May 4, 2011
@ The Warfield
Better than: Dudes who look like Mick Jagger
Ripped tank tops barely concealing black bras. Gold-sequined skirts. Fishnet tights. Tousled blonde locks. Eyeliner thick as warpaint. Fuzzy cat-ear headbands. Hand-drawn dollar signs on bare skin. Stillettos. Neon fucking ice-blue lipstick. Glitter everywhere.
Responsible adults of America, meet your next of kin. Last night the tweens and teens and early-twentysomething females who'll one day run this world filled a sold-out Warfield for the frivolous incantations of queen garbage-chic party girl Ke$ha. They met her Auto-Tuned voice dressed for the occasion, like neon mall goths or careless, costumed floozies, supplying an energy level somewhere between obnoxious and nuclear fusion.
But the audience was nowhere near the weirdest part. Last night Ke$ha took the script for a standard pop show and rewrote it as a B-grade sci-fi porno flick, armed with glitter guns, a second act that felt like a white-trash zombie thriller (rubber heart yanked out of a male dancer to serve as Ke$ha's blood cocktail), and a finale of glow-in-black-light makeup, feather mohawks, and awkward sincerity about being your own (“fucking”) self.