Sharapova v. Martin
I took in a couple of classic New York events over the past couple of nights, both revealing in their own ways. On Tuesday, I journeyed out to to Queens to watch Maria Sharapova and Nadia Petrova duke it out at the U.S. Open tennis tournament. And last night, I subwayed to the Garden to see Coldplay in the second of their two shows at MSG. After all, just because the summer's over doesn't mean you can't have fun any more.
Some thoughts...
I love watching Open tennis—it's a great tournament, and playing in New York seems to get the athletes fired up. But the classist nature of the Open makes me queasy; it's surely New York's most elitist sporting event. Ticket prices are exorbitant—in my case, $67 for seats not too far from the top row—and concessions are brutal. The sponsors are obnoxiously high-end; you could get your photo taken in front of a new Lexis hybrid, if that floats your boat. The Chase Manhattan symbol was emblazoned on both sides of the net.
Rich people go to the Open, and as is so often the case with rich people who get corporate tickets to entertainment events, they're not necessarily fans. (A prime center box, clearly belonging to some corporate sponsor or perhaps a law firm, remained completely empty throughout the match. Argh.) Nor are they necessarily well-behaved. Would anyone care if the young turks of Wall Street were suddenly sucked into another dimension? Gentlemen, no matter how great your seats are, or how hot you think Maria Sharapova is, you don't have to call up your work buddies to say so. Nor do you need to check your Blackberries between every point. Nor do you have to try to impress your friends by shouting a marriage proposal to Sharapova as she's preparing to serve. (Although I did enjoy it when someone from the opposite side of the stadium, in an effort to counter the vast amount of attention paid to Sharapova's looks, promptly responded by asking the same question of Petrova.)
Last night's Coldplay show was of a different character—far less individual and far more communal. That's largely due to the efforts of lead singer Chris Martin to make the Garden feel smaller than it is—getting people to sing along on "Everything's Not Lost," wading into the crowd during "In My Place," making self-deprecatory jokes about the band. ("We look better from far away," he said to the folks in the cheap seats.)
The band also pulled off a neat trick, turning cell phones from a divisive, individualizing tool into a bonding moment. On one song—I can't remember which—the video screen behind the band flashed the words, "Get Your Cameras Ready," in huge lights, then counted down from three. As brilliant white lights illuminated the band from behind, thousands of cell phones lit them up from in front. A nice touch.
As for the music—well, Coldplay has always been a terrific live band, though they're not really known as such. I saw them about five years ago at Irving Plaza, a small club here in Manhattan, and at the time I thought they were amazing and would go far. This show was proof of that. They opened with "Square One" from the new record, then went into "Politik," which is fantastic live, and then "Yellow," their first big hit. A pretty great way to start a show.
It must be said that the concert lost momentum in a couple of places. The songs from X & Y are not consistently as strong as those from A Rush of Blood to the Head, and "Speed of Sound," the first single from the latter, just isn't very successful in concert. Also, an acoustic interlude in which all four band members played from the front of the stage didn't work. I went and got a beer for half of it, and didn't feel like I missed anything.
But those are small gripes. This band is for real; they all play really well, and they have fantastic songs to play. My favorites from last night: "Politik," "God Put a Smile Upon My Face," "Talk," "Clocks"—what a great fast, loud version they did, could you put that out on iTunes already?—and the lovely closer, "Fix You."
A little note on journalism: the
New York Daily News and the
New York Post both had their glowing reviews of the Tuesday show in Wednesday's papers. The
Times review, by Keleefa Saneh, wasn't in till today, which reflects the
Times' rather casual attitude towards cultural coverage. (Oh, it can wait a day or so....)
It also meant the review was outdated by the time it appeared. Saneh criticized Martin for making a joke about Mariah Carey that didn't quite work...but last night at the show, Martin apologized for telling a "shit story" about Carey. "I shouldn't have said it, and I'm sorry," he said—I'm paraphrasing slightly—which is kind of a remarkable thing to hear from a rock star. If only politicians would follow that lead....
