…and rips the boys a new Ring of Kerry. I don’t get the opportunity to write reviews of bad concerts because I only go see artists that I already like. But if I did, I hope I’d write them like this:
Rascal Flatts showed up and immediately demonstrated that RAWKing to them meant “KISS concert.” This stuff started from the very beginning of the show: The lights went out! The Flatts appeared, silhouetted behind a smoky curtain as a robotic voice counted down from five! A big boom! The curtain vanishes! And… there they are! Eeeeeeeeeeee! From there, it was two hours of video screens and shooting sparks and flashy lighting and confetti cannons and a metal gondola that carried them from one end of the venue to the other. (Believe me, PopWatchers: When I came back from getting another beverage to see the three Flatts boys in a steel cage, hovering above the heads of the squealing people, I just about walked out right then and there.)
And when the screens weren’t showing us a waterfall or a beautiful woman dancing on a beach, they were showing us… Rascal Flatts’ own videos! That’s right: On at least three occasions, the band played a song in perfect sync with what gets shown on CMT, making me wonder why these people paid hundreds of dollars to be there when they could have stayed home and watched CMT in their pajamas, and gotten the same performance. I don’t know about you, but I like to hear a little musicianship in my live shows. Otherwise, it’s like someone pushed play on a really big CD, and then charged me $9 for beer.
Whitney Pastorak, for the win:
Are we all so starved for entertainment that we’re willing to watch an average band put on a mediocre performance with cliched special effects, and call it amazing? I know the people in the stands were having fun — they never did stop squealing — and a very drunk casino manager next to me said this was the best concert they’d ever had in that venue, better than Madonna. I almost choked to death on my $9 beer at that point.
At the end of the show, Rascal Flatts climbed back up to the top of their spaceship stage and disappeared behind a booming cloud of smoke. It reminded me less of Garth Brooks and more of the Wicked Witch of the West, and I am now wondering if the title of their previous album (Melt) was more symbolic than anyone knew. Should I meet Rascal Flatts in the future, I may try to pour a little water on them, just to see — because if what I saw Saturday night is the best they’re planning to do with their massive fame and devoted fan base, I don’t think they deserve any of it. Let’s give it to someone who’s willing to at least pretend like they care. Because trust me: The fans really, really do. And that’s not something anyone should take lightly, or for granted.
Check out the rest of the review for more snark and righteous indignation, in addition to a rave for opening act Jason Aldean. Then scroll down to see the RF fans fight back. Pop some corn, sit back and enjoy the spectacle!