“Not too long ago, I paid tribute to one of the greatest entertainers that ever lived,” said Usher, the guileful crooner and pro-sex supporter. “And I was just wondering, ‘Would you guys mind if I did it again tonight?’”
He was speaking of Michael Jackson, the deceased king of pop whose throne is left unoccupied. “Do I have your permission,” Usher continued, “to fill his shoes?” The seduced crowd, like a footwear salesman on commission, was obliging, willing to nod and say, “Oh yes, those boots are you,” whether the fit was perfect or not.
Did Usher fill the sparkly high-tops that appeared on the stage? Of course not – the very act of asking the question gave us the answer. Did Genghis Khan ever say, “Excuse me”? Did Elvis Presley politely ask, “Y’all mind if I give the world a little shake?” And does Oprah ever seek permission for that last slice of pecan pie?
No, the best ones unhesitatingly take. And while Usher is a highly successful record seller and a generous, physically charismatic performer, he’s no king of anything.
But hey, he did take to the stage on Monday, in support of his latest hit albums (Raymond v. Raymond and Versus), in a stupendous high-flying way, gliding on a floating metallic platform from the back of the arena to the fore, where he was lowered onto an ultramodern stage by a stuntman’s harness. Athletically built – like a tattooed middleweight boxer – and ruggedly handsome, the self-confident 32-year-old singer-dancer began his eye-popping, carnally charged spectacle garbed Will Smith-like, with a black-leathered post-apocalyptic getup. The career of the Justin Bieber mentor and world’s wiliest R&B artist is certainly on solid ground, so why not shoot for the moon?
Usher’s music isn’t the most complicated or melodic: He does fashionably rhythmic pop, leisurely undulating foreplay (“slow jams,” in the parlance) and material more ruggedly danceable, some with nuanced hints of reggae.
More than once, he took his shirt off, as if to say, “Is it hot in here?” To which a lady might answer, “Oh god, yes.” As to what he sang topless about, with his expressive tenor and soulful falsetto, was readily apparent in the song titles: You Make Me Wanna, Hot Tottie, I Need a Girl, Love ’Em All, Bad Girl and Love in This Club.
I think you get the idea. And if you don’t, opening act Trey Songz certainly does. The sexually keening singer’s overt performance left children puzzled, men emasculated and women practically impregnated. But the American recording artist’s best trick was bringing to the stage Toronto hip-hop sensation Drake. He rhymed a bit, wore a Blue Jays jacket and said nice things about his hometown – all well enough to receive a screaming level of approval that would rival anything earned later by the headliner.
Would Jackson allow himself to be upstaged in such a way? Better yet, could he have been upstaged in such a way?
Usher, like MJ before him, relies heavily on an elaborately choreographed production. The athletic performer and eight dancers (four men and four women) worked the hell out of the wide stage. A five-piece band was tucked away in a pit in back; complicated backing vocals were played from a tape. Interludes allowed for costume changes. Dry ice fogged low, confetti fluttered high, lights flashed, flames flew and sparks spewed and showered.
It was a thrilling exposition, ending with a swirling version of OMG, his popular but by no means historic single. Where Usher is the all-star lover man with a history of urban-radio hits, Jackson was an asexual extraterrestrial with a stunning catalogue of mainstream classics. Can Usher ever measure up to that? Oh my god, no.
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