Ricky seems to be a successful boy-band veteran; he was able to take the faux-conscious pop-veneer of supermarket-accessible eroticism that the managers of Menudo taught him to radiate before he was old enough to drive and somehow implant his own adult consciousness behind it. The efficaciousness of boy-band pseudo-sexuality is nothing to wag a stick at: Somehow, to the wanton fan of any age, a charismatic stage presence means that the performer is possessed of a mature, diabolically supercharged uber-sexuality, and fans respond to the performer as such, even if both fan and performer are barely over 4 feet tall. New Kids on the Block, especially, had a peculiar, sexual, Jesus-like sway over the female species: At the peak of their success, I remember reading an actual newspaper column about how a 3-year-old girl who had been displaying nothing but autistic-like behavior for her entire life was watching a New Kids concert with her older siblings when she suddenly snapped into lucidity, grabbed her mother by the arm and drawled out her first words, her maiden voyage into the English language, a fiery demand: "I want Joe." Joe, of course, being Joe McIntyre, the youngest and shortest of the New Kids. In the early '90s, he was probably single-handedly responsible for more fire-hammers of sexual explosion in the 12-and-under crowd than Elvis and David Cassidy and Mickey Dolenz combined.

Ricky has picked up where that teen nightmare left off, in a lot of ways, and has also claimed the abandoned scepter of John Travolta's Saturday Night Feverishness by pulling off a look that has up to now been regarded as either totally homosexual or ethnically slimy in a sexist way, i.e. get a load of Sergio Valente at the bar over there, ohmigod, who does he think he is? He has resuscitated obvious male sexiness from the way it disgraced itself in the '70s, when it wore open Quiana shirts and gold chains and pants so tight you could see all the veins in its schlong. Young American boy rock stars got too embarrassed to be sexy after Mick Jagger; Ricky has brought the sacred man-fire back to the pop stars in a way that those weepy, drum-beating-in-the-woods, encounter-group guys have been trying to bring it back to their own soft, gutless bellies for the last decade or so, and he deserves some kinda credit.

However.

I was all set to make this a pure Ricky Martin puff piece, and speak of his golden legitimacy and flawless panty-heat, but I just caught a little throwaway interview with him on MTV. Normally, when Ricky speaks, he's all chocolatey corporate cheerleading; for example, when he picked up his World Music Award in Monaco last week: "To all you leaders," he said, presumably meaning World Leaders, "you should take the music industry as an example -- it's all about creating, not destroying." Dumb, but heartfelt. Maybe forgivable.

This time, on the other hand, he gave two spontaneous answers that made me think the Golden Ricky might be more hollow than solid. The love-struck fan-girl interviewer asked him: "Who is your favorite singer and biggest influence?" "Journey. Steve Perry," said Ricky without a beat of hesitation. Oooch.

"Who is the most important person in the world to you, and why?" asked the interviewer.

Ricky then got an un-funny, shrapnel gleam in his big puddly eyes and started mumbling about how he always wanted to invite "his enemies" to dinner, because he wanted to keep them very close. The most important people to Ricky are his enemies? Hmmmm. How much Ricky is Ricky and how much is Memorex? We may never find out, but the Wheel in the Sky Keeps on Tur-nin'. Wo-oh-oah.

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