I drove to Vegas for my birthday weekend, mostly to go see Justin Timberlake perform during his annual "Justin Timberlake and Friends" benefit concert at Planet Hollywood. I've seen Justin nearly a half dozen times in concert, but since he's so focused on his acting career as of late, I wasn't sure when I'd ever be able to see him perform music again. So the promise of even just a couple of songs was enough to make the weekend trip, and to convince my two girlfriends to fly out and meet me.
The festival-style "Old School Jam" was co-hosted by Justin and Wayne Brady, and was an exhausting experience - not only because it was a marathon five hours that ended after 1 a.m., but because all of the performing acts were so demanding.
Since when do I have to work so hard at a concert? Didn't I pay $100 to go and sit or stand or dance or not, whatever I feel like at the time?
How is it that every artist - from Snap! and Color Me Badd and the insufferable Vanilla Ice, to old-timers like Earth Wind & Fire and The Commodores - formulaically, dogmatically and insistently barked orders at us throughout their (sometimes too-long) sets? (And, in the case of Charlie Wilson of The Gap Band, repeatedly whistled into the microphone at eardrum-piercing decibels.)
"Somebody screeeeeeeam!"
"Make some noiiiiiiise!"
"Get on your feet!"
"Put your hands in the air!"
"When I say hey, you say ho! HEY!"
I mean, can't I decide when to scream? Why must I be expected to be so obedient?
The more they hollered at me (recalling my father's take on rap when I was a teenager, which was: "The beat is good but I don't like all that yelling..."), the less I wanted to do for them. I was not there to please them. I wanted to sit on a dias, wave my hand and say, "Entertain me."
And if I was not entertained, I wanted to declare, "This displeases me."
But unfortunately, at a concert (especially one at which you're waiting for Justin Timberlake to perform and he never does), I am at the mercy of the artist. They determine the set list. They determine the volume. Sure, I can choose to leave, but I have no other control over the situation, despite the fact that the artist on stage works for me. My ticket purchase pays his salary. I'm not being paid to stand there and beat my hands together and lose my voice screaming.
Why do I have to sing the next line of the song?
I know some people must love it, otherwise this particular performer-fan interaction wouldn't be so prevalent. Maybe I've just become precious over myself and my time, formed delusions of grandeur about the value of my dollar and of five hours spent doing any one thing. But the concerts that I have enjoyed the most thus far in over 20 years of concert-going have been those performed by artists who seemed to appreciate having me there, who were humbled by my adulation and honored that I wanted to spend money to see them do what they love doing the most.
Even worse, after all that, Justin Timberlake never even performed, despite being billed as the headliner.
Worst of all, he didn't even thank us for being there.
As I stumbled out of the theater that night, eyes bleary, throat scratchy, eardrums throbbing, jaw dropping, all I could think was, "All that work for nothing."
