Mariah brings her circus to town
When Mariah Carey took the stage Monday night at the Broward Center for the Performing Arts surrounded by dancers dressed as clowns in front of a circus backdrop, the question was: Was she there as the queen of the tonsil trapeze, or to star in the freak show?
Carey became the top-selling female star of the 1990s primarily thanks to multi-octave vocal acrobatics. She, Whitney Houston and Celine Dion virtually created the juggernaut vocal style that tends to value technical virtuosity over pathos, drama over depth. But since she had a public breakdown in 2001 and got dumped by her record company, Carey has aroused as much prurient curiosity as fan interest. The career turnaround has her reduced to playing theaters. On the other hand, the Broward Center was filled with fans whose cheers indicated they love Carey through sunshine and Through the Rain (as one song says).
Carey worked the circus imagery (same theme, by the way, ex-beau Eminem used for his last tour). For one number, a clown performed a crazy loose-limbed dance while controlled by strings held by men in suits, as dollar signs flashed on a screen. But it's hard to feel a great deal of sympathy for Carey as a puppet. She married her Svengali, record mogul Tommy Mottola, of her own free will, and rode his largess through a stunning streak of No. 1 singles. Her songs have been more of the - and I quote - "I need you so desperately" type plea than You Don't Own Me declarations. Not to mention that one of Carey's selling points has always been that she writes most of her own material. Mariah controlled by marionettes? I doubt it.
She has always worked a survivalist streak: the biracial daughter of divorce whose voice was her salvation. But when she sings breathy, little-girl falsettos, it's hard to see her as an icon of strength. Resilience, yes: "My saving grace pulls me through," she sang on a song from her last album, Charmbracelet. My Saving Grace makes explicit the gospel underpinnings to Carey's vocal style. Monday night, she drew heavily on the over-the-top ballads that make her an American Idol contestant favorite, and little on the hip-hop and pop collaborations for which she helped create a radio format. When she did play more dance-oriented numbers, the beat was often lethargic.
Music was a second thought in the almost two-hour show. Carey paid more attention to her eight tight-fitting costumes and tiresome dance skits. She appeared on stage about 15 seconds for her latest hit, I Know What You Want, with rapper Busta Rhymes: just long enough to show off her biker tube top and cutoffs number. The rest of the song unfolded as a video screened on curtains, with more ersatz choreography. For much of the show, the band was hidden behind curtains. The sweetest part of the evening was when Carey sang little introductions about each of her players, including a wonderfully told story about the backing singer whose husband has a wandering eye. It was a modest, uncanned segment, absent of dancers. More singing like this please, Mariah, and fewer outfits.
The last player Carey introduced was a special guest: Trey Lorenz, the singer she first collaborated with in '92. They performed their cover of the Jackson 5's I'll Be There. He then sang one overly long number himself. Unfortunately, Lorenz's full tones showed how strained Carey's voice is. The band intros demonstrated that if Carey relaxed with her vocals, instead of trying to fill each song with flips and cartwheels, she could be an entertaining song stylist. But by trying to always do it all, Carey winds up doing little at all. Her voice is as damaged as her reputation; it's nowhere near as big as the sound she would like to create, and as the drama that surrounds her.
Beautiful, talented, eager to please, Carey wants desperately to be America's sweetheart. Perhaps she has tried too hard. With her theatrics and her sometimes hyperfemininity, she veers dangerously close to a camp parody of herself. On Always Be My Baby, for instance, she wore hot pink shorts while her dancers threw beach balls. A drag queen, at least, would probably be more fun. (The Miami Herald)
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