March 30, 2004
At first, for a split second, there is darkness and silence, and then the voices start to rise. The individual cries merge into a collective. The words cannot be discerned, but the message is nonetheless clear.
We want Clay.
For a little while longer, we must wait. We see first a female:
"The wind blows hard against this mountain side..."
Then a man:
"...across the sea into my soul..."
Followed by another woman:
"It reaches into where I cannot hide..."
Their voices blend as the anticipation rises:
"...setting my feet upon the road..."
Finally we realize that we are hearing the voice we have craved. It caresses our ears and thrills our spirits:
"My heart is old, it holds my memories, my body burns a gemlike flame
Somewhere between the soul and soft machine, is where I find myself again."
As the spotlights find their focus at the back of the arena, we see, at last, The Singer himself.
I had known what to expect from the stories of 19 cities, but I laugh at the very thought of the spectacle I am seeing. Clay Aiken, this is one audacious entrance, but you pull it off splendidly. You must have considered what would happen if the result had not matched the intention, but somehow you knew that you could do this. How and where and by what means did you learn to command a crowd so completely?
This is a grand entrance in the best possible sense, but there is a second level to it, and that is the populist approach. Clay's arrival through the crowd assumes that we will accept him as one of us, but somehow apart from us at the same time, as he should be.
This is the king's progress. This is the warrior, returning victorious. This is the champion, who through tears and talent and time has been bestowed the title once given to others.
This is the triple platinum recording artist Clay Aiken.
And he is wearing a hat.
I am riveted by the sight of it, and my eyes aren't capable of moving on, so I take in the rest of the ensemble in a swift glance. Silky blue shirt and matching tie. Grey dress trousers. White Nikes, green trim, pink shoelaces.
And crowning it all, a Sinatra-style fedora in grey.
I do not recall a time he has ever looked better in his life.
That may be my bias, borne of six weeks of waiting to see this concert tour since I briefly saw him in person at "On Air with Ryan Seacrest," but I don't think so. Clay has changed so much from the talented amateur I first saw fourteen months ago. There is even a light-year's distance between the way he presents himself now and the enthusiastic young professional I saw last summer in Sacramento and met in San Jose. With a few exceptions, he always appeared confident, but now that self-assuredness radiates from the inside out. He knows he commands this crowd, he knows he can control our reactions -- - and there is not a trace of arrogance in that knowledge.
I am taking this in from my "seat" in the fourth row, three seats to the right of the catwalk. (I will not sit until the guards briefly force me to, during the acoustic set.) The Singer is partly obscured, perched on the far side of the stage, but now he hops down and moves to the stairs. Much has been made of his slow climb, step by step, and the pause he takes to survey the crowd before he mounts the stage, but two dozen videos of this ascent did not prepare me for its impact in person. I laugh (Oh, Clay, you crack me up), but I feel a certain thrill in being in This Moment. The magnetism is undeniable. He is pulling me in and I don't even try to resist.
His stillness is ended in a leap and he pumps his arm for emphasis as he sings. He is more than simply one man in the spotlight and the words that he sings are ancient.
This is the third level, and it comes in the chorus. It is an invocation:
Kyrie eleison, down the road that I must travel
Kyrie eleison, through the darkness of the night
Kyrie eleison, where I'm going will you follow
Kyrie eleison, on a highway in the light.
Lord have mercy.
This journey through the audience to the stage is also, along with all of the other things, a symbolic way station of a pilgrimage. Yes, of course, the myriad aspects of Clay Aiken are evident, but on this night he is, without question, a star.
His energy is palpable, as if his body cannot contain it, so the force of his dynamism washes over all of us. It has been said that he glows when he is in this place and the evidence is right before my eyes. And the voice, the voice, impossibly expressive, subtle and powerful in a piece, so gloriously right tonight. He is in his perfect performance space. This will be a concert to remember.
I am still looking at the hat. He has said he doesn't look good in them. He is wrong. It fits Young Green Eyes as naturally as it fit Old Blue Eyes, and Clay wears it at that familiar rakish angle. In his life, which is constantly surprising and interesting, it amuses me that a little thing like a hat should draw such fascinated interest.
The Singer is not carrying himself like a man who is wearing a hat to cover a mistake. It is worn as a tease, a surprise and with the slightest of knowing winks --- "You like it, don't you?" It is utterly ridiculous that in my carefully maintained triad of all things Clay --- The Voice, The Character, The Persona --- it is this hat that has captured my attention. I wonder if he is going to wear it all evening.
"Perfect Day" has begun and The Voice has drawn my attention. Ah, yes: clear, strong, supple and flexible throughout his range --- he is in excellent voice tonight. I am not hearing any echoes of the voice strain that challenged him throughout the first phase of the Independent Tour. If those problems were brought on by allergies, illness, lack of warm-up or some days when he sang without proper technique, the issue has been resolved. Clay Aiken sounds simply fantastic.
Hello, San Diego! He says that he went to Sea World with tour mate Kelly Clarkson yesterday. The "whitest celebrity" got sunburned in a couple of hours. (Should have been wearing a hat then, Mr. Aiken.) He is laughing. It sounds like he had a great time. (I am slow --- not until after the show did I say to myself "Sea World? Relaxing at that living hell for aquaphobes?")
He's taking off the hat, revealing that he has had a good hair cut: sides layered close to his head, back left longer but nicer tapered and the top, though a bit compressed by the chapeau, the ideal length for styling with nothing more than a quick hand through the hair. Clay is saying that his hair is a mess, but this is not at all true. Self-deprecation or an awareness of what is said about him, who knows. (I have never said anything bad about your hair, Clay, other than saying that your audition hair looked like it was styled with an eggbeater. I'm pretty darn sure you'd agree. Though I vastly prefer the BMA and Jingle Ball red hair with the blond highlights, if you want to play around with boy band blond or mahogany gravitas, have at it. It's your head and I don't get to vote on it. I do, however, like the hat.)
