By Jef With One F
By Bob Ruggiero
By Corey Deiterman
By Marco Torres
By Angelica Leicht
By Angelica Leicht
By Charne Graham
"Clap your hands, all you sexy people!" Prince told the audience.
And people, we were not sexy. We were geeks through and through, slapping high fives and dancing with the finesse of tipsy five-year-olds, whooping with every familiar riff. And yet, the beautiful thing about Prince was that it didn't matter. Just like every snowflake is unique, everyone is sexy to Prince.
"I don't care what you looked like when you came in here, I'm gonna shake that do loose!" he warned the audience. Yes, Prince was funny. And charismatic. And better than ever. His show earlier this summer at the American Airlines Center, his second stop in Big D on his Musicology tour, showcased an unparalleled performer at the top of his craft. It was as if he'd never been gone, as if he'd never been weird, never gotten "experimental" and "difficult," never painted "slave" across his forehead. It was as if we'd never lost touch. More than a quarter-century after he hit the scene, Prince still ruled.
He started with a bang -- literally, a poof of white confetti -- launching into "Let's Go Crazy" as latecomers hustled through security and practically elbowed the elderly out of the way to get inside on time. Prince strutted and slinked across the cross-shaped stage in a red bowler hat and natty red suit, looking like 20 years had been nothing but a mere suggestion. Is it possible that Prince is not aging? He looks the same, and sounds the same, which is to say he looks and sounds terrific. He kept slamming us with Purple Rain-era hits: "I Would Die 4 U," a tease of a lick from "When Doves Cry" and then "Baby I'm a Star." It wasn't until he briefly left the stage 15 minutes into the set that people dared to sit down.
Later, when he took the stage solo with only an acoustic guitar, the stadium show seemed to shrink a little, get warmer and more intimate. Without his band to play with and off of, Prince seemed to need the crowd a bit more, nudging us to scoot closer and sing along to "Little Red Corvette" and "Raspberry Beret." Whenever we faltered -- like, what are the lyrics to "Cream" anyway? -- he shot back a one-liner.
"Don't lip-sync up in here," he said, a wry smile on his lips. "I know that's what you're used to, but it ain't gonna work tonight."
Age and love seemed to have mellowed him. (Before his late-night performance at Erykah Badu's afterparty, Prince nuzzled with his wife, Manuela Testolini, for hours.) He didn't need so much of the flash and pretense that have often obscured his best asset: his talent. Songs from his latest, Musicology, sat confidently beside the classics. When I heard "On the Couch," I couldn't help but laugh at his romantic entreaty, delivered in that pleading Prince falsetto: "Don't make me sleep on the couch / Love Jones is on the TV again / I wanna go down south."
When the crowd roared at the euphemism, he stopped mid-song. "What y'all hollerin' for? I mean down south to Texas."
Later, he got even more playful with his music, mixing up his own songs with a stirring rendition of the old Negro spiritual "Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child" and cutting up with Beyoncé's "Bootylicious" and Alicia Keys's "Fallin'." The crowd welcomed him back for an encore that included "Purple Rain" and "Nothing Compares 2 U," which was a fitting sentiment. Nothing could compare. -- Sarah Hepola
Friday and Saturday, August 6 and 7, at the Toyota Center, 1510 Polk, 1-866-4HOUTIX.
As neo-screamers Atreyu were finishing up their second album, The Curse, vocalist Alex Varkatzas was promising evolution. "We're trying to make a different record," he said. "They didn't want to do the same shit recycled." The most pleasant revelations from the SoCal quintet's new disc are awe-inspiring slabs of metalcore -- apeshit vocal jawing ("Right Side of the Bed"), jackhammer riffs ("You Eclipsed By Me") and ribbons of melodic delicacy ("The Crimson"). -- Annie Zaleski
Sunday, August 8, at the Engine Room, 1515 Pease, 713-654-7846.
Starlite Desperation resides in sun-kissed Los Angeles. But the band has also done time in tough cities like Detroit, which undoubtedly contributed to the white-knuckled riffs and dark jams on albums such as Go Kill Mice and Show You What a Baby Won't. Residue from other rough environs (Salinas, California) also explains the quartet's feral sound on its latest EP, Violate a Sundae. Songs like "The Thing" resemble Iggy Pop fronting a napalm wall of sound, as much fuzzed-out swagger as come-hither swing. In fact, on the band's spring tour, Starlite Desperation's opening sets outgrooved the Rapture and sleazed more than Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. The bane's hipster-defeating secret? Hip-swiveling beats, taut riffs and even tighter pants -- the classic hallmarks of garage-rock seduction. -- Annie Zaleski
Thursday, August 5, at the Axiom, 2524 McKinney, 713-522-8443.
To hell with Frank Sinatra. Suck a fat one, Luciano Pavarotti. Do the waiters at the Olive Garden look lovelorn, starstruck or even happy to you? Enter Lacuna Coil, a band for every Italian who hears "Dominick, the Italian Christmas Donkey" and is provoked to put on black eyeliner and smash something with a crowbar. And not Pauly Walnuts' kneecaps, either. (Enter other Italian stereotypes here.) The Milan sextet bucks the traditions of the homeland in favor of good old American, epic, hard rock, complete with soaring female vocals and grinding guitars. Kind of like the italiano version of Evanescence, only we'll give Lacuna Coil the benefit of the doubt. The band members could charge admission for their Web bios alone. They not only give their height and weight in meters and kilograms (fucking metric system) but also offer some of their favorite things, including The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Abba and Whoopi Goldberg. Something has been horribly, irrecoverably lost in the translation.
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