A bit of Freddie Mercury, a bit of Wham!, some of Elton’s glitter, heartfelt power ballads, maybe some Flaming Lips big balloon showmanship and effortless, fervent crowd interaction, a Tron jacket, DayGlo clothing, trashcan drumming, a giant teacup, marionettes—you couldn’t really ask for all that in one night out, especially one that gets you home by 10:30? Could you?

Twenty-six-year-old pop star Mika (raised in Beirut and London) strutted, scissor-kicked, wore a DayGlo feather hat and sang high notes all over the place at the Riviera—all the while sincerely convinced that this was the best American audience he’d ever had the pleasure (or “honor”) of dazzling. But I got the feeling he’d dazzled a few. Late in the set, he said his band was playing bigger venues every time it came through “to the surprise even of my record company.” I wouldn’t doubt it—the crowd sang along—and generally freaked out in near Beatlemania-style hysteria to every electricity-charged move he made—and at about 13 moves per second that’s a lot of freaking.
Like someone who’s been practicing pop-star moves in his parents’ full-length mirror since he was out of diapers, Mika seems to design every cut and turn, kick, pop, smile and bit of banter for maximum entertainment. But just as practiced and deftly executed were Mika’s songs—as he soared into vocal stratospheres, cruising the falsetto register, the guy never slipped or struggled. That’s entertainment.

The singer’s ambiguous sexuality plays to a large cross-section of pop fans’ fantasies—young ladies and grown gay men seemed equally enraptured with his dramatic dance pop. One couple arrived at 4:30pm to get a place at stage front. Try finding Mika on the radio and you’ll come up empty—but last night’s gig felt like a sign that this singer’s moment has come—at least in Chicago, his popularity is soaring.

Around 8:30pm, after peeling himself out of a white spacesuit, the slim singer rushed the stage moments later in all-white—probably the greatest stage entrance I’ve seen this year.

Early in the set, “Big Girl (You Are Beautiful)” got the disco dance party going—like Boney M chomping on a plate of baklava—outdoing the entire Scissor Sisters catalog in just a few minutes. Mika opened his suitcase during “Dr. John.” “Blue Eyes,” which has an Afropop rhythm, came soon after—complete with big blue-eyed props. After a marionette interlude, the band threw current single “Blame It On the Girls” at us.

The theatricality included more than Mika’s spacesuit. There was an entrance and exit with a suitcase full of props and designer suit jackets—with a subtle (the only subtlety of the night) reference to the Music Man. And tunes like “Billy Brown,” a flippant pop number about a married guy who falls for another fellow, was particularly theatrical—like a West End musical erupting in the middle of Uptown. Mika’s diva ballad “I See You” came next. With spotlights and strings schmaltzing things up, it might have been a bit too much even for Mika, almost too straight-faced, perhaps, except that it ended with a confetti cannon storm on stage, which made it strangely okay.

The regular keys and bass-heavy set (with Mika taking to electric piano and singing horn solos, increasingly augmented by the female vox of Erika Footman, a.k.a. iMMaSaranayde) climaxed with the magnificent “We Are Golden” from The Boy Who Knew Too Much before Mika took his showman’s suitcase away. Soon he and his five-piece band were back with the less-charming, cabaret-inspired “Toy Boy,” then his should-have-been-a-hit-here U.K. No. 1 “Grace Kelly,” then whacking trash cans for a chaotic farewell “Lollipop.” Mika, like an expert host, threw us out thoroughly dazzled.

The only trouble will be topping show number three the next time around. Maybe Dick Van Dyke has some suggestions for that one.

Photos: Amy Mokris