Over the weekend, I managed to squeeze in a concert at the Troubadour in West Hollywood at which I saw Mika, the 22-year old British pop sensation (God, I love that expression) perform his first “official” American concert. My evening started with finding parking within 25 meters of the venue, and so I was off to a good start.
I got in line behind a blue-haired Perez Hilton and his plus one and found myself lonely for my Wayne Ford, who was off in NYC and unable to accompany me into battle. Luckily, though, a margarita on the rocks (no salt) managed to provide me with sufficient companionship for the evening. And it was probably because of this margarita (I’m a lightweight here, guys) that I’m at a complete loss when it comes to remembering the names of the two opening acts for the evening. This is particularly irksome to me because they were both really good female solo artists and if you happen to know their names, please let me know. I’ve been a-Googlin’, but to no avail.
The first girl had a bluesy, folkstress sensibility and I really enjoyed her low-key performance. The second chica was a bit more rock and roll, with her face like Zooey Deschanel and a figure resembling that of Betty Boop poured into a red and white halter dress. She was fun and full of energy and I was tipsy enough to really be getting a kick out of it.
Then, our headliner of the evening, Mika came on stage in tight pants and red suspenders and delivered the poppy, upbeat tunes from his album “Life in Cartoon Motion,” that I’d been anticipating since I got my ticket and I was not disappointed. Unfortunately, I ended the evening, wandering dangerously close to “Fiesta Cantina,” which I like to refer to as my personal Bermuda Triangle of West Hollywood, but remembered I had to post for the morning and decided against any late-night partying. Maybe next time.