But I digress.
He asks for some help with his hair, and goes over to Angela, patiently lowering his chin so she can reach those locks. In the running gag of Clay vs. Angela, their stage flirtation and competition, Angela cannot resist the joke. Clay walks back to the microphone with his hair standing straight up, but talented scissors have been there and his hair falls perfectly into place. The hat is tossed aside. (Shedding a tear for its grey felt beauty.)
"Enough about my hair. I'm just going to sing."
"I Will Carry You" - I enjoyed this song on the album, but didn't think it was the strongest material there. I thought it was included as a "stealth Christian" song, one of those numbers with religious overtones that read in a certain way could fit quite easily into the Contemporary Christian format. I have grown to really enjoy this song in concert. As with everything he performs live, Clay really finds the heart of a song the more time he spends with it. He pairs nuance with power. He balances tenderness with strength. It's a lovely interpretation and it segues nicely into the next song ---
"All About Love" - I have heard a number of people say that there is something very sexy / appealing about Clay when he sings about God. It is the joy. And he just loves this song. I watch him as he climbs the stairs, singing, rocking out a bit, shifting his shoulders, kicking out a foot, matching the beat with a movement of head or hand. Funny he thinks he can't dance, because it is so obvious that he found a place where he lives inside of the music and the music inhabits him. Perhaps this is similar to what Harrison Ford means when he talks about the work he does in his action movies as being "physical acting, not stunt work." If Clay is not a dancer, he is mastering stage movement, and there is no practical difference from the audience's point of view. There he is, trying to match the movements of his talented backup singers. No, a bit off. Now he has it. You are learning how to move your body, Clay, and you look great doing it.
The stage is well designed, taking Clay across various levels, from one end to the next and, later, out among the crowd on the catwalk. "No More Sad Song" is begun on the stairs he has descended at the end of "All About Love". My musical training is strictly amateur and long ago, but I suspect that sitting on the stairs gives him a chance to bring his heart rate down and his breathing back under control after all of the movement in the previous song. Look at that --- it can be done without resorting to lip-synching. Good song and a strong performance, with some bluesy licks at the end for which he should receive much, much more credit. In time, in time.
Out he comes onto the catwalk, asking for houselights. There are a lot of signs, brightly colored, being waved frantically in the air.
"Marry me, Clay," pleads an eleven year old. He raises his eyebrow as he comments on that one.
He looks vaguely in my direction, but I have nothing to catch his attention. His gaze stops at a sign just over my left shoulder. "Clay, say Hi to Natalie," he says, and a shriek hits me in the back of the head. The young teen behind me had proudly shown me her sign earlier, which her mother had said she spent too much time on. It was worth every second to hear him say your name, wasn't it, Natalie?
At his feet, cell phones are being waved back and forth, and some are rising and falling with each leap of the woman who holds it. He turns his head slowly, the smallest trace of a teasing smile on his lips, and then he makes a sudden move and grabs one. Michelle in Louisiana gets a moment of his attention. Early in the tour he had listened and responded to what the callers were saying, but it was probably too hard to hear and he is in love with the affectionately joking fangirl imitation that every city eagerly embraces. And so the lighthearted-despite-its-lyrics "When You Say You Love Me" passes as he dances and winks and smiles.
Before "Without You" we get to hear him talk being cut in Charlotte, beaten for a guaranteed audition spot by Quiana Parler, who now backs him up. (Quiana is so gifted, I am sure that she laughs at that little bit of God's Comedy.) This song is one of those sweepingly romantic ballads, a tale of heartache, that both of their voices fit so well. As they approach each other, he keeps touching his chest, a symbol of heartbreak made manifest, and then they pass each other without touching.
It is only when a man is innately attractive that an accident can become an erotic gesture. With "Invisible," it started in St. Paul last summer, when a slipping battery pack under his shirt led to clutches and tugs and yanks, now a Clay Aiken signature move. It is because he doesn't reveal his body, because he knows what should be kept private and because he has something that is increasingly rare --- dignity --- that by pulling his garments slightly askew, the imagination races to fill in the rest. Hands reach out to him, he reaches back, ever so close --- but you don't even see me, and the shadow passes through. Nice that he comes back at the end and makes contact, completing the act and offering the smallest shade of hope to the lyric.
Since I have mentioned accidental eroticism, I am going to have to talk about The Physique, from a strictly technical aspect of the body as a tool for the performer. (Honestly, Clay, you don't have to skip this: I'm writing this as though I am saying it to your face.) With his baggy clothes, part style and part choice to disguise his thinness, some might ask what there is to view. What Clay wears on stage is, of course, not clothes but costume, and I must assume that they are chosen with care.
Clay's clothes, like the man himself, are both modest and a bit of a tease. The blue pinstriped shirt and tie, along with the grey dress slacks, have a certain formality, but any threat of stodginess is exploded by the rolled up sleeves and untucked shirttail, as well as by the choice of footwear. Others would have the shirt tailored to fit every muscle bulge, and unbuttoned low enough to reveal a lot more than a hint of chest, but Clay has nothing to prove to anyone. That's being secure in one's self and that is wildly attractive as well.
