It was definitely a spectacle. The kind we have come to expect from young, photogenic stars whose sex appeal can be more crucial to their success than actual singing ability.
For some audience members, watching Beyonce prance around in glorified lingerie might have been enough to satisfy them Saturday at the St. Pete Times Forum. But my libido could only keep me engaged for so long. The 25-year-old diva failed to offer much of substance, even by pop standards.
The crowd appeared to fill up less than half of the 20,000-capacity hockey arena, but they were sure an enthusiastic bunch. (Unlike past shows at the Forum, no official attendance number was offered to the press).
But the small turnout didn't stop Beyonce from doing everything BIG. Her stage production included a multitiered mountain of a riser that accommodated a battalion of backing musicians (all women) plus a gaggle of mixed-gender dancers. And hardly a song went by without the former Destiny's Child singer indulging in soulless vocal acrobatics that were showy to the point of obnoxious.
Beyonce's smash "Irreplaceable" is one of my favorite hits of the last year or so. And I figured it might be fun to hear the Destiny's Child anthem "Survivor." Although Beyonce did include a hurried version of "Survivor" during a Destiny's Child medley, the rest of the material was mostly from her two solo albums, which, I quickly learned, are loaded with filler.
Another major drawback was Beyonce's five or six costume-change breaks. I was left scratching my head when during her first wardrobe exit one of three drummers played the kind of lame, time-killing solo typically reserved for classic-rock and hair-metal shows.
Beyonce closed her concert with "Irreplaceable." She led the crowd in a sing-along of the chorus "to the left, to the left," and that was my cue to make a beeline for the exit.
As for opener Robin Thicke, his vanilla soul routine might just rank as the most annoying performance I have ever witnessed at a major venue. My time would have been better spent watching his dad Alan Thicke get on stage and reenact scenes from Growing Pains.
Walking out of Vinoy Park at about 8:30 p.m., I heard someone from the last band standing say to the crowd, "It's hard closing the Warped Tour if you're not Bad Religion."
True. The legendary punk-rock band had just finished its show on an adjacent stage minutes earlier, and the Warped throng — already thinned out after more than eight hours — was beating a hasty retreat. The wilted minions who stayed for Bad Religion enjoyed a feisty, propulsive 30 minutes of old-school punk. (Full disclosure: I arrived about 20 minutes before BR kicked off their set.)
There's something to be said for 30-minute sets, which is what Warped allots its acts, even headliners like Bad Religion. No time for easing into the performance, no protracted tune-ups between songs.
Aside from a couple of songs that skewed medium tempo, BR played one pell-mell, buzzsaw rocker after another. Three guitarists — one dressed in nothing but lime-green shorts and flip-flops — laid down a relentless grind of punchy chords. Drummers are punk's unsung heroes: They enable good bands to keep an audience enthralled with songs that all have basically the same beat. BR's Brooks Wackerman is a flat-out animal.
Forty-two-year-old singer Greg Graffin's dark hair is thinning on top, and he makes no concessions to punk fashion — he wore a plain button-down shirt — or histrionics. He ambled around the stage, his barbed bark expressive and just tuneful enough to deliver the band's brawny hooks. Graffin smiled easily and seemed to enjoy his role as a punk elder statesman.
—Eric Snider
This article appears in Jul 25-31, 2007.