait. Madonna was coming. Where? Did it matter?
I opened the
message, saw the link for the Sun article at the
bottom of the text, hit FORWARD, and typed in multiple
e-mail addresses as quickly as I could. After all, the
only thing better than being able to share with your
fellow Madonna fans that the object of your adoration is
going on tour is the possibility that you will be the
first one to break the news to others.
It was only a
matter of seconds before the return messages began stacking
up. "Where is she playing?" "When will
the dates be announced?" "Is that set
list accurate?" And the all-important "What
are you going to wear?" Yes, indeed. What were
we going to wear, as if our sartorial choices were,
even for one minute, going to compete for audience attention
with Gaultier's show-specific--and
showstopping--couture.
In the weeks that
followed the excitement intensified, as we waited for
tickets to go on sale. As die-hard fans, we knew we'd
have first crack through the presale on Icon.com.
There was a bit of concern, seeing that the tour would
not be playing our hometown (the nation's capital),
but there was plenty of room on the calendar for more
dates to be added. She could--and would, we
convinced ourselves--squeeze us in. Worst-case
scenario: Philly was just a short train ride away. Or we
could always travel further afield.
"Wouldn't it be great to see her in
Paris?" one early e-mail asked. "Is she
playing Buenos Aires?" asked another.
"London? The pound is still pretty high..."
But even though the staggeringly high GBP was a
formidable deterrent to travel over the Atlantic, we
were ready to spare no expense.
The big day
arrived and, at the appointed time, credit cards with
suitably cleared limits were at the ready. We loaded the
site and waited out the last few seconds with a
stomach-clenching mix of anxiety and glee. But just
when we should have been that much closer to seeing
Madonna live, the unthinkable happened.
Password and/or user name not recognized.
And no amount of
frantic retyping could get the words off the screen.
With all of the excitement, we forgot to renew our
membership. We were shut out from the ticket buy.
Before we even had time for the panic to
pass--and for Plan B to be conceived, let alone
hatched--the others started to share their good
news. D got tix for Atlantic City, opting for "the
smaller venue," he said, before adding,
"Worst-case scenario, she adds a D.C. show, and
I see her twice! Twist my arm!"
Or yank it out of
its socket. Argh. No, really, we were happy for
him. Our miserable misfortunate aside, we were truly happy.
And he certainly didn't know what our
experience had been. But our respective worst-case
scenarios were shaping up to be dramatically different. He
had one, possibly two sets of tickets, while we were
empty-handed. In a matter of minutes a line had been
drawn between us, though. He and the others were now
The Haves, and we were most definitely The Have-Nots. And
we didn't like how it felt.
Rather than
disclose our situation, we decided we'd wait until
after we got our tickets through the general-public
sale, we'd announce the city, the venue, and
our seats. We'd all be on the Madonna-bound Homo
Disco Party train, the Fast Track to Fabulous, soon
enough.
Tickets went on
sale and, as predicted, they were snatched up and put
back out on the market at costs that equaled--and in
some instances, surpassed--our mortgage payment.
With some brokers charging several thousands of
dollars for a single premium seat, it was hard not to pause
and wonder: How much is too much? Even for Madonna.
When did scalpers
become recast as "brokers"? And how were they
getting away with this? "They know The Gays
have the purchasing power," B said,
matter-of-factly. "Can't you call in some
favors?" M asked. I could, but I
did--five years ago for the Drowned World tour. The
"I know someone who knows someone" game
was in full play. And it turned out that M had
connections of his own through his new job. I was rousted
off the couch one night by a phone call: "If
you want Madonna tickets," he scolded,
"you'd better come out and schmooze with this
guy."
Fine. I got up,
got dressed, and made my way out to the bar where I was,
my friend assured me, certain to score. Eight beers, two
hours, an underwear contest, and one unwanted hand in
an inappropriate place later, I drunkenly texted the
good news to S as I stumbled home. "We have FOUR
TIX. BOX SEATS." (Countless exclamation points not
included, by the way.)
I was relieved.
And proud. I'd taken a hit for the team. When we
spoke the next morning, I told my partner L, who was
out of town on business, that tickets were all but in
my hand. "It's not what was in your
hand that I'm worried about," he groused.
"And I don't appreciate your friends
pimping you out."
Everything was
fine, I assured him. My reputation was intact. I could
tell he was about to say "And I don't see what
all the fuss is about," but he knew better.
He'd actually found out, firsthand, during the
Drowned World tour in 2001. It was his first time, and
though I had tried to tell him how stunning, hypnotic,
transcendent the Presence That Is Madonna was, live,
he simply gave me a knowing, loving smile. I knew he
didn't believe me, but I also knew he soon would.