There are the sinewy forearms, liberally covered with ginger colored hair. That reads "Man, not boy." There, when he throws back his arm, is the suggestion of the pectoral muscle, straining a bit at the fabric: a chest which is well-defined and not at all scrawny. As he bends his knees, the strong muscles of his legs are revealed: the sartorius, stretching tight as a piano wire, from the outer line of the hip diagonally across to the tender inner side of the knee, the great mass of the rectus femoris, clearly defined through the cloth covering his thigh. There is strength in his legs, and quiet power. When he turns around, I am always a bit surprised by how broad he is across his upper back and shoulders. I get a quick impression that he is stronger than he seems. The neck and throat are classics of masculine beauty, and I want to look closer.
Best of all is that he is learning, and learning fast, how to use his body as an extension of his stage persona, finding the movements that compliment the music and complete the idea of the song.
Suggestions. Outlines. Shadows. Such is the body of the artist, as effective a weapon as that electric stare. These paragraphs do not require a single word that ventures into the intimate to describe the sensuality that he projects. It appears effortless.
Next comes The Startling Glory that is "I Survived You." The evolution of this performance from the first time he sang it in Atlanta until now renders the early versions unrecognizable as the same song. Only the lyrics are the same, but they are delivered now with such force, such passion. What is driving this man? I try to keep my speculation about Clay to a minimum --- in fact, I try not to do it at all --- but if he did not use personal experience as a starting point for what I am seeing tonight, he will indeed become a great actor.
His arm gestures, which were almost nonexistent in the early performances and then almost too frantic later, have become lean, sparing. Each one is like a blow, and they are not just defensive. He spits out the lyric and there goes his left arm --- punch, for what you have done to me. He narrows his eyes, curls his lip, delivers the next line --- along with a shot to the solar plexus from the powerful right arm.
What is he doing with his hands? He splays his fingers, runs his palm along the mic stand and curls his hand slowly into a fist. This is a symbolic stranglehold, typifying the release of all of the anger and violence that was felt but not expressed.
And then he almost kills me, because I see a spasm of anger develop along his jaw line, rippling along his neck muscles and shooting like a laser out of his left eye. He has reached the last line: "I survived..." and he pauses to survey the ruins in front of him, turning his head slowly and delivering a feral stare. There is a slight flare to his nostrils. Blood. Sweat. Victory. "You" --- and he releases the last of the venom. Free at last.
When it is over, I notice that I am leaning away from the stage, my upper body at a 45 degree angle. It was way too much to take, leaning into the song as I usually do. I am left devastated by what I have seen in profile. If I had seen all of this from the front, a dead woman would be reporting to you now.
There is an artist and a man all mixed up in "I Survived You." I have no idea where one ends and the other begins, but this is far and away Clay's most improved song from the recorded to the performance versions. As recorded, I thought only in passing about why Clay decided to choose this song for Measure of a Man. As performed, I am just a tiny bit scared of him.
In a twinkling, the Angry Man disappears into the Man with the Sunny Smile. I think of the way Clay used to introduce the acoustic set by talking about how freely and joyously the folks in church used to sit around, sharing songs of praise, moving from one favorite to the next. I am grateful for the internet because that anecdote lingers in my memory, informing his attitude toward what he is about to perform. He now says that this is his favorite part of the show, a chance to quiet down and share a few special songs and a way to bring an intimate feeling to this large arena. (I hope that one day I'll be one of those lucky few who make it into a Clay Aiken midnight sneak peek show at a thousand capacity venue, but that is a dream for another day.) Tonight, he is singing for ten thousand close friends.
Here are the first notes of "Measure of a Man." It was several weeks before I could listen to it without feeling a tear tickle the corner of my eye, thinking about all I had learned of his life by the time I heard that song, but I do not think about the back story too much tonight. I concentrate instead on that marvelous voice and I picture, for a fleeting second, the steel and courage it took for a college guy to take on an industry mogul and say this song will be on my album and it will be the title as well. Woe to those foolish enough to mistake his old-fashioned courtesy for weakness.
"Fields of Gold" is one of my favorite songs of all time, written by Sting, one of my favorite artists. I would not have thought I would care for a cover, but Clay sings it with a youthful tenderness and a knowledge of loss that is simply heartbreaking.
"When I Need You" was once one of my least favorite songs. My taste can sometimes be corny as hell, but I don't generally like outright schmaltz. The song has blessedly found a singer who transforms it, replacing wistfulness with yearning, and whose voice is so well based throughout its range that the song never floats away on a puffy pink cloud. Clay has too much humor in him for that, because he has started to use his microphone to punch the end of every line, and it is impossible to get all gooey when there is laughter so close at hand.
Sometime in the seventies, a tall and lanky North Carolinian with offbeat good looks wrote a song about missing home. How appropriate that Clay has chosen James Taylor's "Carolina in my Mind." Even if, as Thomas Wolfe wrote, you can't go home again, there is much value in remembering where you are from.
I should acknowledge the band, and I won't interrupt "Doves" to do it: backup singers Quiana, Angela and Jacob, Danny on guitar, Al on bass, Chris on drums, S'von on keyboards and Jason, the music director. This group has grown tremendously since the first time I heard them and offer top-notch musicianship and excellent chemistry with Clay. I know he feels as lucky to have them as I do that they support him so well.
And now all is stripped away until what remains is one man in the spotlight, one voice singing out with a range of mournful expressiveness:
"How can you leave me standing alone in a world that's so cold?"
I am standing on my tiptoes, though I am much taller than everyone around me. "When Doves Cry" is a masterful choice for Clay to have made for this concert tour, another song that is fraught with risk if not interpreted well. The lyric is much darker than anything Clay has performed before, there is pain and passion in the song and a theme that is adult in its nature. There have been sensual "Doves," a couple of goofy "Doves," and a misguided "Doves," and I wonder what I will see and hear this time.
