COCONUTS CONCERT REVIEW – Crawling out of the cab into the darkness of a suburban Bangkok night, I began to scratch my head, wondering why I had chosen to leave the safety of Sukhumvit. Looking ahead, the inappropriately located Impact Arena came into view amongst the Orwellian architecture that passes for design in this miserable part of the city. Dim lights and the flutter of chatter strayed from one of the capital’s most established venues. The threat of a treacherous storm didn’t appear to have deterred the crowd, who, lounging around the grounds equipped with cameras, beers, and the sacred ticket, were in festival mode and paying no attention to the brooding sky above.
Queues of young girls, and the occasional guy, waited anxiously to have their photo taken with a cardboard cutout of the evening’s act. This intimidating mass of teeming teenage hormones were eagerly awaiting to see a band with a triple platinum record to their name and one of the best selling singles of all time, up there with “Hey Jude” and Aqua’s timeless “Barbie Girl.” Queen? AC/DC? The Rolling Stones? No, although Mick Jagger did get a mention.
Adored by loyal fans and despised by critics, Maroon 5 is back on the road touring their latest album Overexposure. Since breaking onto the scene back in 2002 with trite, slushy break-up record “Songs About Jane,” the five-piece LA ensemble have had teenagers across the continents huffing their contagious brand of bastardized pop-rock like low-grade industrial glue. Last night, it was Thailand’s turn to welcome the pied piper of heartbreak and his diligent band members.
Crammed into the sold out arena, I found myself staring aimlessly into space when suddenly the lights cut and the audience ruptured in uncontrollable unison, sending waves of hysteria through the arena. A little hasty, perhaps, to condemn the evening’s proceedings so soon? Even when, two songs into the support set, the mandatory “raise your hands” bone was thrown to the audience, dragging me into a living nightmare, complete with flashbacks of teenage discos, I resisted instant judgement. In fact, a wry smile crept over my face.
Lubed by alt pop-rock prototype The Cab’s inoffensive blend of synthetic guitar hero rock, the audience geared up for the main event, becoming more anxious by the minute. The warm-up band clocked off and the auditorium was flooded with light. Two girls a few rows below turned and stared at me. The smile long gone, I worried they may have sensed my infidel thoughts. What if they pounced, there were thousands of them. My eyes darting around the room, I quickly located the nearest exit, but there was no time to act. A phone began to ring and once again the darkness and delirium ambushed me. Saved by the bell. “Payphone” kicked in and Maroon-mania commenced.
Led by their tattooed imp messiah Adam Levine, the feverish masses followed his every laryngeal squeal as his band energetically gallivanted from uptempo heartbreak song “Lucky Strike” to downtempo breakup song “Sad.” At times Coldplay clones, referring particularly to “Daylight,” while on other occasions reminiscent of that band with the twat in the hat. Thrown in to the mix to the delight of the crowd were the 90s Euro-pop homage “The Man Who Never Lied”; “One More Night,” a pseudo-reggae song that au courant middle-of-the-road bands now deem obligatory; and plenty of cock rock guitar licks courtesy of Mormon stringmeister James Valentine.
And then it happened. The shrill whistle which signals the start of multimillion selling single “Moves Like Jagger” pierced the venue and in the midsts of the euphoria, strobe lights. and all-round juvenile anarchy, I looked down aghast. There it was. My foot. Tapping.
The maniacal public were then treated to a few of the old classics (used in its loosest form) and I tried, in vain, to maintain the momentum from the foot tap a few minutes earlier, but it was no use. Maroon 5 have never been my cup of tea, closer perhaps to a bowl of vomit or tepid flask of hydrogen cyanide, but credit where credit is due. The energy and audacity displayed by a band lacking so much in originality is admirable and the Bangkok faithful certainly agreed.
A night that will linger long in the memories of all present, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who dreamt about Adam Levine last night. My fantasy, however, included a squalid basement, rusty hammer and time, plenty of time.
