Monday, January 27, 2003

While interested and semi-interested parties watched the Super Bowl spectacle of commercialized sport I flailed away on my deadlines whilst listening to the radio. Eureka! I heard on news radio that the play stopped and it was time to rock & roll in San Diego = half time.
Thankfully I missed Celine Dion and tuned in as Gwen Stefani et al hit the Super-sized stage. Her in her usual odd assemblage of femmey fashion and boy sports paraphernalia (boxing boots, leather fingerless gloves). She sang live which I think most would have opted out of but she's the pro at jumping and singing. She ended I'm Just a Girl with a little salute - I think not in reference to her 40s-style hairdo but a poke in the eye to US overseas machismo. Perhaps I read into that but I'd like to think this.
Then, for some reason, Sting appeared. He warbled in trademark nasal twang, in equally-trademarked outdated outfit. This man needs a personal stylist, a butler.
He had the look of a man who couldn't hear himself in the monitors and thoughts of shouting MORE VOCALS IN THE MONITORS were probably flitting through his mind. Gwen duetted louder and the off-balance duet ended with pyros that looked like a Colin Powell/GWB dream - flames and smoke filling the night sky as American fighter pilots circled over Super Bowl 37 out of sight of the media and sports fans.
Rock on.

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