Ostensibly, I shouldn't be here. For as much shit as I've talked about Kanye West–his typically awkward, often painfully clunky lyrics; his prefabricated, presumptive cult of personality; his off-putting and petulant demand for the spotlight–I'm probably the last person who should be taking up these damn good seats when so many "true fans" are banished to the rafters here at Austin's Frank Erwin Center. But because I know people who know people (thanks Jennifer!), I'm eye-level with the rap world's premier egoist, bathed in the multimillionaire glare of his retina-scorching Glow In The Dark Tour. And God damn it, I'm having a Road To Damascus moment with this self-proclaimed Christ figure I've already denied three times and more.
Don't worry: I'm not here to preach the gospel. There's still plenty to snark about when it comes to Kanye, and I'll get to that in a moment. But much as I couldn't resist the opportunity to see one of the most over-the-top spectacles to pass through town in recent memory, I can't resist getting caught up in the sway of so much boundless excess, so many dollars poured into this moving monument to Kanye's bottomless hubris. Perhaps it's just the novelty: Until now, most of my concert experiences have been limited to cramped rock clubs, where the crudity of the surroundings testifies to the "cred" of the acts on stage. But overblown stadium shows like this one don't care about "cred"–that shit's for poor people. Much in the way that his persona is a carefully assembled mélange of brand names, Kanye's Glow In The Dark Tour is all about piling on the special effects–fireworks! Fake moonscapes! Jim Henson creatures!–until the only possible response is one of awed submission. It's both wonderful and wearying, and to a guy schooled in the gritty (and often dull) world of indie rock, it's too impressive for me to deny. As I said to a friend after the show, a guy I've often sparred with over Kanye: "Okay. I get it now."
That's because this show finally made me realize that worshipping Kanye isn't about the man himself, exactly. Unlike my other hip-hop heroes, with Kanye there's no grim gangsta backstory to empathize with (or secretly admire). West didn't grow up in the everyday struggle of Biggie or spend time herbin' 'em in the home of the Terrapins like Jay-Z. He wasn't even close to being a halfway crook, like the Mobb Deep track playing between acts. He can't trade war stories with Tupac–shit, the only war story Kanye has is about folding khakis at the Gap. No, people like Kanye because it's easy for everyone in this auditorium to identify with the Old-Navy-rags-to-Prada-riches fantasy contained within his lyrics–to share in his bourgeois dream of just "getting on the TV, mama." His is a dream of wealth and fame without any sort of specific careerist angle to anchor them to–where his stories are more often about the spoils of rap rather than the game itself–and it makes him a perfect star for the current generation, for all these kids who believe that infamy is just a MySpace page away. After all, there's no boundary between artists and audience anymore: Everybody's a star, so never mind the hustle. "Welcome to the good life," because it's already here. That's a damn seductive philosophy, and while I chafe at that kind of unearned, cork-popping nonsense on paper, sitting here in this audience I'll be buggered if I'm not starting to feel it.
And anyway, by the time I finally reach this so-called epiphany, I've had plenty of time to lower my crabby hipster defenses: Kanye's brought some friends to get the party started, although he's crowded them out to the lip of the stage with his huge, shrouded-in-secrecy set design. I get there too late to catch Lupe Fiasco, the one performer I was genuinely hoping to see, and in fact, the one song of the night that I was most genuinely looking forward to–"Superstar," one of my most-played tracks from last year, according to iTunes–is already wrapping up by the time I finally get past security, where I'm held up by a girl with a Foo Fighters tattoo (on the back of her neck, no less) emptying her cavernous purse. I hear that infectious Matthew Santos hook drifting up from the arena and run to see–and fuckity fuck fuck, it's not a recording, Santos is here to do it live, and I fucking missed it.
Fuck. I get to my seat in time to hear the end of "Daydreamin'" (unfortunately, Jill Scott is not also along for the ride), but it's too little, too late. I'm pissed. So off I go to drown it in $6 beer. That's where I spot these guys:
Yes, those are Kanye's signature "Stronger" shades, and yes, they're everywhere tonight (as are approximately 10,000 faux-hawked dudes in screenprinted blazers). If you forgot to bring yours from home, of course, there are flimsy paper versions available at the merch table for the not-at-all-ridiculous price of $10. While you're there, grab a garish T-shirt with Kanye's signature teddy bear logo ($35), or pick up a poster book ($25) featuring shots of rap's superstar cipher staring blankly at the beach or awkwardly hanging out by a DeLorean.
Needing none and wanting less, I get back to my seat in time for N.E.R.D., who announce that they refuse to start the show until everyone stands up. (Pharrell even points in my general direction and says, "If y'all don't stand up in that corner, I swear to God…") Most of their set proceeds along these half-galvanizing, half-threatening lines as they run through favorites like "Lapdance" and "Rock Star," and the appreciative audience responds in kind–although you get the feeling that Pharrell could do a little "Turkey In The Straw" and these women would still be screaming his name. This is my first live exposure to The Neptunes' rockist side project, and I'm borderline on whether its parodies of rock 'n' roll conventions are knowing or not: The numerous shout-outs to Austin are nothing new even in the rap game, but what about this extended solo-off between dueling drummers? Those "wicked cool" lightning effects that even Spinal Tap might have balked at? Ironic or not, they're tailor-made for this kind of environment, where sheer bombast triumphs über alles. Of course, my favorite moment comes when Pharrell introduces new single "Everyone Nose" by yelling out "Take it off, girls!" and the cameraman closes in on a group of giddy, braces-wearing preteens before a group of girls who couldn't have been more than 16 are pulled on stage to squirm lasciviously, all while Pharrell raps about he "can tell she wants it." Shit, doesn't he know that's how Akon gets in trouble?
Rihanna's set is blessedly free of such pedophilic overtones, but make no mistake: It's still all about sex. The reigning R&B; queen is poured into one patent leather skin after another, and sings at least half of her songs while coyly glancing back over her million-dollar ass. Her show is all '80s pastiche, from the garish neon spandex that makes her back-up dancers resemble extras from Saved By The Bell (although the men, in their drab jumpsuits and lime green gloves, look more like garbagemen from a distant, gayer future) to the bizarre jungle gym set lifted directly from Paula Abul's video for "Cold Hearted." For her Soft Cell-sampling hit "S.O.S.", Rihanna even dons a leather motorcycle cap that looks like it came straight out of Marc Almond's closet; if that's intentional, then the girl's definitely got a wicked sense of humor.