Every song that is performed live requires a physical manifestation of the lyric or theme. Clay has experimented a lot with the direction he wants to take with this song and, for a man who is constantly surprising, I do not know what to expect tonight. What I hear is as good as it has ever been, though. There are some shrieks of anticipation, but his voice cuts through it all.
"Why do we scream at each other?"
He holds that long, anguished note for what seems like an hour, then he laughs a bit, mocking our reaction. (Go with the heart of the song and ignore us, Clay.)
"This is what it sounds like when doves cry."
The tempo kicks up, he rises from his stool and the mating dance begins.
Clay stalks and Angela flirts.
Clay circles and Angela teases.
Clay reaches and Angela retreats.
What they are doing here is much more subtle than what has been done in the past and I step away from the story to admire both of their skills as performers. Whatever started the WDC controversy, regardless of where it is now going, it is obvious that a lot of thought has gone into this performance. WDC is a vocally demanding song, but it may be even more demanding to perform effectively.
It helps to remember that the people in the song are not Clay and Angela: they are two lovers, the man has repeated all of the problems of the past and is standing in shock as their relationship crumbles around him. Whenever Clay performs this song, or almost any song, it is important to be true to the persona of the character it concerns. "When You Say You Love Me" has become a sunny sing-along and, as slight as it is, that's just fine. "Invisible" has become a rocking rave-up which I just adore, but it would have been interesting to see it performed just once as dark and as desperate as its lyric implies. And though I love the spontaneous nature of performing that has once or twice turned "When Doves Cry" into a giggle fest, it is another thing entirely when self-consciousness intrudes into the performance. Fan participation in this song --- signs, catcalls and more --- breaks the mood of the theme, because there is no third person who is being addressed or considered in the battle between these two.
Tonight they have it just right. The dance is a memory of all of the passion between the two characters Clay and Angela portray --- they were physically intimate and that is why it is so important that there is comfort and symmetry in their movements. They stroke each other, they move together and apart, they suggest lovemaking, all completely necessary to the song. Then the memory disintegrates, shocking the protagonist back into the present. His wails and the extended notes reflect shock, desperation and anguish --- their match was a spiritual as well as a physical one, and it is all slipping away.
When this song is performed in just this way, critics don't suggest that it is awkward, they say that it is surprisingly effective. That, I believe, is the point: to show an aspect of performance that stretches beyond the songs of the past and extends the repertoire into areas that were little explored before. Art challenges. You met the challenge so very well tonight, Clay. I love your "When Doves Cry." Thanks for pushing yourself a little bit into an unexpected direction --- that's where you find great art.
For all of the glory of "Doves" when it is done to perfection, there is more than one reason that it is sad when it ends. Clay's set is almost over, but first he will sing us a love song. The words that introduce "The Way" are carefully considered, but they are still heartfelt. He has changed this introduction significantly since the beginning of the tour, not just as circumstances have changed but as he gave more thought to what the song means, to him and to us.
He tells us that when "The Way" premiered on MTV, it took just a week to take it to Number 1 and when the "Measure of a Man" CD debuted, it took just seven months to make it to triple platinum. (Five, Clay, just five.) Now the commercial single is out, with "Solitaire" included, and it is the top selling single of the year. He thanks God for the blessings and all of us for the love and support we have shown him.
I look at Clay carefully and I know that he means it when he says that he does not have the words. As grateful as he is, he must still wonder about this path he is on from time to time. I hope it is more of a blessing than a burden, Clay. I hope that you, too, can feel it in the way.
And his voice rings out, clear and strong and true, in the best show I have seen him perform. A pleasant hour will pass while I wait for the encore. Kelly has been good, but there is an absolute roar when Clay returns for "Open Arms." I am not the only one who thinks of this as his song, after all, though it didn't take him as far as he had hoped in a time that seems so long ago. The mysterious hat has made a reappearance and I regard it with affection, but I am concentrating on his eyes, narrowed above the sly smile, and on the blending and interplay of their voices. His power always seems so effortless, though I am intellectually aware of how hard he works. At the end of the song he plops the fedora on Kelly's head and she digs her elbow into his side and returns it to him. Then they step apart and I watch as Clay turns his eyes up, scans the crowd, waves and disappears.
For only the third time tonight --- during his "Kyrie" entrance, after "The Way" and now at the end of "Open Arms" --- I am really aware of the crowd. They have been raucous, energetic and appreciative all evening, but I had lowered the volume of everything extraneous to Clay's voice. There is so much love in those voices, Clay. I hope you know.
Post Script: Between sets I said hello to Jerome Bell, Clay's chief of security, and was stunned to see that he remembered me from last year --- "Hey, the filmmaker!" Jerome said that Clay had been sick earlier that day and he was surprised that Clay had made it through the set. Clay, once again, rose above it.
I thought back on the phenomenal, energetic, focussed, funny, impressive, angry, loving, jubilant show I had seen, and I could not make Jerome's words match my experience. Clay Aiken is a consummate professional who never, ever disappoints me. Perhaps that is because my expectations are reasonable, but he is so good that he would exceed them even if they were inflated. I feel truly, truly blessed to be a witness to a remarkable talent such as his, contained within the soul of an even more remarkable man.
He looks good in a hat, too.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Arco Arena, Sacramento, California
Clay Aiken is a funny, funny man.
That is not a revelation to any of us, but just how quick his wit is can be literally astonishing to see in action.
I find myself in the thirteenth row center of Arco Arena, 24 hours, hundreds of miles, one plane trip and a two hour drive from where I had seen him the night before. Arco is a cavern and an echo chamber, but I hold it close to my heart. This is the first place I ever saw Clay perform, what seems like five years ago, during the last week of the AI2 tour.
