Michael Bubbles

Last night I took Dara to see Michael Bublé at the Greek Theatre in L.A. Say what you want about Southern California or L.A., but there is nothing like seeing a live band play on a summer night in the Los Angeles hills, as the twilight bruises the night sky: blue, then purple, then black; the moon shining onto the heads of thousands of happy fans. If you can get over the claustrophobic parking situation, the Greek Theatre is a beautiful venue.

Last night carried a few pleasant surprises, the first one being the opening act: Jann Arden, a Canadian adult-contemporary favourite. Her music might seem like it’s for fathers who wear Hawaiin shirts, and mothers who wear mommy-jeans hiked up over the love-handles, but if you actually listen to her songwriting, it’s really quite good. She has a knack for melodies, and her voice is beautiful and melodious. Even in my heavy music days, I always appreciated her music. And having seen her play live three times now, I can say with some authority that her live show is entertaining. Jann always banters well with the audience, which is immediately disarming for a group of people who only perk up once they hear her only real hit, “Insensitive.” Oh yeah, I know that song. I thought Alanis Morrissette sang that, the people murmur throughout the audience. I was happy to see her come on stage, and sad to see this lovely Canadian leave. But there was still one more Canadian to wow this jaded L.A. audience.

Michael Bublé came on to thunderous, if somewhat reserved, applause. His dark, moody entrance belied his casual, easy-listening musical style. As the orchestral swells and David Copperfield lights beamed his name in and around the stage-- Michael Bublé, Michael Bublé!-- I thought for a moment that I might be watching an advanced screening of an epic Roman movie of battles and blood. Perhaps Gladiator II: Gladiator-er. Not so. Michael came out crooning with his near-perfect voice and casual swagger that reminded me of the 70-year-old men in the Viagra commercials.

I liked him instantly. His honey-coated voice picks up where Frank Sinatra left off, perfecting the lines and the soft melodies of the old standards, smoothing them out, and often inflating them to three times their natural size. These songs, which are meant to be heard on vinyl while sipping a cup of Campbell’s soup, translated perfectly into elegant anthems and boisterous, bubbly melodies in this amphitheatre setting.

But Michael isn’t just a crooner, dancing that Bill Cosby dance in a $5,000 suit that’s made to look like a $500 suit, and spouting clever quips with the audience; he’s a true performer, in the old sense of the word. In the Las Vegas circa 1960-1975 sense of the word.

Michael pushed the G-rated boundaries of his genre set by the old standards, and carried out a very entertaining show, which included teasing his band, several (staged?) moments where he was molested by adoring fans, and an earnest though thoroughly unconvincing attempt to prove to his audience that his music can be manly. He finished this diatribe with a hilariously tongue-in-cheek performance of Y.M.C.A. In short, his show was fun. Ultimately, when he sings “Feeling Good,” (a song made famous by Nina Simone and Sammy Davis Jr., and perfected in his version), you can’t help but get shivers. Maybe that doesn’t sound manly, I dunno. In any case, I gotta go: Y.M.C.A. just came up on my iPod and I have some dancing to do.