I hate myself utterly: my relationship with the Jonas Brothers.

 I have suffered the slings of insanity. I have loved women I should not have loved and I have done other things which this horrible existence has yet to quell but I have not felt so horrible as this. This is a forbidden adventure, one of drugs, sadness and despair. This is my review of the Jonas Brothers concert.

P.S. I have sold my soul to being a writer and this is how I get paid.

My interest in Herodes surely followed suit.

“With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene” is the only thing that comes to mind to describe the pre-pubescent ferocity rattling the iron fringes of the stage. Ascendant poet Hart Crane was referring to the trilby-hatted gents and dames of early America, but only I find solace in using it to describe the attentive zealots at the Jonas Brothers concert.

This is the second time around visiting the island for the Disney channel international teeny-bopper sensations who played yet another jam-packed venue last Friday at the José Miguel Agrelot Coliseum. If you thought these heart-stealing “kouros” weren’t enough the quell the trilling of girls barely past their thirteenth moon, Demi Lovato popped up alongside the stars of Camp Rock to attempt to pacify the eager masses.

Happy rock camper Alyson Stoner kicked off the concert with “Make History”, setting the bases and segueing to her Camp Rock co-stars’ set. What followed was a camp on camp Thunderdome-esque battle for Bulge, the prize: total superstar domination. Promoting their new film “Camp Rock 2”, Camp Rock faced off with rivals Camp Star, clashing single after single which included “Start the Party” and “Fire” preformed by each ensemble cast of dancers and singers featured in the movies. Fear not parents, these were sing-offs, not knife fights.

Up-and-coming pop princess Demi Lovato graced the stage afterwards, crooning her hit singles such as “La La Land” and “Get Back” (unfortunately not the Beatles cover) but still managed to turn down the volume with acoustic numbers such as “Remember December”. Lovato later shared the stage with the alumni of Camp Rock and even dragged crowd members from the mucous-like membrane of four-foot-five children unto stage, permitting them voyage to rock out with bona fide air guitars and dance the blues. After the turmoil of teen pop synths, an intermission of Camp Rock commercials and cosmetic tie-ins ensued, and I was left in recollection of things recently past.

Unassuming and an English graduate I was tied down to endure what was to come. The lights fell, a colossal timer appeared, the mass of tweens (the modern nomenclature for 11 and 12-year-olds) heaved unto what could barely be seen on the stage. Slowly like the sun weaves the tiny hours of the day, time was running out and then it happened. Like Lazarus back from the grave, they have come to tell us all, to tell us all: “Hola Puerto Rico.” Nick, Kevin and Joe rose from trap doors unto the   platforms hugged by lights and appropriated their set, initiating with “Feelin’ Alive” which had the kids stomping their feet and shaking the ground harder than any earthquake this side of Chile.

They preformed all of their hits and hooks with extreme prejudice, motoring through a set of singles such as “Hold On” “Year 3000”,  “Heart and Soul” (unfortunately not a Joy Division cover) and “Drive My Car” (fortunately a Beatles cover) faster than David Bowies goes through costumes. Picking tracks from, what I shudder to conceive, their total “oeuvre”, they spanned from “It’s About Time” through “Lines, Vines, and Trying Times” and everything in between.

Reptilians in disguise.

The youngsters live performance sported an array of stage performers, incorporating dance, crunchy guitars, thumping bass and pounding percussion, providing a different sonic experience that gravitated toward the traditional “rock” sound rather than their “pop” aesthetic found in their recordings. Pretty boy Joe dominated the stage, twirling the mike stand, Kevin squeezed in gratuitous amounts of guitar solos and sensitive Nick nursed an electric guitar which he traded halfway through in favor of cradling an acoustic one to serenade the youths but it was their mothers who were the ones gushing over the mushy patter. The only problem was that they were usually drowned under the wails of adoring fans which was loud as bombs.

I always thought swooning only happened to women and girls of bell-shaped torsos straight out of a Dickens’ novel, but I was clearly proven wrong. Jonas mania had stricken their adorers dumb, most of them pouring salt water from lone eyes riveting towards their iron courts, orbs or bent axels of devotion made joyous because of the appearance of three youths. This overall ecstatic rejoice at the spectacle they have presented was otherworldly, tweens for hundreds of feet, swaying like reeds to the boys’ singing and show.

The boys wrapped up the show with their smash hits “SOS” and “Burnin’ Up”, which, with the help of Big Rob, concluded the whole shee-bang. Back unto the cosmic underworld Kevin, Nick and Joe descended and disappeared but their fans were despondent to just have them leave. But alas, their cries were not strong enough to bring the brothers back to their source and had to content themselves with a concert clocking in at almost three hours.

Never.Fucking.Again.

At the gist of it all, regardless of your taste in music, it pains me to admit it was a fun show. Kids were having fits, acting up and suffering out-of-body experiences because of the grazing of these mortals upon the stage and it seems that the parents were just as content to see their offspring lose themselves in the apparent ravaging aural experience that was presented. While I have concluded that regardless of how much these tweens and teeny-boppers had fun and sang their hearts out, this will not deter me from erecting a statue of Herodes in my home after enduring such brutal screeches. In the end, it’s never really about whether the songs challenged the artistic limits of modern aural arts, it’s about having fun. Kids’ these days are slung unto the information super highway and this is what they want, and they got it. Besides, their biggest and hardest decision  is not whether to vote Republican or Democrat these coming elections, it’s deciding who’s the cutest one of the three.

Whether I personally like the concert is only between me and Mr. Jonas, Mr. Jonas and Mr. Jonas, but it was relatively wholesome family fun and everyone was dancing and singing much like primitive tribes but instead of sacrificial rituals to the gods of Moon and Sun, everyone screamed their lungs out.