On that August night, I knew that I would see him again, but I don't think my wildest imaginings would have placed him here so soon, with two and a half million albums sold, making his rock star entrance as he sings "Kyrie."
I find that entrance thrilling, but this is also a place to find unexpected comedy. He knows his own history: is anyone else who recalls the way he broke down when he was announced as America's Wild Card choice more than a little amused by the sight of the ultra-confident rock god standing at the top of those stairs?
Tonight it is "Good evening, Sacramento!" as he talks about his second visit here. All of the bleacher seats in Arco are built on a wooden platform which creaks when you walk on it and reverberates with the movement of thousands of fans. He says he heard people stomping their feet "on top of my" dressing room" while Kelly was on and he expects to go back and find that the roof has fallen in.
It's Wednesday, so we get the AI3 update --- one contestant gone and two of his favorites in the bottom three "because you're not voting!"
The Singer glances around, giving us a reproachful look and, raising his hand says "Here's a testament to not voting!"
His timing is superb --- this gets a huge laugh --- but this is also an acknowledgment of the absurd. Clay knows that there are no more dedicated voters on the planet than the members of his fan base, and we all know that the triple platinum, record-setting, AMA and BMA award-winning, best selling artist on the RCA label for 2003 is also the "loser" of AI2. Despite the vagaries of life and art, he is exactly where he is supposed to be.
Another song performed, another fantastic vocal, another reminder of how phenomenally gifted Clay is as a singer. I am fortunate in that I will see him on other nights; tonight I am paying particular attention to his rapport with his fans.
Alright: he is asking for the houselights to be turned up, and he starts to read a few signs. Almost immediately his attention is captured by something he sees to his left. There's that quizzical look again: "First of all, you have to hold your sign right side up." I can't tell if the sign really is reversed or if he's teasing, but he gets another big laugh.
"We dropped 73,000 feet for you. What does that mean? Oh, 13,000 --- not as impressive, never mind." Quickly, dismissively, he starts to walk away. That's the second punch line in ten seconds.
But he is intrigued and stays with the bit.
"You went skydiving? But not for me --- you're obviously crazy." (Another laugh.)
"You jumped for me?"
And the fan, up to his snark, replies "We fell for you, Clay" as he makes a silly face. (Good one, Sherry.)
She hands him a photograph of the skydive and he reads, "I jumped for you." "There's no name on this. You might have jumped for Kelly for all I know."
I am cracking up. He is just lightning fast --- no wonder one cynic thought that all of these bits were from RCA plants. He doesn't have people from every fan board working for him; that's just one super quick-witted man standing on that stage. The cynics should have noticed that, all the way back on AI.
The evening moves on and it is time for "I Survived You." He will find no humor is this song --- it is stark and angry, with bitterness breaking into a somber triumph. "I survived" --- he gives the Death Stare as he pauses --- "you." Brilliant.
And then he does something I have never heard him do before, in 19 cities previously. Clay Aiken breaks into his sunny grin and says in a low voice, "I'm not really that angry. I'm kinda boring."
Timing is everything. Because of the pause he took before he broke character, the joke did nothing to dispel the impact of the song. If anything, it heightened it, because he has made us aware of the difference between the performer and the man. Drama is hard, but comedy is harder.
It is time for the acoustic set and, as the singers and musicians move into their places, the Arco Rumble starts up once again. All around the arena, everyone is pounding their feet. It must be intimidating for rival teams who show up here, but tonight it is a sign of love.
And Clay hears it. "I'm not sure if you are applauding or trying to run away." It is unbelievable how skillfully he connects yet another punch line to a joke he told half an hour ago.
He is so playful throughout the set but, thankfully, leaves the humor after the introduction of "Doves." I am so glad when the sensual playfulness between the couple being depicted doesn't spill over into joking between the people who are performing it. Serious subject matter, given the professional performance that it deserves.
With all of his wonderful music that brings fans together, we are also showing up at venue after venue across the nation because we have heard how enjoyable the evening is. There is so much laughter here.
He laughs at his inability to dance. He laughs at how we respond to him. He laughs at the very idea that he is sexy.
Yes, Clay Aiken is a funny man, but all of the work he puts into entertaining us, night after night, shows that he is also a caring one. He cares about all of the people who turn out to see him, who support him in a thousand different ways as he journeys through the world of entertainment.
Clay wears his love for his fans on the sleeve of the fugly jacket he is wearing tonight. That Muppets-meets-the-Munchkins jacket may be funny, but there is nothing laughable about the way the man inside of it feels.
There is so much heart and so much humor everywhere you find him.
Another show over, another city in the rear view mirror, another audience on another day.
And so down the road he goes and I follow happily after him, on to another city, with love and laughter.
Arrowhead Pond of Anaheim, Anaheim, California
Saturday, April 3, 2004
AND
Staples Center, Los Angeles, California
Monday, April 5, 2004
Eight hundred miles in four days. A bus, a plane and a car.
Not that much, really, in this blue moon, up-and-down-the-Golden-State tour to see Clay. I will travel twice this distance before I am through.
It is family night at the Pond. The Beu Sisters and Kelly Clarkson have given shout outs, and Angela's son, Jason's wife and others have been acknowledged from the stage. I am standing in front of my seat in the second row. My sister is two rows behind me.
Lights down, music starts and I hear the first of the "four voices" that are really all Clay, as "Kyrie" begins. He is wearing that jacket which is so ugly I am forced to love it, like Charlie Brown's pathetic Christmas tree. His hair seems much longer than it did just three days ago. Soon he is in front of me, and I am struck once again by how pale he is, but how utterly luminescent. It is quite striking and probably explains why so many people describe him as "beautiful".
After a while, it's "Hello, Southern California. It's good to be home."
