It was July 2004 when I got the Immaculate Phone Call from my friend, Liz, telling me she couldn’t go to the Madonna concert and that I could have her tickets.
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Obviously, I freaked out with glee.
I immediately called my best friend, Sarah–I was prepared to have her paged at work, if necessary–to tell her to clear her schedule because we were going to see (omigod!) the Material Girl in the flesh.
I’d like to say that the concert was the best time ever, but in reality it was just OK. Watching Her Madgesty prance about in kilts pretending to be a revolutionary just didn’t work for me.
During the concert, I couldn’t help wishing that Sarah and I could have been transported back to an earlier version of the superstar, say circa 1986. Granted, I was 6 years old then, but that year I danced to “Open Your Heart” in the school talent show, and the Queen of Pop had just ascended to the throne. She was so freakin’ cool.
She’s still inherently cool for being Madonna, and I would probably pass out if I ever had the chance to talk to her. But around 2003’s “American Life” album, I started to wonder–and, please, forgive my blasphemy–if she had gone off the deep end.
Madonna has long been heralded as the epitome of reinvention. I’m just not sure that her latest personas as socially aware-disenfranchised-citizen and Esther-the-Kabbalah-lover have been all that great.
Now the woman more commonly referred to as the “Material Mom” is hitting the promotional circuit for her new album, “Confessions on a Dance Floor,” which drops Nov. 15. She’s scheduled to appear on MTV’s “TRL” Monday, and later this week a Madge documentary called “I’m Going to Tell You a Secret” is supposed to debut on the network.
I’m worried.
I’m pulling for her to do something awesome, something reminiscent of the glory days.
I fear, however, that we’re going to get some more of the bizzaro Madonna. The one who’s trying desperately to stay relevant amid a sea of copycat competitors.
For me, she started the whole phenomenon of the modern pop star: a decent vocalist with a hot bod whose celebrity is more compelling than the actual tracks she sings. But those chicks are everywhere now, and Madonna has a faux English accent and a shockingly unshocking lifestyle. I mean, the biggest Madonna news in the last year was that she fell off of a horse. It’s a far cry from writing sex books and dating Vanilla Ice.
I hate to see her like this.
After all, Madonna was such a huge part of growing up for people in my generation. Sarah and I have been blasting the song “Cherish” on our boomboxes since we were in high school. (The best part: “You are my destiny/I can’t let go/Baby, can’t you see?/Cupid, please take your aim at me.” You’ve got to perform it with your hairbrush, though, for maximum effect. Preferably standing on a bed or table.)
I guess all good things must come to an end.
A hot young pop tart eventually has to admit that she’s achieved all that she possibly can, and marry a disturbed, artsy film director and have kids. (Or, in Britney’s case, a lecherous and scraggly Baby Daddy who made her buy her own engagement ring.)
Madonna’s next album will probably continue in this strange direction that she’s taken fans in recent years, although I’d like to be proven wrong.
Still, it’s a comfort to know that no matter what strange incarnation she decides to throw at us next, you can always throw “Like a Virgin” on the CD player, grab a hairbrush and remember how it used to be.
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