Lady Madonna
What did I think of Madonna's halftime performance, you ask? (And really, who isn't dying to hear what I thought?) I thought it was a damn shame.
Madonna is a consummate performer, a woman in the prime of life, a kick-ass entertainer with a long history of great dance tunes, crazy shows, and a body worth the price of entry. Why, therefore, wear shoes she cannot move around in, boots and a skirt that made her thighs look oddly chunky rather than muscular (sorry, they did), and put her on bleachers and moving platforms where she had to train all her considerable wits on not falling on her ass? It was idiotic. My poor mother, unused to the gothic vamp that is an American half-time show, found it bewildering. "Fewer dancers, more dancing," she begged, and she was right, as always. What the hell? Who led the great veteran down that bleachered path? She looked tentative and very much concerned with Not Falling. Which, let's be honest, is how our grannies look.
Is how I look much of the time, especially if it snows or sleets.
Madonna could bench press my entire family. She could break us each in half in the vice-grip of her thighs. She is neither old nor tentative. She deserved better. And weirdest of all? It was a little boring. Not until she sang "Like a Prayer" did the show come to life. I wanted to thump my chest and shout to my children, "THAT is Madonna! She's what my generation brought!" For better or for worse. But mostly they wanted to know if she was okay, was that her, and would she make it? After all, they said, she's even older than Daddy.
Madonna is a consummate performer, a woman in the prime of life, a kick-ass entertainer with a long history of great dance tunes, crazy shows, and a body worth the price of entry. Why, therefore, wear shoes she cannot move around in, boots and a skirt that made her thighs look oddly chunky rather than muscular (sorry, they did), and put her on bleachers and moving platforms where she had to train all her considerable wits on not falling on her ass? It was idiotic. My poor mother, unused to the gothic vamp that is an American half-time show, found it bewildering. "Fewer dancers, more dancing," she begged, and she was right, as always. What the hell? Who led the great veteran down that bleachered path? She looked tentative and very much concerned with Not Falling. Which, let's be honest, is how our grannies look.
Is how I look much of the time, especially if it snows or sleets.
Madonna could bench press my entire family. She could break us each in half in the vice-grip of her thighs. She is neither old nor tentative. She deserved better. And weirdest of all? It was a little boring. Not until she sang "Like a Prayer" did the show come to life. I wanted to thump my chest and shout to my children, "THAT is Madonna! She's what my generation brought!" For better or for worse. But mostly they wanted to know if she was okay, was that her, and would she make it? After all, they said, she's even older than Daddy.