The man's an absolute outrage. Shortly after perching upon a silver velveteen couch in silken trouserwear, singing some fly-me-to-the-moon balladeer piffling, in Spanish, he stands and surveys his baying subjects. And just stands there, for three minutes, not a word, as we gaze upon his chisel-chinned Magnificence. Ankles together, arms now aloft in matadorial triumph, he faces east ("Aiieee!"), he faces west ("Ahooo!") and Earls Court is hospitalised with mirth as Ricky Martin is anointed, for all to see, the brand new, post-Jacko, Maddest Man In Pop.
Camp is the lie that tells the truth and the truth is Ricky Martin is the greatest cartoon superhero pop gonk of the modern age, as cartoon as a Tom & Jerry side of ham as he tells us he is here, no less, "to unite the world!" Furthermore, "No-one here is allowed to be judged! Is that possible?" Certainly, 'sir'.
A marbeline holographic hybrid of Barry Manilow, Liberace in his exploding teeth heyday, and the |ber-smarm sentimentality of Julio Iglesias Himself, 'Reekee Moitin' (as he calls himself) is nothing to do with 21st-century crass-pop cynicism and everything to do with purest theatrical extravaganza from the 1970s.
He wiggles atop a silver convertible perv-mobile, leaps, lordly, among the perky trumpets of his white-tuxed, twinkle-toothed Great Big Band, froths with lovelettes in sequinned bikini-wear, serenades blokes in harnesses trapezing overhead, bestrides a colossal 'granite' plinth, rising up from the floor, a Corinthian king among peasants, and performs The Dance; one hand aloft, the other upon his stomach, twirling slowly round and around displaying his preposterous bum quake in excelsis.
Several thousand 40-year-old housewives called Shirley Valentine do the 'Come Dancing' calypso in gleesome hysteria, while the 12 year olds in their 'I-*-Ricky-Martin' deely-boppers (#2) are frozen-faced in bongo-mayhem bemusement. 'Livin' La Vida Loca' comes first - the greatest global camp-pop classic of the last decade, no contest - all the swifter to engage in his Serious Business of bringing us "my culture!" which now includes ascending a silver fireman's pole to a Romeo balcony above to perform all the nursery rhymes of Latino Lothariodom - "Alez! Alez-alez-alez!", "Onz! Dooz! Trez!" (parp!!), etc - for he has only the one Gigantic Global Hit but no-one cares, not the 70-year-old Greek grandad in his 'Ricky Martin Live In San Jose' T-shirt, not the gay blokes in fluorescent Hawaiian shirts, and certainly not Ricky Martin 'cos he is beyond such puerile considerations and possesses, he tells us, "a higher power!" His blazing eyes now Godward, he grins his terrifying grin the size of a Venezuelan earthquake as several billion confetti petals rain down upon his beloved, shrieking, United World, for this, make no mistake, is... a marriage! Of Cultures!!!
Ricky Martin may do a great deal more for the South American tourist board than he ever will for the progression of popular tune but this is romance, frens, and romance is essential. There he was, then, all along, right under our noses, our lone Alien Pop Star, the singular besequinned beacon of camp-pop lunacy in the eternal sea of bland-bloke baloney. They call him Ricky Martian you know.
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