Spice up your life!

Editor's note: The wayback machine continues its journey, now moving forward slightly to early December 2007. With any luck, we'll be up to the present tense by spring . . . 2009.

* * *

If for only one weekend in my long life, I earned the right to call myself Spontaneous Spice.

As bizarre as it sounds, this is my story: I, a 46-year-old man, on a whim, with only about a week to plan, made two quick strokes of his overburdened Visa card and . . .

Got the rhythm, the melody, and the juice to savor . . .

Became a little bit wiser, baby, and put it on, put it on . . .

Stopped right now, thank you very much, and decided I need someone with the human touch . . .

Gave you everything, all that joy could bring, this I swear . . .

Slammed my body down and wound it all around . . .

In other words, I spiced up my life. For you see, in early December, I traveled to Las Vegas, not for a two-day arc of gambling and debauchery (penny slots and a couple of weak mojitos at an off-the-strip tapas bar don't count for much of anything on the debauchery toteboard, I'm told), but, instead, to see the Spice Girls reunion tour at the Mandalay Bay Resort.

Don't believe me? Well, I have witnesses--Vegas Texan and Kangaroo, who rounded out our little triangle of unbridled fandom. And like the crucial climax in a classic film (Cannonball Run, for instance), we ended up in Vegas, along with Kangaroo's sister and brother-in-law and our friend, Sin City Flake (also known as Clippy in our friend Snappymack's blog). While Sin City Flake was a non-starter in our concert-going, she did at least have the proper skeptical-yet-bemused appreciation of our endeavors and provided one of us with housing and transportation, not to mention explanations of the various types of tequila one could give as wedding gifts if one was so inclined. At least that's how I remember it. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation talking. It's certainly not the mojitos.

* * *

One could view this as the gayest thing I've ever done. It even shocked me in its unrestrained queerliciousness.

I prefer, though, to view it as the completion (one can but hope) of the homo queerectus music appreciation arc I have been working on since 2004, when I attended the Donna Summer concert at Wolf Trap outside of Washington, D.C., and the Kylie Minogue tour at the Earl's Court in London in 2005. (What I did in 2006--other than work, work, work--I can't even remember. Perhaps wrote a gushy fan letter to Patsy Gallant or completed my collection of Tina Charles 45s and b-sides. I just don't recall, and it's probably better that way.)

And, truth be told, it was the best of the three concerts, and one of the better, more entertaining events I've ever attended. Patti Smith last fall still wins hands down, and Bebel Gilberto and Feist are tied for third in terms of enjoyable live music entertainment value. (Editor's note: FYI--nothing gives me greater, more perverse pleasure than to juxtapose Patti Smith, Feist, Bebel Gilberto, the Spice Girls, Donna Summer, and Kylie Minogue in the same blog posting.)

Donna Summer, while in strong voice and a good all-rounder, seemed to lose the plot about 2/3rds of the way through the concert and didn't even bother to sing "I Feel Love," "This Time I Know It's for Real," or "Love to Love You Baby"--although, now that I think of it, being spared seeing a grandmother simulate multiple orgasms on stage is indeed something I could live without.

Kylie Minogue followed the plot a little too closely and stuck to the script of her increasingly elaborate stage spectaculars, occasionally bothering to contribute a note or a dance step, and only at the very end acknowledging the audience's presence, which was the highlight of the concert. (Note to Miss K.: Follow your sister Dannii's lead and get your personality and singing voice back. People want to see and hear you.)

The Spice Girls on the other hand were consummate entertainers--singing (at least four of them; none of us was ever quite sure about Victoria's contributions), dancing (or at least posing in a very sexy way while wearing some cracking outfits), laughing it up (Geri to the crowd regarding Mel B's second place finish on Dancing with the Stars--"She was robbed! She was robbed by a midget!"), and having fun with the audience and with one another.

The Girls have always been criticized for not being that talented, for being a manufactured product, instead of being true artistes who sprung forth organically from the musical matmos. Yawn. While I won't be screaming "Leave the Spice Girls alone!!!" into YouTube anytime soon and can't argue against their origins (they did answer an ad to be in a music group, but then, so have others), this complaint just seems to me like the rock critic's stock-in-trade response, doled out everytime the critic doesn't quite get pop music. I always feel like for most rock critics, it's a case of those-who-can't-do-write-criticism-for-a-living, as most seem to keep dreaming the secret dream of being the Saint Sebastian-esque lead singer with great bedhead hair in yet another phallus-centric guitar band. I look cool--but I hurt! And chicks dig me!

