I attended a Vanilla Ice concert this week, and it was both an exhilarating and terrifying experience.
This week, I checked off an item on my bucket list titled "Things I Never Thought I'd Do:" go to a Vanilla Ice concert in the ballroom of the Hilton on a Sunday evening.
But I did. And it was kind of life changing.
Like most people, I’m a fan on Vanilla Ice in the sense that I start most of my sentences with “stop, collaborate and listen,” but I never thought I'd see him live, a mere 15 minutes from my apartment.
At first, I was a little confused because the stage was decorated with stuffed tigers, an inflatable boat and feathered boas. I mean, I know Mr. Ice is a complex man, but this seemed slightly out of character. So when Papercutt, an '80s hair metal band, came out on stage donning some insane wigs and blue eyeshadow (which was very well done by the way), everything made sense again.
For what felt like a solid two hours, we jammed out to covers of “Poison,” “Guns ’N Roses,” and “Motley Crue.” Their stage presence was immaculate and made standing for a long time in uncomfortable wedges almost worth it. Until one of the members (whose name might have been Skid Mark) hopped into the inflatable boat and attempted to crowd surf.
Let’s just say I got a foot in my face, and he didn’t make it very far. And for a moment we forgot Vanilla Ice was even performing until the crowd started demanding him.
The lights came on, and the stage crew rearranged the decorations more to Mr. Ice’s tastes, which included a random clown doll, an inflatable grim reaper arch and a DJ who wore a skeleton ski mask. The room went black, green fog that faintly smelled like cotton candy filled the air, and Vanilla Ice stormed the stage.
Now I’ll be honest, I could not understand a word Mr. Ice was saying. But his initial energy was so infectious that I found myself attempting to sing along to songs I had never heard before — until the water bottles came out.
I don’t know what it is about concerts that makes performers think we want to be drenched, but let me assure you, we do not. Outdoor concerts where it’s really hot and I feel like I’m going to die, maybe. Inside the Hilton’s ballroom on a Sunday evening, maybe not.
My friend Madeline was especially perturbed by Vanilla Ice and his clown posse (there were literally like four clowns on stage) spraying water all over the crowd. At one point she started pleading to the rapper: “Mr. Ice, please stop.”
Needless to say, he didn’t listen.
While the water bottle escapades continued, Ice got a little more creative and added in volleyballs. That was enough to make us duck behind a woman much taller than we were, who screamed that she would keep us safe. I wish I would have learned the name of our hero so I could give her a proper shoutout.
Ice’s finale was of course the song we all know and love, “Ice, Ice Baby,” and we all sang along/dodged more water bottles and volleyballs while confetti rained from the ceiling.
While I definitely enjoyed the concert, it might be more accurate to say that I survived it. Word to your mother.