Dangerous curves ahead: Beyonce and company and “Crazy in Love.” All photos by Charles Russo.
By Kimberly Chun
I’m bedazzled by Beyonce – bewitched, bemused, checked in and down for the night at the Knowles family’s B&B. ‘Nuff said.
I resort to the Stan Lee comicbook equivalent of “end of discussion” because I’m just too tempted to toss in the towel after taking in Ms. Knowles’ Thierry Mugler-imbued show (she tellingly selected him as her tour’s costume designer and “creative advisor” after discovering his handiwork at the “Superheroes” exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute last year). Have mercy, my robotic leopard woman. Because despite it’s tough, sleek surfaces, Beyonce’s “I Am… Tour” is an organic, ever-morphing, slippery organism, judging from the timely Michael Jackson/“Halo” tribute and seemingly impromptu birthday singalong that closed July 10 performance at the Oracle Arena.
Genius avant camp. Heaven-bound goddess-gown diva perfection. Down-on-the-floor earthy air-humping along to a guitar solo. Warm moments of communion with the fans. Obama love juxtaposing the Civil Rights marches, **Cadillac Records,** the ‘09 inauguration celebration, and “At Last.” Aerial flips and hood-ornament poses on a trapeze eliciting shrieks of delight from the audience. All were welcome, all were included. And the curvaceous, rump-shaking, and robust Beyonce held up throughout, looking like an ace super-trooper while dancing, kicking, and singing in her minis, hot pants, and sparkly heels ala a young Tina Turner, and whipping around Shakira-esque curls with the fury of go-go dancer scorned.
From the photo pit: Tamia Pitts, 7, was front and center.