I Still Want to Be the Girl With the Most Cake

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Ravel’s Bolero is the song I listen to when I’m gearing up to work. Its measured tempo, predictable and steady, suggests forward motion and productivity. This is exactly what I need to enter the fray of my own mind before I turn amorphous thoughts into concrete ideas. It was also the song Courtney Love chose accompany her lackluster entrance during her concert at Midtown’s Terminal 5 last night.

Courtney took her time. While we waited for the star to take the stage, my friend and I read the latest celebrity gossip on Gawker (#amItheonlyonewithoutaniphone?) and Billy Corgan’s snarky tweets about his former flame’s lack of talent. After all, I had to do my research.

Then the lights went off, Courtney came on, the iphones shot up, and suddenly the Queen of Disaster was standing before me, pixalated many times over .

“Hey fuckers,” she warmly greeted the audience.

For the record, Courtney’s band Hole is no longer Hole. It’s three random guys wailing on drums and base so the diva can do her thing. Growing up, I liked Hole’s music, but by no means was I a die hard fan. Attending the concert was more about me being able to do something I couldn’t when I was 12 than something I was dying to do at 28. I guess it made me nostalgic for the days of middle school dances in the cafeteria and hating gym class and Smells Like Teen Spirit and wearing baby doll dresses and Doc Martins to Bar Mitzvahs. I’m not quite sure why I’d be nostalgic for those days, but I am. We’re always catching up with yesterday, aren’t we?

Courtney was impressively collected and focused. She threw in an expletive here and there, but it was clear that she was up there to do her thing, not chit chat with the audience or start drama. “Hey New York, this is our date,” she cooed. Unlike the front women in the two opening bands (the Love Loves and Little Fish) who jerked around and did annoying white girl head bobs, Court (can I call you Court, Ms. Love?) stayed put in front of the mic and simply poured her soul out. She was there to entertain, not act up. At one point she shushed the audience and said she had to focus. Though she made performing seem effortless, I got the sense that the task was trying for the notoriously troubled singer.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to decide whether the guy standing behind me is trying to touch my butt. (He and his friends introduced themselves earlier. I didn’t catch his name, but I know he’s from Long Island.) Anyway, I can’t determine whether the soft brushing sensation coming from Mr. Long Island is benign concert contact (the place, of course, was packed) or some random dorky guy trying to cop a  feel. It really was starting to feel like junior high all over again.

She played a handful of  singles – Doll Parts, Violet, and what is bound to be her new hit, Skinny Little Bitch. (Yes, she’s talking to you)- but with four albums, it simply wasn’t enough. I almost felt like we waited in the merch line for signed CD’s longer than we watched the set. In total, even after the obligatory two-song encore, she was probably onstage about 45 minutes tops. There was never that climactic concert moment or a sense of freewheeling fun. I never thought I’d say this, but Courtney Love didn’t bring enough drama to the stage.

I was annoyed, but it’s hard to be upset. Maybe 45 min. is all the keeping-it-togetherness she could muster. Maybe the meds stopped working then.  Maybe she felt she’d revealed enough:  she did display mad guitar skills, her bassist, a boy named Dragon, was kind of cute and covered in glitter, she wore a signature sexy white slip during the encore, and you should definitely get the name of her plastic surgeon, if you’re into that sort of thing. (She had a little Cameron Diaz in her face with none of the Heidi Montag.)

“Hey, you should give me your number and we should chill sometime. Do you smoke weed?”  the guy behind me asked. (You should give me your number?) “Um, no,” I lied and walked away. So he was trying to touch my butt after all.

Courtney’s voice has never been described as pretty – or even good- but it was characterized by all the things that make her the lovable trainwreck that she is: a passionate intensity underscored with searing pain.  It was still there when she sang the lyrics, “Maybe someday you will ache like I ache.”

I already do, Courtney. I already do.