Home --- that's new and I cheer loudly, but I am surprised by how little reaction that word gets. He is saying "second home. The weather is beautiful and the people are nice." Well, good, I say to myself. Clay might be here for a while. Speaking as someone who moved away and reluctantly returned, I am glad that this seems to indicate that he's feeling a bit more comfortable here. There's a lot to like about Southern California, after all, once you get to know it.
He mentions closing the AI2 tour in this place he appears as a co-headliner tonight. I have heard tales of him getting into a car and driving off as quickly as he could that night last August, but the Independent Tour seems to suit him much better. It must be good to get a bit of control over one's own career.
He does not mention it, but I wonder if Clay has family or friends here tonight. There is the rumor of one particular friend and that will be confirmed or quashed in a little while. I think again of the word "home": tonight he will get to sleep in his own bed, with Raleigh there beside him.
As the show moves forward, I find myself watching how he relates to Quiana, Jacob and Angela, and I think of the blending of their voices. I love to hear Clay sing duets and there are three combinations of voices I will pay close attention to tonight.
Time for "Without You" and at once it is obvious that the rumor I alluded to is true. The introduction to this song is entirely different from the other nights I have heard it and I know that we will hear a very different rendition of this song tonight. This time, he is singing with his friend Kimberley Locke.
As much as I love Clay's voice and really enjoy Kim's when they sing separately, there is something about the combination of their voices which has not yet fully played to their strengths. People who know more about music than I do could explain it technically, but I have not yet heard them sing together where the temperature and the texture of their voices were fully complimentary to one another.
Clay starts out as always and I marvel at how delicately he handles a lyric that could easily turn bombastic with a lesser singer. Kim starts the second verse, and she looks and sounds great. They find the harmonies, trading the lead and the accompanying parts. There is an odd little glitch when it seems Kim can't hear her cue, so she rushes a line, but she recovers quickly and they finish strongly.
This song is far and away their best collaboration. Very nice indeed, and nicer still is the obviously pleasure they take in each other's company. It is as if they were reunited on this stage, finding their way back to each other through this song after a long time apart. They beam at each other as the talk turns to her upcoming album, which will feature this duet, and he asks us to acknowledge Kim again as she leaves. I am smiling. What a treasure it is to have a friend, particularly one who so well understands your life's work.
Earlier, after one of his occasional forays into The Aiken Academy of Lyric Flexibility, Clay thanked the background singers "for saving me every time I mess up." Now comes the chance, through the next set of songs, to hear Clay's voice in combination with the others --- possibly without the mistakes. It is the marvelous acoustic set and it is the most intimate portion of the show. After joking with Angela and Quiana, Clay introduces it. He drops his voice to a whisper. (One day I hope the fans will all follow suit, because the shouting is so intrusive here.)
"Measure of a Man" is a duet between Clay and his audience. It has become, in its way, Clay's personal anthem, and we have taken to singing it back to him. The song talks about sacrifice and I think about the life that Clay gave up for the one that he has now. We sing together in acknowledgment of that. Though the audience cannot sing with his skill, we make up for it by matching his degree of passion.
"Fields of Gold" is a rare opportunity to hear Clay harmonize with another man. Jacob's voice supports him so beautifully here, a perfect compliment to the yearning and quiet intensity with which Clay performs this song. It tells so much about Jacob's skill that his harmony is seamless and unobtrusive, and the combination of their voices is profoundly beautiful.
Quiana and Angela do just as well with "When I Need You." I am loath to even call their singing with Clay "support," because, as with Jacob, it is much more important than that. What the women are doing is helping Clay to complete the song, to express its message fully. This is an artistic collaboration of the best kind and my respect for all of the singers on that stage, who are so very good at what they do, is enormous.
"Carolina in My Mind" is the last section of the acoustic set, before the transition into "When Doves Cry." It is a duet between Clay and his history, a memory of the past, the harmony of home. Written ten years before Clay's birth when James Taylor was in London recording an album for The Beatles' Apple Records label, its poignancy has been passed from one generation to the next. Clay sings alone for most of this version, but the other voices join him in the chorus, multiplying the feeling of yearning as he reaches across the time and the distance towards home.
Two more songs and the show is almost over. It ends with "Open Arms", the duet with Kelly Clarkson. Other than three songs, I am entirely unfamiliar with Kelly's work post-Idol. Her voice is powerful and she employs a great deal of melisma, which is a cross-over from gospel to pop and R&B music. Her style is distinctive and her range is quite different from Clay's. It is no wonder that they mentioned several times before the tour began that they might not be able to find a song they could perform as a duet.
Clay's voice is just as powerful as Kelly's, but the sound he has chosen is more spare. He carefully controls his vocal dynamics. They are singing well together, but the feeling is that this encore is their opportunity to give just a little bit more to their fans. That is what I appreciate as I stand and cheer them both.
Tonight Clay's energy was high, his showmanship was impressive and his voice was spot on. There is something about this Anaheim show , though, that has left me feeling ever so slightly puzzled. It was a good show, a very good one, but it wasn't quite... What is it?
I turn to my sister and I notice her with the same contemplative look on her face as I feel on mine. She says, "He was" and we both say, "working."
This is the nature of a live performance. Every show will be different, because neither the performer nor the audience will be the same. I come away with new-found insight into the pressures of the road, of how difficult it must be to strive to be fresh and new, and of how the audience plays a role in the performance, night after night. Most especially, I have gained another glimpse into Clay's desire to communicate the message of his set to those who have come to see him, and I find another level of respect for Clay as an artist.
