PYT

N*E*R*D*’s show last night was hinged entirely upon the life-force that is Pharrell Williams’ sexual magnetism. Period. While this is not entirely a bad thing, because Pharrell’s sexual magnetism is a hot blast of nuclear light from unexplored (and dangerous!) parallel universes, and succeeded in mesmerizing me* for about four songs (three, if we must perpetuate my impeccably virginal/mo’nastic reputation). But the fact is, when it comes down to it, we just want to love Pharrell for his brain.
Unfortunately, his brain is Spymob.
Spymob, the murderously innocuous pop band from MN who back up N*E*R*D* on a regular basis, seem to believe that “funk” is what one discovers underneath a brawny paper towel–something ICKY and UNSEEMLY… nay, something UNSANITARY! Even the awesome death-grip of Pharrell’s diva Id can’t cart the hefty weight of their sensible shoes for a whole show. Even 2000 women, girls, and gay boys, peeling out under the pressure of their lust like the screaming wild breath-letting of a helium balloon, cannot disguise the fact that Spymob is boring white male midlife crisis music, and that Pharrell employs a band of such mediocre talent in order to amplify his irrepressable sexy-sexy-uhhh-hoooah.
Freed from the distraction of the music, we were left to concentrate on Pharrell’s game-sharpening: unrelenting witty quips/pun segueways (“You know what I love about Portland? The ladies really want to move“) and his constant insistence (as first reported by Teen Vogue) that he’s just “looking for a girlfriend.” Ultimately, even my steely libido grew weary of giving Pharrell its undivided attention, and what was left? Spymob’s three pop songs like a brokeass Ben Folds, which evoked puzzled looks from the entire audience (barring a SOLE CONSERVATIVELY DRESSED FAN, who danced and sang every word vehemently). The show was sold out, but by the end, half the crowd left**: the remainder of the audience being 14 yr old girls, myself***, and about 400 top-tier Nike employees.
Inexplicably, most people actually left after Black Eyed Peas; renewing Oregon’s Hippie plaque/plague for 2004 (although there’s no telling where that TONE-DEAF CHEESY NO-BEYONCE fits into the picture). She did, in fact, mutilate the chorus of “Crazy in Love” while the rest of BEP POGOED and shouted “Let’s get retarded! Let’s get retarded!” The obvious retort was “you already are!”–opportunity for low-blow heckle very few people around me let pass.
*I admit–this particular style of mesmerization included watery eyes and nearly passing out.
** Including my friend R Kelley, who called me while I was still at the show. “I don’t want to fuck Pharrell, so I got bored and went home,” he explained.
*** I do not necessarily consider myself outside the idiom of “14 yr old girl.”