Milk, Inc. is viewed, even by their fans, as Belgium’s tackiest of tacky pop music. Which immediately explains why they’re so immensely popular. They were “so nineties” until a while ago, when they made a successful comeback and now sell more records/tickets than ever before. Their show is cheered upon by critics and “party people” alike, and while it is safe to say that their music definitely isn’t my cup of tea, I was still expecting an impressive gig.
With a “gaze set to infinity and mind set to zero” I sat and let myself be immersed in mass hysteria, the one thing that makes these events so popular to begin with.
Fuck me was I disappointed. Beneath the point of “lousy”, there is that area where something can become so bad it’s actually good, with much lower still: this kind of performance.
I’m not sure how to describe this. If they want to portray the awkwardness of Europe in Hollywood movies, they show images of gigs like these. A whole venue of them: strangely dressed people going absolutely Chuck fucking Norris over… Nothing. There was no music. There were no performers. There was hardly a stage.
What there was plenty of, were speakers. I think this situation would come closest to a sound technician’s nightmare, where a relatively small venue is stacked to the roof with line array speakers, which are made to “project” the sound forward. Not that they had to, because 20 meters into the crowd there was another set blasting horseshit music over these defenseless teenagers. The place was filled with noise; getting the sound right wasn’t even an issue anymore.
The songs were lousy, but not even close to the one-liners those asshats spat out in between. Whatever the fuck they were on about, no sane person cared. The jokes were bad, the info uninteresting, and the cliché cries for “making noooooise” completely misplaced in the awkward silence before and after. They literally took minutes to finish being retarded and get on with the performance, already.
Effects were poor. The whole production was about half in quantity than even the most optimistic ones of us expected. The immense and insanely expensive video screen was somewhat impressive, but generated little more than what two projectors and a silver screen could manage. The lights could best be described as “whatever”, and pyro was misplaced and hopelessly off.
“Oh well,” I thought to myself. “At least they’re not stealing work from people more talented than them in some gay, heterogeneous cover medley.” And then they started a cover medley. Outrageous.
If I had paid for this gig, I would have left. If it hadn’t been freezing cold outside, I would have- Oh wait, I did.