I think about the voices I have heard tonight, alone and in combination. Including The Singer, there were six professionals, and the audience contributed the seventh voice. I consider how, as much as I enjoy being a fan, feeling all of those fun and exciting things about seeing Clay in concert, it is much more meaningful on occasion to think about the artistry it takes to transport the audience, sometimes to a transcendent place. As I am driving home, I realize that tonight I appreciate Clay Aiken even more.
Staples Center,
Monday Night
There is something sublimely fitting in Clay Aiken appearing tonight in this house of champions. After returning to Los Angeles after a ten year long sojourn, this is my first time here at Staples. My sister and I are so excited about the possibilities that this night will bring. We are close to the stage: two days before, the ticket gods smiled upon us, delivering fifth row tickets, up from Row 14.
I had felt contemplative in Anaheim, but I feel celebratory and grateful in Los Angeles.
So, too, apparently, does Clay Aiken. With a few appropriate exceptions, from the moment that he appears to his final bow, he will wear that sunny grin.
Must be the hat.
It's impossible for me to say if anyone else sees or feels the things that I do, but I am incredibly happy tonight. Four members of my family are here tonight, three who are seeing Clay for the first time. I am also seeing two dear friends for the first time in half a year, and it is good to know that they are in the audience.
And then there is that man on the stage: he radiates so much pure joy and it looks like he is having the time of his life. Tonight, Clay is playful.
This is the mood that informs "Perfect Day." I have always loved this song, which carries in its hyperbolic lyrics the memory of falling in love. As he begins the song, he touches his chest with one hand, then the other, then clenches his fist and holds it to his heart, rocking gently back and forth, smiling slyly. Finishing the verse, he leaves the catwalk and crosses the stage until he is standing directly in front of me.
"You could tell me tonight that maybe the world will end/That the sun wouldn't rise and it was going to rain again"
I smile as I watch him do that loose-limbed, rag doll dance, a comical juxtaposition to Angela, Jacob and Quiana's precise moves behind him..
"Just as long as she's in my arms/It's gonna be a ------- day."
Did the interval escape him, or did his mic cut out? Oh, well, I cannot imagine that anyone cares. Nothing's perfect anyway, Clay, just amazingly good.
He starts to move away, crossing the stage again. Someone in the front row is the lucky recipient of his intense and lingering gaze, shot out like a laser from under the brim of his fedora. The exuberance mounts as he continues to sing and by the time the backup singers move to his side of the stage, he is ready to cause a bit of trouble. He stops walking when he gets to Quiana, leans toward her and starts moving backwards, matching her pace. Quiana is not going to laugh, though: she reaches out and smilingly pushes him away, wearing a look she probably has used a dozen times a day since this tour began. "Oh, Clay."
He sings with so much joy, and he swings his arms in time with the rhythm, using his microphone to punctuate the beat, while he conducts the band and the singers and the audience and the jubilant melody that runs through his lean frame.
"It's gonna be a perfect day!"
And as he finishes, that megawatt smile spreads across his open, beautiful countenance. It is not possible for me to see him and not smile back: in fact, over the shouts and the applause, I hear myself laughing. This is really a delightful man.
"All About Love" is next. I am not a traditionally religious person, but I always love hearing Clay sing about God. Here his joy is absolute and this performance is so happy and playful, down to the little gestures he uses to suggest the lyrics.
Clay lines up with the backup singers, mocking his own ineptitude as he tries to match their movements. (Actually, Clay, you've gotten pretty good, but that's another conversation for another day.) His laugh escalates from giggle to cackle as he shrugs and moves away.
Dancing on the catwalk, bopping along to the band, playing the air guitar, clapping his hands above his head, closing his eyes and singing with passion, "All About Love" is all about joy.
By now the banter he does before "When You Say You Love Me" is familiar, but it is never the same. Clay is reading the signs in the audience and he acknowledges a fan from Charlotte. Then something catches his eye:
"Oh, this is funny. Kelly and I talk about how creative these signs are getting�"
He reaches out and grabs one, holding the wording toward him as he goes on.
"This one says, 'Who is winning at Scrabble? Answer me!' That's really demanding!"
He is amused, but he's wearing that mock-bossy look which makes us laugh even harder.
"And I can't understand why you're paying all this money to talk on the phone!"
He reaches out and takes a cell phone.
"Hello? Someone's yelling 'Answer me!' Who's this? Who's this? Who's this?" (It's Cameron from somewhere in California.) "We're in California, too. Who's holding the phone. Carol? Jennifer? No, Carol's let you down, she's out at the concession stand."
He riffs and snarks and we laugh along.
This is such a clever routine, and I think back to the first cell phone call he took when he talked to the Shirt Tug Sistahs at the Christmas concert in Cleveland. What good instincts he had to know that this would work and that he could find something funny in every encounter.
After the summer of a thousand shirt tugs, I have not given a lot of thought to "Invisible" during this tour. I have noted in passing how much fun it is to see Clay perform his hit song and to listen to the reaction of the crowd when the distinctive opening notes are recognized. Tonight I watch closely and I notice that, in addition to being unquestionably in command of this song, the rock star that Clay Aiken has become is playing with us.
He always has, of course, from the day the tug went from accident to choreography. He has, from the beginning, turned the longing gaze into an art form, a tease that is guaranteed to elicit screams.
"Your turn!" he shouts as he turns the mic toward us.
And we sing the song back to him, fully aware of the irony in the lyric "If I was invisible --- wait, I already am."
Consummate performer that he is, Clay does not allow any of his performances to remain static. "Invisible" gained a new gesture this tour, the deliciously painful almost-touch. The first time he did this, he never touched the hand that reached out to him, but he quickly amended that move and now finishes this song with a slow caress of fingertips.
Vicariously, playful and fun --- and a little bit swoon-inducing --- for all.
