02.19.2002
Nelly Furtado Brings Her "Party" to the Olympics

My first real taste of the Winter Olympics dealt with nearly having to amputate my pinky toe. It’s cold in Salt Lake City this time of year. When you schedule a concert at 7 p.m. and precede it with a lot of medal presenting, frostbite is damn near imminent. So I started dancing when the cheerleaders came out and led us in the Twist and Macarena. It didn’t come easily, mind you; it was a matter of survival.

See, I have this friend on the inside that was able to score a couple free tickets to one of the open-air pavilion shows. Asked me if I wanted to go. When these tickets were given out free over a month ago, some girls were trampled. Had to be taken to the hospital. Brought back memories of an AC/DC concert attendee during the Heatseeker tour who did a swan dive from the second level in Calgary—only no water broke his fall, just concrete. The word “free” changes people. This is generally why I avoid the local Smith’s on Saturday sample day. I don’t want anybody mistaking my fingers for the Vienna sausages I’m reaching for. Know what I’m saying?

Anyway. This friend of mine—we’ll call her Bubbles—had two tickets to Nelly Furtado. Nelly’s pretty sexy and, hey, it’s the Olympics and even better—it’s FREE. So I succumbed. Even when a budding relationship hinged on my decision.

Me (humble): Do you mind if I go?

Her: Not at all. I’ll just go on a date with some other guy that night.

Me (growing defiant now, yet with the hint of a whine): But…it’s the Olympics.

Her: Don’t give me that “It’s the Olympics” bullshit.


I’ve yet to give her a call, but I’m fairly sure it won’t be pretty when I do.

For the hours leading up to the concert, I quickly took in all the things I’d been missing. Ready? Here’s your barrage of imagery. Lots of Olympics-clad guys herding us like sheep in eight different directions. Some very bad ice sculptures. An all-brass band wearing wooden clogs. Fireworks. Lots and lots and lots of people, some which appeared to be Ewoks. An announcer (who looked far too much like Al Bundy’s Married…with Children neighbor) spouting off bad Olympic trivia. A laughably bad local white boy band launching its set with a crazy-ass a cappella version of Toto’s “Africa.” Lots of flag waving. Screaming for athletes. Screaming louder for hot German biathletes who took a gold medal. Cold toes. Colder fingers.

Once Steve Young stopped playing motivational speaker to the masses (“Isn’t this stage so great?!”) and Caroline What’s-her-name (the one who replaced Rosie) stopped trying to be funny, Nelly Furtado finally took the stage. And she was good. Really good. Surprisingly good.

Once you got past the Punky vibe she had going for her (pink pants, pink top, strips of neon green tape around one thigh, bright yellow sparkles around the eyes, huge hoop earrings, Cat In The Hat hat), you couldn’t help but be impressed by what it was she was doing. There was no real focus on dancing or costume changes or even an exposed midriff (all things that Britney depends on) but on her voice alone. Well, that and the fact she could pick up a guitar and play along with the band whenever she felt like it.

It’s hard to know where to place her, though she gets close to Pink territory on her similarly titled “Party.” To be fair, Nelly’s album came out over a year-and-a-half ago and she’s got her Brazilian-Canadian background to lean on, though it just comes out in small, unexpected spurts. On this tune, it’s in the bossa nova backbeat and asides sung in Portuguese. She’s pop. She’s hip hop. And sometimes her singing comes out so rapid-fire it can’t necessarily fall under the rap genre comfortably (“I Will Make U Cry” is absolutely divine). Take “Baby Girl,” a number strong in horns and so trip-hop it nearly comes off as the best Esthero song she never wrote. And given her Latin roots, she’s able to drop scats like Gloria Estefan on speed.

The sexiness was there in spades, don’t get me wrong. She’s a younger Sade who aspires to be a hipper Astrud Gilberto. But her talent nearly eclipsed her looks. She skipped across the stage through “Turn Off the Light” and “I’m Like a Bird” but did so confidently. There was nary a lip synch in the lot of her set. She approached the fans over and over again, accepting thrown flowers graciously. Sorta nice to see her at her most grassroots level before she really hits the big-time. Because she will be around for a while, whether you like it or not.

It wasn’t all amazing. There was a bit too much call-and-answer for this attendee—the “hey’s” and the “ho’s” are just filler in my opinion—and a weird little dance medley pieced together from Bell Biv Devoe, Kriss Kross and LL Cool J songs. They could have been tunes she’s been influenced by, though she would have been, what, 10 years old when they first hit? But, offset that with a Portuguese song—was it “Scared of You” from her album?—where she accompanies herself on acoustic guitar and it’s almost excusable.

It was just an hour-long set but one that kept most of the near 20,000 capacity crowd gathered in freezing temperatures around for the long haul. I could stretch that a bit further, say something along the lines of her simply being around for a good long while as well, but for those in attendance, they already know that. They’ve got the cold toes to prove it.

-Dainon Moody

taken with permission from culturedose.com