Santonio Holmes eked out a four point victory for the Pittsburgh Steelers with 35 seconds remaining on the clock in Super Bowl XLIII. A year later, the New Orleans Saints swept Super Bowl XLVI for a post-Katrina city thoroughly in need of happy tidings. The year after that, it was the Steelers again, this time versus the Green Bay Packers. 2011 wasn’t as favorable for Pittsburgh and the Packers ended up six points ahead. Which brings us to Super Bowl XLVI, held at Indianapolis’s newly constructed Lucas Oil Stadium. Eli Manning added a second Lombardi trophy to his collection, surpassing his older brother Peyton. New York City celebrated for an entire week straight.
These last four National Football League finales share quite a unique common denominator. Not the highly anticipated commercials. Not the crazed and oft besot fans or the obscene cost of just about everything. No, the common denominator the hundred million some odd viewers who’ve religiously tuned in to the nation’s most-watched television program from 2009-2012 will likely recall is me or, rather, that I was present at all of them.
Of course I jest. Nobody remembers, much less cares that I have in fact found myself positioned comfortably close to the twenty yard line for four consecutive years and counting at a game that most American’s would give up a vital appendage to witness in person. And herein lies the rub, I know nothing about football. I certainly admire and appreciate the athleticism, but on a scale of one to ten, ten being Bill Parcells level comprehension and one being Kathy Bates' character in The Water Boy, I'd say I lean more toward Mama Boucher. "Foos-ball? Buncha overgrown monsters man-handlin' each other..."
I don’t root for a favorite team. Don’t own a jersey or a toaster that brands a logo on my bread. The term “bump and run” makes me think of my ex. When a player catches the ball for a –hold on, let me consult my copy of “Football for Dummies”—touchback and drops to one knee, I assume this might be a suitable time for him to Hail Mary? My point spread predictions are based on the following tried and true analytics: 1) cuteness of quarterback, 2) number of players on each team who’ve been accused of a crime, 3) mascot and; the most important determinant, 4) whether or not a player’s Bob Costas interview moves me to tears.
So, aside from getting a chance to brush up on the Roman numerals number system, why make the effort to attend at all?
I do it for the music.
Music makes the people come together.
Music mix the bourgeoisie and the rebel.
I’ve braved black ice and taxi strikes, being stranded in a gas station convenience store during a naked squatter’s arrest while a woman wearing head-to-toe lime—not the fruit, the color—simultaneously hands out pictures of her missing meth addicted friend…and that was just in Dallas. En route to ESPN Magazine’s official Indianapolis soiree, the ride I fought tooth and nail to snag T-boned another vehicle leaving the same event. No matter, after expertly assessing the damages and confirming all parties unscathed, I hightailed it the rest of the way on foot. A stealthy maneuver indeed as it afforded me the ability to catch the end of a fairly intimate Drake performance.
Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, Jennifer Hudson, The Who, Carrie Underwood, The Black Eyed Peas, Usher, Slash, Christina Aguilera, Journey with Filipino frontman Arnel Pineda, Faith Hill, Chrissie Hynde, Keith Urban, Maroon 5, Kelly Clarkson, The Fray, M.I.A., Nicki Minaj, Wiz Khalifa, Drake, Snoop Dogg, Lenny Kravitz, Katy Perry, and mother immaculate herself; Madonna, make up a mere modicum of the musical menagerie that befell Super Bowls XLII -- XLVI. Think about it, where else can you check out that kind of talent all in the short span of a weekend? It's like if Coachella, Bonnaroo and Glastonbury collided and formed "Coabonnbury."
Keep in mind that Super Bowls, the living, breathing entities that they are, aim to do one thing; cater to the masses. And music? Well, anyone with properly functioning aural canals most likely has a pointed opinion about music. In fact, never is the "opinions are like assholes" adage more applicable than to the topic of music. At the Super Bowl, these two factors, mass appeal and the opinion of the individual amidst the masses, make for a distinctive dynamic.
Anymore, counterculture has taken on a role more prominent than popular culture in certain respects. For instance, the obsession with "discovering" burgeoning musicians means that mainstream artists are stigmatized merely for being mainstream. But that doesn't take away from the fact that Springsteen, Townshend, Madonna and the like are what keep the music industry afloat. Without them, less established artists would be left in the lurch, without multimillion-dollar Live Nation or wrap-around 360 label deals to aspire to.
I consider myself a part of the popular counterculture movement. The last album I purchased was from an indie pop duo; one part hermaphroditic Buddhist, the other part five-year-old mute glockenspiel prodigy. And I usually only attend concert venues with a maximum occupancy of 200 or so. What I'm getting at is, it might not be boss to jump on board "The Boss's" bandwagon, but damn it if I'm not glad I got to watch his tight-jeaned ass rock 2009's Super Bowl halftime, even if I was only able to glimpse him from behind. He played to the opposite side of the stadium for the entirety of the program.
I wouldn’t normally go out of my way to see half of the cats listed above, but, secretly, or maybe not so secretly, I know every word to the Kanye West produced Katy Perry track “E.T.” and, Drake’s rendition of the belated Gil Scott-Heron’s “I’ll Take Care of You” circulates on my iTunes “That Ish Cray” playlist daily. To see these legends / legends in the making live is like getting around to reading “1984.” You’ve been meaning to do it and now, finally, you can mark it off your bucket list.
Read about my favorite Bowl bucket list moments and view photos from 2012's game after the jump:
