On Saturday, I posted a concert review that I had been working on periodically for a week or so, in between the hectic events of real life. I wanted to fully capture my memories, not just with the few photos that happened to turn out, but in my mind's eye, too. But, for some strange reason, that thread disappeared into the depths of a million others, and since I am not ready to let it go yet, I am going to add it as a blog post so I can always find it.

So, here goes, my memories of Adam....

Having attended the Verizon Center concert of August 4, I can say with all certainty that it was a very diverse and accommodating crowd who gathered to pay homage to the top 10 Idols, from pre-pubescent girls bedecked in sequins to those who should have easily qualified for a senior citizen discount on their ticket price. And, it was more than apparent from the onset that regardless of age, Adam Lambert was the anointed fan favorite, as evidenced by the sheer quantity of glitter, the brisk sale of blue glow sticks and the ear-piercing shrieks of delight every time his image appeared on the big screens flanking either side of the stage.

Through eight "opening acts", the majority of which were wonderfully refreshing and surprisingly good, the growing excitement was undeniable. You could feel it in the air - it was that palpable and that measurable. I, too, applauded and cheered for each performer, enjoying what they brought to the stage far more than I thought I would. But, by the time we reached Danny Gokey, I am not at all remiss in admitting that my applause wasn't as much in appreciation for him as it was because the end of each number denoted that we were that much closer to the arrival of the evening's main attraction, and the sole purpose for my attendance in the first place.

With the stage finally lost in darkness and the first thunderous boom accompanying the flash of a red "A" against the backdrop, the crowd was immediately on its feet. The completion of the "D", "A", "M", interspersed with strobing images of Adam, served to push the audience reaction to its frenetic peak. When the familiar opening guitar riff of Whole Lotta Love erupted, it was met by a crescendo of hands and voices, wildly acknowledging the imminence of his arrival. A solitary beam of blue light glinted off the polished mic stand, and then suddenly he was there, a black gloved hand reaching out to possessively wrap its narrow neck. With a shake of his head, a snarl curling that beautiful mouth, he pulled the mic stand closer and tore with ferocity into "You need coolin", leaving absolutely no question that it was finally show time. This was the magic we had been anticipating all night, the moment we had waited for, the emergence of the one true Glam God in all his glittered glory.

It was at once evident that whatever IT is, and I'm not certain yet that we have been able to put a finger on IT or fully define IT, he has IT. IT radiated from every inch of that lean, leather-clad 6'1" body. IT filled the stage and rendered a cavernous venue such as the Verizon Center at once not sufficient to contain IT. IT was over-flowing, IT was enthralling and IT was absolutely impossible to ignore. There hasn't been, at least not to my recent memory, another like him, so in possession of IT and so seemingly unaware of IT.

He held us in the palm of that black-gloved hand, a spellbound audience more than amenable to follow him where ever he wanted to take us, gyrating into the dripping sex of Whole Lotta Love, through the ethereal eloquence of Starlight, a song which, in my humble opinion, he now owns more so than Muse, to the haunting reprise of Mad World, the last note of which, although drowned in premature screams and applause, was, for those of us close enough to hear it, simply soul touching in its purity. I'm almost certain that hours later, it must have been drifting still somewhere near the rafters of the arena.

Slow Ride, the rock god duet with Allison was equally brilliant, the vocal blending of those two voices a treat to the ear, delivering a rejuvenated version of the classic rock standard that was as playful and exuberant as it was a showcase of power and oh so sexy.

Inspired by Adam's intrinsic artistry, the Bowie classics were completely reworked and so modernly redefined, the set as much a display of his unbelievable vocal theatrics as it was about the litheness of the body and the jubilation of the spirit. He sailed into Life on Mars with authority and passion, all drama to the very tips of his out-stretched fingers, still cloaked in that amazing blue leather coat. Taking pause at the beginning of Fame, he shrugged it from his shoulders and tossed it to the floor and, as though suddenly freed from its constraint, he strutted and pranced across the stage, thrusting and swiveling those remarkably limber hips, captivating from every angle. Changing rhythm again for Dance, he stood center stage, legs marking the beat, arms reaching overhead to clap, counting, one, two, three, four, and commanding us to get up and move with him. It was impossible not to; his unbridled enthusiasm and energy was infectious.

And when that last "DANCE" was finally unleashed in all its upper-register glory, he threw a gloved fist to the heavens and, smiling broadly, his glittered eyes bright and full of life, he disappeared into the chasm of the under-stage, leaving a breathless audience to wonder how their moment of such anticipation could have ended so abruptly. Having waited almost two hours to reach the climax of the evening, in what seemed far less than a New York minute it was over, marked albeit briefly, by equal parts regret and satisfaction.

The cause for my regret was rooted in my own selfishness - there would be no encore performance, no begged-for solo reappearance to follow. But, the satisfaction, I realized, would be with me much longer. I would leave at the end of the night with the knowledge that, even in its brevity, I had just witnessed the attestation of what we had always known in our hearts to be true; that although the American Idol title had gone to someone else, there was no longer any relevance to that fact, no necessity for a title, for here was the emergence of an artist of incredible measure, a bona-fide superstar in the making.

This wasn't the end of the show...not really...the show is only just beginning.