Stevie Wonder (photo credit the internet and clipart)

Allow me to put this in first person, because I can’t guarantee my fellow CityLifers feel the same way. I don’t always understand the point having a massive celebration for New Year’s Eve. It seems like one of those holidays that made more sense to celebrate during a historical period where making it another year actually was a HUGE deal. But now, with our relatively longer lifespans, few thousand documented years on Earth and way fewer plague rats, it sort of seems like the occasion spiraled out of control. “But this year was really shitty and I need a fresh start!” (Boo hoo. Kids in Darfur, buddy.) “But now when I write the date I end it with a two instead of a one!” (Yeah. Think about that for a minute.)

But last night, we were able to disregard the Valentine’s Day levels of unimportance. Because friggin’ Stevie Wonder played at Cosmopolitan’s Chelsea Ballroom. And I was going, hot date on arm.

After settling in at the lounge bar and drinking a couple particularly awful New Year’s Eve-themed cocktails, 11:15 p.m. rolled around and we watched the artist formerly known as Little Stevie Wonder saunter onstage playing a keytar, leading his screaming, well-dressed, mature old audience through “How Sweet It Is (to be Loved by You).”

Something that needs to be said about Stevie Wonder. For a guy who’s moving a little slower, and whose puka-shelled braids start further back on his head these days, the guy still plays like a 25-year-old (he’s 61). During a keytar solo, he got down on his knees at the edge of the stage before falling on his back, half-turning in circles, half-arching his back like so many hair-metalers after him. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was up at a double-decker keyboard setup, doing the classic Stevie move: The neck-centric bob ‘n’ weave (which he couldn’t keep himself from doing throughout “Master Blaster (Jammin’)”).

And from there, he opened the heavy-hitter flood gates. “We Can Work It Out.” “Uptight.” “Do I Do.” “ Building heavier and heavier until a minute before the ball drop (when he thought someone said “five” instead of “50,” and dropped a ball of his own 45 seconds before the actual one. But we gave him a pass on that).

After that, he plowed through Motown classics and drum-heavy jam sessions (his band was, without question, the best backing band I’ve seen all year. Maybe the tightest, most in-the-pocket stops and stabs I’ve seen in my life), guiding the audience through funk/soul history with “Living for the City,” “Don’t You Worry ‘Bout a Thing” (a song we bet, across town, John Legend was playing, too), “Signed, Sealed, Delivered,” “My Cherie Amor” … you get the point. (“ISN’TSHELOVELYIWISHSUPERSTITIOUS.” Sorry.)

He was killing it. Just slaughtering a group of behaved Las Vegans and partyboys who probably meant to go to Marquee. The only irritating part of the whole thing was Stevie welcoming Tyrese (yep, that one) to the stage — where he proceeded to shoot video with his iPhone, muck up the words to “Superstitious,” and cheer himself on. This particular act of celebrifuckery reminded me of a theory I developed back when 2 Fast 2 Furious came out: Tyrese ruins everything.

As 1:30 rolled around and folks started clearing the floor, Stevie rounded everything out with an incredibly long, musically hubristic rendition of “Happy Birthday.” He said it to Tyrese, whose dumb ass was still playing with his iPhone. He said it to the audience, which cheered. He said it to time, which probably appreciated the shout-out from one of the most influential and copied artists ever. And it made me a little more accepting of celebrating something as mundane and assured as a change in calendar date. So thank you, Stevie Wonder, for helping me drink the Kool-Aid and wile away the time with the few hundred conservatively partying party animals (including the singer Brandy and the kid who plays Jean Ralphio on Parks and Recreation) in the Chelsea Ballroom. I won’t forget it. Sorry I can’t say the same about you, Tyrese.