A photo of me was on its front page. I pulled it away just enough so I could read the article. Peter was too busy cooking to notice.
THE CULT OF JONNY
Exactly how does a 46-year-old male music critic open a review of a Jonny Valentine concert he is forced to attend? And to maintain proper journalistic house style, must he really refer to an 11-year-old boy hereafter as “Mr. Valentine”?
Well, forced is an unfair verb. Mr. Valentine (indeed, my sadistic editor grinningly assures me, I must) has world-class pipes and dancing talent and stage charisma to spare. A few songs are downright catchy, even to ears from which poke a few stray hairs. Besides the annoyingly can’t-get-it-out-of-your-head chorus of “Guys vs. Girls,” several other numbers in the Angel of Pop’s repertoire last night at Staples Center showcase the singer’s live-performance attributes, notably “Breathtaking” and “Crushed.”
Yet no one, not even Mr. Valentine’s most enthralled fans, goes to a Jonny Valentine concert expecting a fully developed auditory experience. Rather, they go for the spectacle, to surrender and sublimate and take part in the cult of personality swirling around a human being who, I suspect, may not yet be in possession of, you know, an actual personality . (Perhaps that’s the point: Onto this blank canvas his audience can paint whatever image they desire of him, or, even better, through gender metamorphosis, of themselves-as-Jonny.)
If Jonny Valentine is ever to grow as a pop artist, he will have to ditch everything about his act, from the infantile lyrics to the cheesy choreography to the overproducedpackaging, and deliver something that speaks to who he is, if and when he eventually figures that out—not to his management’s carefully crafted presentation of an innocuous crooner of the bubbliest bubblegum. I, for one, wouldn’t mind seeing his vocal cords matched up with something a little more authentic. With his chops, he might even be—gasp!—great. Until then, we’ll have to make do with limp offerings like “RSVP (To My Heart)” and “Roses for Rosie,” which—
Peter pushed my plate over, so I stopped reading and hid the entertainment section under the pile. I felt dizzy again and took one bite of my omelet, thinking it would give me some strength. But as soon as it went down my throat, my vision went all fuzzy like a TV when the cable isn’t plugged in and all these walls crashed around my head at once like the trash compactor in Star Wars, and I fell forward on the counter and heard Peter say, “Jonny! Fuck!”
I must have woken up soon, because Peter was shaking me awake and Jane was just getting there. I hadn’t fallen off the chair, but I’d spilled my coffee and food all over the countertop.
“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “He keeled over—”
“He’s waking up!” Jane said. “Give him some air!”
Peter backed off but Jane leaned in real close to my eyes. “Jonathan, can you hear me?” she breathed in my face.
I blinked my eyes a few times. “Yeah.”
“Are you okay, baby? Do you feel faint?”
I was moving and speaking in slo-mo. “I feel . . .” Her eyeballs popped out huge and scared right up against mine. She couldn’t find out I’d taken zolpidem without her permission. “I feel fine.”
She put her hand on my forehead and kissed the skin to test my temperature. It always felt nice when she did that, cool and soft. Like she wasn’t afraid of catching whatever I had. “I’m taking you to the doctor.”
“But the bus.”
“They’ll wait.”
She drove us to Dr. Henson’s office fast. He had a lot of celeb patients, and there was a special waiting room for us so the normalpeople wouldn’t Tweet that they were in a doctor’s office with us. Even his super-rich patients might do that.
I got sent to the examination room right away while Jane filled out paperwork. The nurse told me to strip to my underwear and measured and weighed me. I
THE CULT OF JONNY
Exactly how does a 46-year-old male music critic open a review of a Jonny Valentine concert he is forced to attend? And to maintain proper journalistic house style, must he really refer to an 11-year-old boy hereafter as “Mr. Valentine”?
Well, forced is an unfair verb. Mr. Valentine (indeed, my sadistic editor grinningly assures me, I must) has world-class pipes and dancing talent and stage charisma to spare. A few songs are downright catchy, even to ears from which poke a few stray hairs. Besides the annoyingly can’t-get-it-out-of-your-head chorus of “Guys vs. Girls,” several other numbers in the Angel of Pop’s repertoire last night at Staples Center showcase the singer’s live-performance attributes, notably “Breathtaking” and “Crushed.”
Yet no one, not even Mr. Valentine’s most enthralled fans, goes to a Jonny Valentine concert expecting a fully developed auditory experience. Rather, they go for the spectacle, to surrender and sublimate and take part in the cult of personality swirling around a human being who, I suspect, may not yet be in possession of, you know, an actual personality . (Perhaps that’s the point: Onto this blank canvas his audience can paint whatever image they desire of him, or, even better, through gender metamorphosis, of themselves-as-Jonny.)
If Jonny Valentine is ever to grow as a pop artist, he will have to ditch everything about his act, from the infantile lyrics to the cheesy choreography to the overproducedpackaging, and deliver something that speaks to who he is, if and when he eventually figures that out—not to his management’s carefully crafted presentation of an innocuous crooner of the bubbliest bubblegum. I, for one, wouldn’t mind seeing his vocal cords matched up with something a little more authentic. With his chops, he might even be—gasp!—great. Until then, we’ll have to make do with limp offerings like “RSVP (To My Heart)” and “Roses for Rosie,” which—
Peter pushed my plate over, so I stopped reading and hid the entertainment section under the pile. I felt dizzy again and took one bite of my omelet, thinking it would give me some strength. But as soon as it went down my throat, my vision went all fuzzy like a TV when the cable isn’t plugged in and all these walls crashed around my head at once like the trash compactor in Star Wars, and I fell forward on the counter and heard Peter say, “Jonny! Fuck!”
I must have woken up soon, because Peter was shaking me awake and Jane was just getting there. I hadn’t fallen off the chair, but I’d spilled my coffee and food all over the countertop.
“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “He keeled over—”
“He’s waking up!” Jane said. “Give him some air!”
Peter backed off but Jane leaned in real close to my eyes. “Jonathan, can you hear me?” she breathed in my face.
I blinked my eyes a few times. “Yeah.”
“Are you okay, baby? Do you feel faint?”
I was moving and speaking in slo-mo. “I feel . . .” Her eyeballs popped out huge and scared right up against mine. She couldn’t find out I’d taken zolpidem without her permission. “I feel fine.”
She put her hand on my forehead and kissed the skin to test my temperature. It always felt nice when she did that, cool and soft. Like she wasn’t afraid of catching whatever I had. “I’m taking you to the doctor.”
“But the bus.”
“They’ll wait.”
She drove us to Dr. Henson’s office fast. He had a lot of celeb patients, and there was a special waiting room for us so the normalpeople wouldn’t Tweet that they were in a doctor’s office with us. Even his super-rich patients might do that.
I got sent to the examination room right away while Jane filled out paperwork. The nurse told me to strip to my underwear and measured and weighed me. I
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