I’m sorry Disney, but unless you prove otherwise in Paris (YUS!) I am entirely unconvinced that you are the happiest place on earth. I’m pretty sure the happiest place on earth is a Katy Perry concert.
Squish and I felt completely out of place. We’ve been to a million and one rock and metal gigs but never to a pop concert (well, I have seen Britney Spears which was awesome but it wasn’t really singing therefore I discount it for the purposes of this post). Aside from that, we were seated because we missed out on GA tickets and we never usually miss out on GA tickets because front row is so much better than, well, anything else in life.
I tell you what; Katy Perry is to us two devoted rockers what bacon is to vegetarians –a guilty pleasure. You don’t want to like it, it makes you feel a little bit sick, but as soon as you smell it, you can’t go past it. Not that we could smell Katy Perry but apparently the GA section could smell candy-floss. I digress. Katy Perry is definitely someone we hate to love, but love her we do, and she proved over and over again why she deserves our devotion.
That woman can sing. And dance, while singing and not lip-synching. So many costume changes, wig changes, tempo changes… and the set! It looked like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Giant cupcakes, giant lollipops, and more glitter than Mardi Gras. There were aerial dancers, dancing gingerbread men, giant steaks hanging from the ceiling at one point, and a dancer in a purple cat suit. Not the sexy kind, the furry childrens-TV-show kind.
The confetti that showered over the audience at the end was a mix of pink crepe paper and silver hearts. It made me a little ill. Actually, what makes me feel worse is that after seeing her shoes on the big screen, I want nothing more than baby-pink glitter heels. I disgust myself.
Did I mention the hash brownie? I have never had more respect for Katy Perry than when she took a big fake bite out of a big brown piece of polystyrene offered to her by an acrobatic mime and declared “Thish brownie tashtes kiiiinda fffffunny” and proceeded to sing the next 2 or 3 songs in a state of acted hallucination. How many 6 years olds went home to make funny tasting brownies out of playdough the next day?
The entire concert was an education from start to finish. We’re used to everyone being in black, eyeliner galore, moshing-boots strapped on. Still looking hot, but just more prepared for life in general than the mini-dress and 6-inch heel wearing fans of Katy Perry. Don’t they know heels hurt at a concert? I felt like I had accidentally wandered into somewhere I definitely didn’t belong, but instead of leaving in a state of shock, I was intrigued by everything I saw.
Aside from the differences, there were distinct parallels between poppers and rockers –in place of KISS make-up, every 4 th person that walked past had a cupcake bra or a blue or pink wig on. It was kind of awesome looking down on the crowd and seeing all the wigs. There were a lot. They all jumped in unison too. Squish’s Lobster had mused that he imagined pop concerts to be wonderful places with personal space galore -a contrast to the mosh pits he’s used to –and he wasn’t far wrong. They jumped when they were told to jump, waved their hands when they were told to wave, and we like to assume that if you tried to get to the front they would apologise and excuse themselves to let you through. OK, that’s probably a stretch but you get the idea.
There were heaps of Mums there with their girls, all carrying various led-filled plastic money-suckers from the merch stand. Wands, sticks, drinking glasses… the whole arena flashed and glowed. The Mums weren’t the only ones out in force –we were sat between two Dads there with their girls. The Dad on my side had screwed up bits of paper stuck in his ears and then when she came on stage, he stood in my way so I couldn’t see.
While waiting for Katy to come on stage, Squish and I were delighted to find that one thing never changes between concerts, no matter the genre –when needy girls get drunk, they will still make fools of themselves. We have decided we have never been ‘that’ girl and this delusion will continue forever more, basking in the memory of the poor girl in front of us. Bless her; she just needed a better bra. And to realise that when the boy shes trying to dirty dance with keeps trying to get away and slaps her hand away from his ass at a rate of several times per second, she’s probably not making headway with him. Especially when he has his arm around her sober and far more composed friend and they keep plotting to switch places everytime Drunky manoevres to get closer to him.
Ah, Katy Perry, how you entertain me.