Sure enough, the show began, and he was transfixed. By
"Beautiful Stranger," he had been
converted.
Four days, five
phone calls, and several e-mails to M went unanswered as
we waited to find out if J was coming through with our tix.
By day 5, S took matters into his own hands.
"Four tickets, 10th row, in Philly!" his
e-mail announced. I almost cried. Then he told me the price.
And I really wept.
"You
wouldn't go through that much trouble to see Jesus if
he were on tour" was our mom's standard
response when we clamored for concert tickets growing
up, and as I remembered her saying that now, I
couldn't help but think, Bet his tickets are cheaper.
"The gays
have the money, and the brokers know it," B said
again, more matter-of-fact than ever. "They
know they can ask top dollar and the gays will shell
it out--they have to see Madonna." His
observation, despite the third person referencing, was
correct. We do have to see Madonna. At any
cost. And. apparently, at any age.
But why?
Yes,
there's a certain status to being able to say you saw
multiple shows of the same tour. Throw in a venue or
two abroad, caravan several friends with you, and
you're part of an even more elite crowd. But
Deadheads, Jimmy Buffett's Parrotheads, and
those people who follow Trey Anastasio all do the same
thing. And it's certainly not about status for them.
It's about the communal experience, and in a
world where everything has the potential to become a
divisive issue, there is comfort in knowing that for
two hours you'll be in close quarters with thousands
of people with whom you have at least one thing in
common. A Madonna show is like the ultimate gay pride
event, except with a playlist you love.
"It's about feeling the energy and vibe of all
that love in one place for Madonna," answered
S, who has seen each tour, save the Virgin tour,
twice. "To be able to hear and see and feel the power
of her incredible talent live...is just
amazing!"
There's
also the very personal connection, not only to the songs but
to the artist singing them. D, who has tickets for
three shows of the Confessions tour, all in different
cities, admits to such devotion that he still gets
anxious watching footage of Madonna's 1990 MTV Video
Awards performance of "Vogue."
"When Madonna and her backup singers toss their
fans into the air--what if they don't catch
them? Thankfully, they always do, but I still hold my
breath."
I recalled a
similar hand-wringing moment when Our Star performed
"Sooner or Later" at the Academy Awards
in March 1991. Her hands shook, and my heart raced.
The woman who had, for me, embodied Invincibility Incarnate
on the Blonde Ambition tour the previous summer--and
whose message of self-respect convinced me that my
breakup the morning of the show with my partner of the
previous three years was the right thing to do--was
showing a vulnerability we'd never before seen.
But the song, the stage, and the audience were soon
hers. By the time she cooed "Talk to me, General
Schwarzkopf! Tell me all about it" at the
song's end, we knew she was back in charge. It
was an inspiring and commanding enough performance
that for months afterward I watched every time I did my ab
work. It was perfect motivation.
If
Madonna's songs have always provided the inspiration,
then the live images most definitely delivered the
empowerment. And as time goes on, though, images
become more important than ever. In a segment of society
where youth is worshipped, there's great comfort in
seeing that Madonna, at 47, is in better shape than
she was 20 years ago. R said it best when
Madge's radiance eclipsed the twinkle of the two
little, younger stars in her orbit as she performed
"Hollywood" at the MTV Video Awards in 2003:
"Britney and Christina could take off all of their
clothes and all eyes would still be on
Madonna."
As the
Confessions tour got started this week and the images began
coming in, we gushed and fawned and gasped about Her
Look. The e-mail exchanges focused on past concerts,
future performances, and all-time favorite lists. A
standard top 10 was too limiting. The list was expanded to
accommodate everyone's top 16 Madonna songs. BJ
compiled "the definitive" spreadsheet.
"Ray of Light" came in at number 1, being the
only song to make everyone's lists.
The conversation
soon switched to favorite live Madonna moments. The
winner was, hands down, the version of "Vogue"
that opened the Re-Invention tour, with both D and S
being the most effusive. "It was ballsy to open
her tour with 'Vogue,' arguably her most
popular song--BJ's spreadsheet
notwithstanding--and a song that could have easily
driven the audience into a frenzy as an
encore," D stated emphatically. S agreed.
"Only Madonna could open with her most popular song
and have the show go on to gain momentum from
there."
And that's
probably the best explanation of why, despite our age and
despite the cost, we will always flock, run, stampede, and
do whatever our wallets allow in order to see Madonna
live: Like her shows, Madonna continues to gain
momentum. Her best is always still yet to come.
The cost of our
10th-row seats for Madonna's Confessions tour?
That's one confession I'm not quite
prepared to make. But the reassurance that comes from
knowing that life can keep getting better? Well,
that's priceless.