Double yawn.

I, on the other hand, would argue that the Girls have always been greater than the sum of their musical parts. Singly, other than Mel C, none of the Spiceys ever struck me as a musician first, pop star second. In fact for a few of them--namely, Geri, Mel B, and Victoria--you could argue the order should be stardom first, pop music second--or maybe even a distant third--as they seemed to have more to prove personally than professionally. In concert, you realize that the band relied heavily on vocals from Mel C first, Emma second, and Mel B third, which is probably why Geri left and Victoria turned her life toward fashion and David Beckham. The poor dear.

However, I'd argue that together they were magic, and whatever you say about the vapidity of pop culture and Top 40 music (and there is plenty to say), it's difficult to fake magic, even with a full suite of Pro Tools and a legion of back-up dancers. It takes some form of raw talent to make something out of nothing or little at all, and while the Girls are sufficient singers and entertainers on their own, together they are stardust, they are golden. I'm not saying that the Beatles or the Stones should hang their heads in shame (other than for their choices in dalliances and life partners), but I think giving credit where credit is due is in order here: The Spice Girls had something. They had "it," at least for a while.

It's not as though I was always a fan. The first go-round in the mid- to late-'90s, well, I barely paid attention. The Girls, ubiquitous with their Girl Power and dodgy style (what was Geri doing with her hair? why was Mel B wearing all that leopard print?) seemed more cartoon-like and focus-group-driven than anything, and the influence of the market in their careers could still be pointed out today. (Reportedly, they each received $10 million apiece to make this tour.)

Still, when the bubble burst in 2000, just when I thought they were getting interesting musically ("Holler" and the whole late, lamented Forever album, which saw them take a turn in a more R&B direction), to me it seemed like that bursting bubble sucked the air right out of the room--and with it a lot of pop fun and whimsy. No more three minutes-and-thirty-seconds of pop heaven, no more wacky '90s-meets-the-'60s style, no more flirting with Nelson Mandela, who totally seemed to enjoy it and appreciate the silliness and the fun. Not bad for a man who'd spent nearly 30 years of his life in prison fighting apartheid. Ponder that and, just a suggestion, perhaps you could lighten up a little yourself? Only asking . . .

Blame it on Geri leaving too soon. Blame it on their audience growing up and moving on. Blame it on them trying to take on management duties and not knowing what they were doing. Whatever. During the concert it struck me as a sad turn of events, because when they were hot, they were blinding white lightning fever pitch hot--entertaining, funny, and fun. They brought a particularly British cheeky-chappy sparkle to the pop world. To see that disappear from the pop culture scene was regrettable, at least for me.

While the Spiceys were often decried for being too manufactured, in their wake we got even more prefab pop--Britney, to name but one example--where the music seemed incidental to the fame, or, in Britney's eventual case, the infamy. Think about it for a moment--in the space of less than ten years we went from the Spice Girls singing about their "Mama" and pinching Prince Charles on the bum to Britney writhing on stage with an oversized snake (hello penis!) to the tune of "I'm a Slave 4 U" and paparazzi photo ops sans panties. What a world. What a freakin' world.

* * *

But are the Spice Girls art? Ah, who can say? And, honestly, who cares? Increasingly, I find myself finding art in all sorts of odd spaces, or, at least, finding fun in those places, and giving not even two zig-a-zig-figs about art.

It's all relative, of course. Each of us finds genius--or at least entertainment--in the strangest of choices.

After this last year, though, it's been hard not to notice how short life really is, how fleeting the moments of pleasure are, and that if you really want something (if you really, really, really want it . . .), no matter how seemingly light or frivolous, you better get a move on and go for it, at least if you can afford to do so.

Spontaneous Spice I truly am not--in fact, I was so worked up about winging this little adventure that I contemplated going into the bathroom before take-off and just giving a huge hurl to the porcelain gods to get the nervousness (or whatever) out of my system. But it all went fine, off without a hitch. No one died. No one went bankrupt. No one broke into my home while I was away and stole everything I own. My luggage didn't go missing and I didn't end up having to buy an entirely new wardrobe at H&M (dammit). And no one at my place of employment got bent out of shape because I planned not to be at work on Monday "on account of red eye." (A flight-induced ailment, as it happens.) All was calm, all was bright.

This time my occasionally adventurous spirit took me to Vegas to see the Spice Girls and, more importantly, to enjoy a great outing with friends, something I suspect I'll remember for years to come.

Where will yours (and your Visa) take you in the year to come?