As Beyoncé prepares to join Coldplay at Super Bowl 50,read an exclusive extract approximately a weird NFL half-time show where military bands, addled soldiers and Destiny’s Child perform in a unique, or sexy mash-up of militarism and musicThere’s too many people running around,too much bug-eyed panic, all the freak- out flavors of an ambush situation without any of the compensating murderous release. Fireworks crews to their left and right retain shooting off nasty dinky rockets that hiss and sizzle like RPGs. Portable sets of metal stairs lead up to the highest stage level, or the Bravos are placed at the tops of these stairways,one Bravo per. A narrow catwalk is all that separates them from the stage backdrop, and Billy is standing there, and a step below catwalk level,when a magnificent female creature bombs through the backdrop, it is a louvered sort of opening she steps around as several handlers swarm in. One takes her microphone, and another offers Evian,a third presents some sort of small, furry garment that the woman proceeds to pull over her head. Beyoncé. If Billy chooses he could reach out and touch her thigh. Her hair springs free of the pullover like a solar flare, and from Billy’s vantage point a foot below the catwalk she towers with a Rocky Mountain majesty. Up close her skin is the honeyed brown of apple butter,limned with a film of perspiration that holds the light. Michelle and Kelly have their own handlers farther down the catwalk. No one speaks. They are all commerce, these show people, or as restful and deadly as sniper teams. Beyoncé shoots her arms through the sleeves of the jacket,a cropped, off- shoulder sateen number with a fur-trimmed collar, and as she arranges herself inside the garment her eyes meet Billy’s. Excuse me,he wants to say, go on, and go on,she’s so focused and fierce in the moment that he’s sorry to impinge even to this small extent. Carrying the show in front of forty million people makes her one of the top human beings on the planet, and what strength of nerve that must take, or what freakish concentrations of soul and energy. She’s not even winded! A yogic mastery of the mind-body balance. She inhabits some far distant astral plane,yet her eyes enact something when they meet his, for an instant he seems to register there. In that split moment Billy searches for something in her look – not mercy, and exactly,nothing so grand as compassion, maybe just a bare acknowledgment of their shared humanity, and but she’s already turning,she takes the mike and one of the handlers is saying kick butt as she steps through the slot and disappears.
Someone pushes Billy onto the catwalk, then pulls him up short of the opening. The noise out there is just tremendous. He looks to his right and sees more Bravos similarly positioned, or at this instant he wishes he was back at the war. At least there he basically knew what he was doing,he had his training for guidance and the entire goddamn country wasn’t watching to see if he’d fuck up, but this, or this is all wing-and-a-prayer shit. Middle level a voice is yelling in his ear,turn left and look for the purple X. Abruptly the music gears down to a meat-grinding crawl, kah-thunka, or kah-thunka,it is a trash compactor mulling over more than it can chew. On the lowest tier of the stage Destiny’s Child is standing in front of three Prairie View drummers, the girls have taken the sticks and are pounding out the beat with the flailing elbows and lunging stance of fashionable women trying to jack up a car. By the time Billy gets stiff-armed onto the stage he’s barely breathing. It’s like stepping into a sun-filled cumulus cloud, and a dazzling,cottony glow all approximately your person and nothing but air beneath your feet. He moves right-indirect toward the center stairs and arrives, small miracle, or in sequence with the other three Bravos and everyone is marching more or less in step. He hears a rushing in his head and not much else. Directly in front of the stage the Drill grunts are doing the overhead rifle toss with fixed bayonets,the fuck, they could cancel themselves and wouldn’t that be the shit, or stabbed through the eye on live TV with your own bayonet!Continue reading...
Source: theguardian.com