The last couple days seemed like they were spent running all over California putting out fires, solving problems, and making decisions.  It was kind of nuts.  But at the end of it, I was reminded of something I’ve been meaning to share with you, dear reader.

Lately, if I’m getting kind of depressed, or thinking things aren’t going well, or that we are all completely doomed, I’ve gotten much comfort and psychological release by watching Corey Feldman concert/live performance/what-have-you videos.  There’s something deeply cathartic about seeing a grown man throw himself into the tar pit of public humiliation with the sincerity of a first-grader showing off their macaroni art.  Feldman on stage is a spectacle so awkward it transcends cringe and lands somewhere in the realm of performance art.  Except the performance here isn’t intentional.  It’s like he’s both unaware and immune to the schadenfreude he triggers, a modern Icarus soaring on wings constructed entirely from false confidence and dollar-store glitter.

There’s no need to sugarcoat this.  Watching Corey Feldman crash through his Michael Jackson, rock-star fantasy feels like scratching an emotional itch.  It’s like seeing every embarrassing mistake you’ve made in your life, only televised and equipped with bad choreography.  For your consideration – and perhaps your morbid delight – here are my top five most skull-curdling moments from Feldman’s apocalyptic concert video collection, in no particular order:

1. “Here he comes…the Comeback King!”  The chanting.  Oh sweet lord, the chanting.  So just before his show is supposed to start, Corey sends the poor hapless bastards that comprise his band out on stage to attempt to lead the audience in a chant “to get Corey to come out.”  One has to feel sorry for these band members…they’ve been bouncing around L.A. trying to get big gigs as session players or, anything, really, and they finally get the call: a regular, paying gig.  But it’s in the backing band for Corey Fucking Feldman.  Shit!  Can you imagine?  Of course they’re going to take the gig…you don’t turn down work in L.A….a gig is a gig.  But this gig means going out on stage on the patio of some low-rent beer garden in North Hollywood and trying to get the people who have paid some nominal fee to see what the hell Corey Feldman’s doing these days, and the band members have to basically cajole the audience into chanting, “Here he comes…the Comeback King” over and over.  The band chants it over and over, waiting for the crowd (such that it is) to join in.  They don’t.  They never do.  Instead, what they get is scattered pity applause from a crowd of approximately seventeen people (including venue staff), most of whom look like they were lured in with free drink coupons.  Free drinks!  “Come on,” the poor lead singer whines, “let’s get Corey to come out.”  No effect.  It’s a trainwreck wrapped in a fantasy wrapped in $12 FedExed charisma.
2. So Corey eventually comes out onto stage, and the tens of people there cheer half-assedly.  But those cheers are almost immediately silenced when Corey starts shutting the band down a full five seconds into their set, shouting, ‘Start over!  Start over!  C’mon guys…”  Somewhere in the wasteland of Corey’s mind, there lives this bizarre idea that if a song starts badly, he can just stop it, snap his fingers, and have fate itself do a do-over.  The band look at each other, then at Corey, then back at each other as they kind of shrug and start playing again.  Watching it feels like being at a séance except the only ghost conjured is his career, and it refuses to stay dead.
3. Soon he launches into his rendition of “Cry Little Sister,” from the Lost Boys Soundtrack (which movie Corey was in back in the mid-80s).  He heads to the mic to start singing, but misjudges the space between the mic and his face, and WHAM.  His face meets the microphone on a tragicomic slow-motion collision that somehow feels inevitable (and also like something directly out of Spinal Tap).  The moment hangs there for a second, like the universe itself pausing to consider if Feldman deserves this.  Spoiler again…he does.  He actually says, “Ow,” and then tried to continue the song, with the precision and grace of a bird smacking into a glass door.
4. Thriller, with no thrills.  Here’s where Corey’s pathology breaks new ground.  With a wardrobe that looks like the clearance bin from Spirit Halloween and over-choreographed moves straight out of a middle school talent show, Feldman attempts to resurrect the gilded ghost of Michael Jackson.  The moonwalks are less “gliding on air” and more “dragging a reluctant dog across linoleum.”  To call it an homage is an insult to homages.  It is actually far beyond derivative.  It’s like watching someone mime their own midlife crisis to a bad cover of “Billie Jean.”  If MJ’s spirit is out there, it’s rolling its spectral eyes so hard it’s affecting the tides.
5. Feldman once decided – because of course he did – that he should rise above the stage clad in an angel costume with wings so cheap they looked like they were assembled from dollar-store placemats.  Suspended by what I can only assume were the same wires used for high school theater productions, he floated just high enough to make it awkward but not convincing.  Combine that with his dead-eyed expression as he yelped lyrics about “saving the children” or some such shit…it was just awful.  At this point, not only did I pity his band, but I almost started to pity him, hanging there like your grandpa’s ball bag.

This is a man who took his status as a beloved ’80s movie icon and chose to weave it into a tapestry of unchecked “musical” hubris.  And he’s the kicker – it’s not even mean to roast him like this.  The man seems impervious, an invincible cringe titan, trucking along, dream intact, as if sheer determination will one day form it into a coherent reality.  You almost – almost – have to admire that kind of kamikaze commitment.
For me, Corey Feldman’s live performances remain a monument to the human ability to fail spectacularly while refusing to quit.  And there’s something beautiful about that, in the same way watching a dumpster fire is beautiful.  Yes, it’s absolute chaos, but damn if it isn’t hard to look away.

N.P.: “Paint It Black” – The Tea Party