Americans love people that are better than they are: Superheroes, Royalty, British royalty, French royalty, the French, Eskimos, Pirates, and especially Celebrities. Since we're supposed to be the most awesome country ever we naturally idolize those among us who happen to be more beautiful, successful, talented and wealthy. We also love cramming as many stars as we can into confined spaces like awards shows, charity events, all-star games and golf tournaments. There's an irresistible allure to the prospect of glimpsing into their natural habitats and discovering how they truly are when they "act casual". Which is why we also love tabloids; nothing brings out a person's true colors as effectively as when they are forced to constantly flee the prying eyes of paparazzi.
The ego is the imagined "aura" of someone's persona, it's what makes them larger than life. It's what helped them rise above the competition. But we always take it too far, get greedy and want to see the best of the best compete, to see who the bestest of the bestestser really is. Except it doesn't work that way. Ego naturally battles itself for control and leadership and nothing illustrates this problem more than the predictable train-wrecks that occur when rock-stars pack the stage for an all-star musical tribute.
Movies with a copious amount of stars are generally self-serving and low on substance, but at least they aren't trying to feign sympathy or rally support for: a country in Africa, a war in the mid-east, Tibet, or a recently deceased legend. Films and sports, no matter how clustered they are. still come nowhere close to the awkward ham-fistery of when a handful of washed up, billboard top-40 musicians are contractually obligated to appear on stage so that they can utterly defile a previously liked song from the 60's or 70's.
The lights dim, the host politely introduces the act and rushes off stage to the wet bar. The string arrangement swells and a song of ambiguous social meaning starts in. The cameraman begins to sweat and his instrument malfunctions as it is unable to compute the massive input of relevance radiating from the stage. "Where do I focus!?" It pleads as it pans and zooms erratically from one self-important pop-singer to the other. Nervously, the next in line, most likely Sheryl Crow (permanent fixture of tribute concerts/most generic recording artist in history behind Michael McDonald) nervously fidgets with his or her microphone as they prepares to take over the next verse of whatever Beatles song they're pillaging, and dazzle the world with their inspired rendition.
"It is I who will save this next part from the garbage heap, bow before me Bono! This is why you all love meeeee"
Hey! Look! It's the guy from Maroon 5, surely he can revive the dance portion of this song. The running man? No. It's the cabbage patch! Clutch.
If youth can't prevail then perhaps a crusty, aging, rock & roll front man will be able to squeeze some juice out of this lemon.
...and then there's Norah "deer in the headlights" Jones looking terrified as usual, wondering how she keeps getting conned into being a pop star. Wait, how did Brian Wilson get on stage? Where's his wrangler?
The pageant of mediocrity continues to the bitter end as Scott Weiland basks in the spotlight trying out his new David Bowie impersonation.
And just as all hope seems to be lost, and no amount of singular talent could seem to reconcile the matter, a leprechaunish figure descends from the rafters. Could it be?
Phil Collins! He can make this worth while, for sure. If not, there's always Ringo Starr on speed dial.
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