The Pearl of Pandemonium: My Evening with Spider-Man, Supper and a Surly Babushka

 After the genteel, if financially debilitating, prelude at Roosevelt Niupaguan, Jessie and I found ourselves drawn to the siren song of The Pearl livehouse. The marquee promised a Russian band, and my internal calculator, rarely wrong in these matters, deduced that a Russian band in Shanghai playing classic rock with “some connection to Marvel or DC Comic movies” could only mean one thing: glorious absurdity. I was not disappointed.

The venue, a cavernous space, initially lulled me into a false sense of security. The seating area, surprisingly, offered tables with sufficient elbow room. They were old, yes, but remarkably stable, a testament to bygone eras when chairs were built to last, not to fold at the slightest shift in weight. The upstairs, a mysterious forbidden zone, remained shrouded in speculation – "closed for repairs," they said. I, however, suspected it was merely a private grand suite, cleverly weaseled into by an elderly couple who, I surmised, either owned the place or were simply master negotiators in the art of securing prime real estate.

The stage, meanwhile, was a spectacle of questionable artistic choices. Above the band, large projections displayed images of figures loosely resembling comic book heroes, though curiously clad in variations of Roman tunics and helmets. As if the standard superhero motif wasn’t already dry enough, someone decided to add a dash of ancient history to the mix. Perhaps it was a commentary on the enduring nature of human hubris. Or perhaps they just ran out of modern costume designs.

The band, a collection of Russian rock stalwarts, launched into classics: “Bohemian Rhapsody,” “We Will Rock You,” “Come Together” – all songs that, with a little creative squinting, could indeed be tied to a comic book movie soundtrack. The lead guitarist, a man with admirable fingerwork, was unfortunately encased in a black, tight Spider-Man jumpsuit that exposed what little manhood he possessed. A brave choice, certainly. The lead singer, a surly babushka of a woman, was likewise squeezed into an almost equally tight Superwoman costume, exposing all, and then some. Let’s just say she had enough dinner rolls to feed a small army. The bassist, dressed as the Joker, was the only one in a mercifully loose costume, a small victory for modesty. And the drummer, with a voice that could double for a certain world leader’s, divided the audience into left and right quadrants and commanded us to scream, “Hey ho, let’s go!” We obeyed. Quickly. No one, I noticed, questioned a man who sounded like Putin.

Every time the band retreated, the stage was seized by a troupe of transvestites. Their lip-syncing of tunes like “I’m Not Your Toy, You Stupid Boy” was punctuated by high kicks that soared perilously close to the terrified heads of the Chinese youths in the front row. One particularly plump individual, seemingly channeling Norma Desmond from Sunset Boulevard, swished around the audience, tapping noses and bopping heads, seducing the most vulnerable and fair-hearted into flinging themselves about like marionettes. One young man, perhaps 25, became her unwilling target. He refused to dance, his hand freezing mid-air, looking as if it had been struck by sudden arthritis, as he guarded his derrière from imminent percussive contact.

Despite the visual and auditory assault, I found myself increasingly peckish. The menu, typical bar snack fare usually relegated to the realm of “avoid at all costs,” became irresistible. Hunger, I’ve found, is a remarkable condiment. A plate of truffle chips vanished, swiftly followed by an affogato.

As we watched the band, our experience was punctuated by a constant barrage. The waiter, a man seemingly engaged in a lifelong vendetta against my right arm, repeatedly smashed into me on his urgent mission to deliver someone’s chocolate cake. It soon became clear this was the pathway to the powder room. Patrons, driven by an almost primal urge for relief, began forcing their way through, showing no mercy to my carcass.

Eventually, Jessie and I, having endured enough human traffic and accidental assaults, decided to join the fray. We stood and merged with the crowd, who were engaged in the Chinese frog hop dance: texting and scrolling with one hand, fist-pumping with the other, and intermittently reaching out to caress their beloveds, no doubt to remind them of their togetherness and to ensure no one fled before the mosh pit dispersed.

My date was, predictably, thrilled. Especially by the sight of the transvestites. She turned to me, her eyes sparkling, and asked if I was having a good time. I nodded and smiled, while simultaneously praying to every deity I could recall that the high heels of the ladyboys wouldn't slip and embed themselves in my cranium.

Then, just as I was beginning to achieve a zen-like state of acceptance amidst the chaos, the waiter returned. Our table, he explained, had four chairs. Therefore, we were obligated to accommodate a stranger, or cough up an additional 900 yuan for a private booth. We reluctantly accepted the uninvited guest, a ramshackle individual who looked as though she’d just crawled in from the rain. She spent the entire concert turned completely around in her seat, and we quickly forgot she was even there. A ghost at the rock opera.

Despite the near-misses, the bicep contusions, and the existential dread induced by tightly clad rock stars, the night was, overall, a success. I’ll go back, certainly. But next time, I’ll eat beforehand, and I’ll pay for the private booth. Or bring two additional human shields. It’s all about preparation in the urban jungle, isn't it?