From the moment Prince arrives on stage, he owns it. He’s all swagger and confidence as if he knows, beyond all doubt, that the crowd is blessed when he’s ready to groove.
Add James Hetfield’s bullhorn vocals, which roar above the noise as if he drank motor oil, and Metallica presents hard rock’s hardest-rocking show.
Buffett’s nine-song, 50-minute show on a tiny stage in suburban Madison’s Greenway Station promoted the new Cheeseburger in Paradise restaurant, a chain co-owned by Buffett’s Margaritaville Holdings.
ICP wears clown makeup and presents a PG-13 horror show. In a genre where street credibility is gold, ICP is a bottom feeder.
This wasn’t a social or political rally. DeGeneres’ private life may be public, but it’s not part of her stand-up act. That’s unfortunate.
A guitarist extraordinaire with an undeniable savory sound, John Mayer will become The Next Big Thing. At just age 24, Mayer – a triple threat of singer, songwriter and guitarist – has enjoyed rising popularity in recent months.
Through big-hair rock, grunge, rap and hip-hop, she’s maintained more than two dozen dance radio-friendly pop singles with a few ballads tossed in to give her longevity comparable only to Whitney and Madonna.
Where Spears excels, though, is in star power. It’s as if she is each personality of Spice Girl rolled into one. She’s a sex kitten one song (her navel should be insured) and a doe-eyed teen the next.
Oh, how to describe the screams? Try taking a hammer and whacking your big toe. Do it again.
For two hours, Shania Twain charmed the crowd, playing the part of everyone’s big sister rather than a video vixen. Despite wearing black leather pants and a tiny vest and sporting humongous hair, she never used the stage to tease anyone. This was a family show.
Alan Jackson is country music’s most reliable commodity, a bona fide superstar who seems as down-to-earth as a dairy farmer.
Best of all, Johnny Cash’s voice still commands the same attention as an approaching train. And Cash isn’t content to be a museum relic in concert, either.
When it ended – with a topless Love swinging wildly at a concertgoer on stage – one felt particularly unclean. Afterward, she had our pity, having given us an unsettling glimpse at her tortured soul during the 90-minute show.
Merle squeezed every ounce of sentiment from his well-worn repertoire, featuring classic, tender ballads and rave-ups.
Marky appeared to have no qualms about entertaining an all-ages crowd at an alcohol-free central Illinois nightspot. He seemed at ease with his teenybopper status
A musical hodge-podge, the concert was more spectacle than respectable. Warrant’s two albums (“Dirty Rotten Filthy Stinking Rich” and “Cherry Pie”), both big sellers, have ruled the party rock market. Rarely is a group so boneheaded and proud of it.
Mitch Ryder’s voice contains much of the fire found in vintage rock ‘n’ roll. Ryder’s torrid two sets at Liberty Stage Sunday night made it easy to understand how a performer like Bruce Springsteen draws inspiration from him.
Brooks jumped off the stage, strolled across the empty, foot-deep muddy track and performed two songs. The audience rushed to the fence and loved his showmanship. The husky opening act turned a terrible situation into an unforgettable 50-minute set. This guy had charisma to burn, even for a near-empty grandstand.
Some rumors are too good to be true. On Thursday evening (1987), one spread that John Cougar Mellencamp and his band with Lou Reed and John Prine would play the Bluebird, a small Bloomington club. Cover charge: $1. Then it happened.