Marc Anthony stands at the foot of the stairs backstage at the AmericanAirlines arena, jumping from one foot to another, like a boxer, feet clad in black, patent shoes, his frame slim under a starched white shirt, black tailored pants and a fitted tux jacket.
He stares at the floor, at nothing, adjusting his black aviators, dimly aware of the deafening din outside—the roar of 15,000 people who have paid good money for the second of his two sold-out shows kicking off his “Vivir Mi Vida”tour—but focused now only on the music, on the cue from the 14-piece band that is already onstage. He hears it and his head snaps up. Anthony briefly raises his hand to touch the silver rosaries around his neck and blesses himself—in the name of the father and the son and the Holy spirit—kisses his thumb, and climbs up the stairs onto the stage.
He stands there for what seems an eternity, until the roar has subsided just a touch, and then he begins to sing. There are no dancers, no special effects, no moving sets. It’s just him, alone, with a microphone, his band and the tiers of LED screens and the lights behind him and the crowd in front, and there are no distractions between him and them, this slip of a man—5 feet seven inches, 120 pounds, size 0—with a torrent of a voice who with the flick of a finger commands the band and the crowd, conducts them like the best symphony orchestra, makes them bend to his will for over two hours—makes them dance, sing, hush--until they are as delirious, as sweaty, as exhausted as he is.