After all of the fun of the evening, there is little joy in knowing that the best of experiences come to an end, ready to be transformed into memory. Tonight, in "Open Arms," Clay comes out and just beams. He smiles at the end of every line he sings, as if happiness is welling up from somewhere deep inside him.
I see something I had not seen in other performances of this song: Clay is really relating to Kelly instead of just to the audience. I am convinced that he is trying to make her laugh. As the song ends, he tips his fedora to her, then places it fondly on her head.
Then he turns to us one more time, smiles with that look of deep satisfaction, and disappears into the wings.
I feel incredibly happy, hopeful and so very blessed to have witnessed The Singer at work and at play.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Somehow over the last year, Clay Aiken entered my circle of family and friends. I care about him. If this feeling is illusory, if it has more to do with me than with him, it almost doesn't matter. In our "relationship", it is his role to be the singer and mine to be the fan who chronicles moments in his career.
He has given me the best of his talent, day after day, for fourteen months.
I have given him my support, my affection, more than a few prayers, a healthy dose of snark, an occasional quiet gesture and this crazy kind of love.
If the applause I give him tonight, the whoops of approval, the positive energy of feeling affection for him touch him at all, that is all very good. I know that he sees his extraordinary sales figures, which include CDs I have bought. I know he might learn that a concert I went to exceeded expectations for attendance or he might read a report that one of the magazines I purchased with his face on the cover broke sales records. All of these things are the tangible evidence of the part that I play, along with his millions of other fans, in supporting him.
Tonight, though, I will choose to believe that the love matters more.
Thank you, Clay, for making tonight an extraordinary memory, for me, for my sister, and for all who shared a moment in time with you.
See you in San Jose.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
The Singer and The Long Road Ahead
Many months and many miles have passed under my feet since I first “met” Clay Aiken, when he showed up in my living room in January 2003. He has gone from being a student and a teacher of children with special needs who did a little singing in his free time to being a triple platinum recording artist who runs a foundation dedicated to the inclusion of children with special needs into all of life’s opportunities. I have gone from being a working filmmaker and sometime screenwriter to being a caretaker for my mother as she recovers from her second major surgery in two years. Neither one of us could have anticipated where the road has led us or where it will take us in the future.
Whether we end up on a road by choice or by chance, it serves us well to enjoy the sights and try to learn a few lessons along the way.
When I began my first journey with Clay, he was one of us and, at that point, through his youth and relative inexperience, far less accomplished than many. His road had started out with many a rocky obstacle, stopped short in a number of dead ends and bypassed quite a few roads not taken. He had chosen a road that, while not easy, seemed steady and secure and predictable. But the road that took him to Charlotte and the Bubel family veered off into the road to Atlanta, then Hollywood --- and now on into an infinite horizon.
I had no idea what would become of Clay after the anomaly that ended the show --- the unexpected end of that road felt like falling off a precipice --- but like many others I saw something extraordinary in him. A year later, I found the (unpublished) letter I wrote to Rolling Stone, following that cover that was revealing in more ways than one:
Forget the "new kid" label; your cover story on Clay Aiken reveals a man of complexity, shadows and light. This is an artist who, like his fans, defies easy categorization. I'm an African-American female professional filmmaker, and I haven't been this intrigued by a new artist in a decade. Perhaps it is because Clay has that ineffable quality that creates an instant affinity between artist and audience.
Clay Aiken could become an artist for the ages. God forbid his record label launches him with some inane "geek turned chic, one-man boy band" marketing campaign.
Clay's sublime voice has grown exponentially over the last five months. I hope he'll push the boundaries with a little smoke, grit and edge.
The week after writing that letter, looking for more information about Clay, I came to a message board for the first time in my life. My short replies to posts grew into my own personal reflections on the Clay Aiken phenomenon and a series of point-of-view pieces.
Clay has given me more than his music, though that gift is immeasurable. He gave me back my words. My own road had taken me away from my first love, writing, and into the world of film production. As I struggled to describe the Inexpressible All that is Clay Aiken, he was the muse that inspired in me the finest writing of my life.
Thank you, beyond words, for giving that back to me, Clay.
And where does the road lead now?
When I think of what Clay will accomplish before the end of the year --- his first solo (and third nationwide) tour, the Arthur audio book, the Aladdin DVD, the Christmas album and special, many more great works with The Bubel/Aiken Foundation and Learning to Sing: Hearing the Music in Your Life --- I am deeply impressed. When I try to consider what he might well accomplish before he turns thirty, my recaptured words elude me.
How often is one blessed to witness the birth of a star?
I traveled a long road with Clay this spring, from March 30 to April 6, 2004. One week, five cities and 1600 miles. When the two Independent Tour shows my sister and I wanted to attend became five, I called the idea of attending every show in Clay Aiken’s Great California Tour a “blue moon adventure”. Traveling from city to city with Clay was something I thought I would do once in my life.
I was wrong. I would do it again in a heartbeat.
And as for what I have learned on this road I have traveled with Clay?
I learned the truth behind something I have known for a while.
Carved in the stone archway above the entrance to a building on the UCLA campus are the words of 19th century physicist Michael Faraday:
“Nothing is too wonderful to be true.”
Clay Aiken, you deserve the full range of your humanity to be recognized and respected. The trappings and illusions of fame can make that difficult to remember. I know that you are not a myth --- you are a man, with some of the oddest quirks I’ve ever seen to go along with your profound and inspiring talent.
But you are also, without question or exaggeration, a miracle.
And that, my friend, is both wonderful and true.
Kyrie Eleison down the road that you will travel.
And may the Lord bless and keep you and all who love you as we travel together through many wonderful years to come.
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