It’s raining rods. Long, cylindrical, glowing rods, hard enough to stay straight but soft enough so that they feel good to squeeze. The rods have a inner core containing a liquid glowstick, or maybe a couple LEDs, and they’re covered with a spongy, foam-like material. The Axe girls, who handle the rods, toss them from the second floor balcony off the right side of the Majestic floor. They toss two, three, sometimes four rods at a time, and the luminescent, footlong rods flap through the air and slap the heads of the audience below. Girls and guys alike crane their necks, momentarily distracted from Diplo. And then, as if by instinct, everybody reaches skyward and waves their rods in the air.

I’d guess it took most people less than four minutes, on average, of bumping through the crowded, terraced floor levels of the Majestic to raise their eyes to the celling and witness the big projection above the stage, though I’d also guess they’d claim it took longer. The screen, which Axe made the centerpiece of their free One Night Only Concert last Tuesday in Madison, is meant to entice the audience — the entire social media generation — to interact, by offering them a tiny bit of spotlight while allowing deniability that they’ve done it for the benefit of an ad campaign. Like a recognizable shape hidden yet outlined behind stretched cloth, the payoff is obvious, but the temptation to reach out is tenfold greater.

Here’s what I mean: The screen keeps a carefully curated live-feed of tweets, check-ins, updates and photos rotating through, more or less in real time. This is fair enough, since all tickets to the show were completely free and provided by Axe, despite the fact that a paired Chiddy Bang and Diplo ticket would otherwise settle into the high-middle market of Madison campus-area ticket prices: More expensive than Cake, probably, but likely cheaper than Bassnectar. It’s all part and parcel of the One Night Only tour’s M.O. — a calculated decision that the best short-term marketing strategy for Axe is to bypass the extremely limited financial capital of their target market in favor of their social capital, which is virtually unbound.

Since I was live-tweeting the event anyway (through the ArtsEtc. Twitter account), I thought I’d give it a whirl. The result: “@AXE has a projected screen with all tweets from the concert carrying the #AXEOneNightOnly hashtag.” Within minutes it was up on the board, followed by a response from Axe’s account to the effect of: “You guys see that? Better get to tweeting!” Call it a barely concealed measuring stick for the virility of Axe’s brand, the only concealment a thin layer of self-promotion for the people doing the tweeting. I can say with near certainty that if I were to have my own twitter account I would never tweet at Axe. Yet seeing the ArtsEtc. handle up there was downright intoxicating; objective journalism became suddenly difficult with all that blood rushing to my phone.

That said, One Night Only was a blast. Lunice made waves with the early crowd, but didn’t bring enough energy to get the floor truly in motion until he unleashed a remix of a Drake song toward the end of his set. From there, his performance was a legitimate small show unto itself, the first floor of The Majestic swaying as his beats unspooled unhurriedly through the speakers.

The energy rose noticeably with Chiddy Bang’s performance. Complete with live drummer and armed with name recognition probably exceeding Diplo’s (with the assembled crowd, obviously no one given full information, would rank Chiddy Bang’s resume higher than Diplo’s) the duo burst onto the stage, Chiddy rapping “Breakfast” from the debut album of the same name with an edge not present in his recorded verses. It was evident that Chiddy, at least, was pumped for the show, though there was a weird lack of interaction between he and Xaphoon Jones. Still, when you close with “Ray Charles” and “Opposite of Adults,” in front of a room that snuck drinks in the dorms to the strains of Oracular Spectacular, suffice it to say you’ll go over well.

Diplo was tremendous. I was a little premature with the details — I swear I’ve never tweeted like that before — but since it’s already been reported, that’s probably the best way to sum up the concert’s two best moments:

• BH_Arts: Diplo jumps from balcony, briefly dropped, bounces back pic.twitter.com/jTl2iwDO
• BH_Arts: Diplo now just straight up drinking champagne on stage. To his own beat, “Look at me now.” Seems fair. #axeonenightonly

I know, I know. That hashtag says volumes.

But how’s this for objective journalism — I don’t use Axe products. Earlier that night, after toweling off from the shower, I applied a mist of Old Spice. Pure Sport scent, if you must know. The commercials may be different, but spray deodorants for guys are all cut from the same cloth, right down to the hand-sized cans toped with silo-like domes. Phallic, you might say, if you’re looking for it. 

I threw on a shirt and headed out the door with the girl I was taking to the show. We spent the walk up to the Majestic trying to figure out what exactly would motivate a company to throw a free concert with no lead time and a venue announced day-of. Twitter followers? Facebook friends? Surely it’s not the size of your online presence that matters, it’s what you do with it — the motion of the social media ocean, so to speak. Since I hadn’t waited in line for passes (my gilded life as an ArtsEtc. Editor: Free free tickets!), I’d not seen Axe’s full campaign for the tour. The flags adorned the balconey rail: Beneath a hybrid guitar/female torso, reading, “Axe One Night Only: Who you gonna bring?”

Remember that old marketing truism about how sex sells? It’s, famously become part of a larger quote: “Sex sells in advertising sells, but only if it’s sex you’re selling.” Diplo closed out his show with a balls-out series of remixes, bouncing from Kanye and Jay-Z’s “N—– in Paris” to ACDC’s “Thunder” to Lundacris’ “What’s your Fantasy,” then slowed it down for “Midnight City” by M83. 

The promo-liquor bottle wielding stage girls had long since found their way back to floor level when the unmistakable a cappella yelp of Justice emanated from the speaker wall. “We Are Your Friends,” is a hell of a way to close out a show, but upon reflection it may have been a little off message for Axe to send sweaty, grinding pairs off into the night on such a platonic note. I left with the same girl I came with, each of us clasping a plastic gift bag full of men’s hygiene products.

But I don’t blame those incongruent capstones to the night for for not getting laid. Whatever the moral implications (it’s easy to rag on an ad campaign, but a quality secret concert in the best venue in Madison? That’s a great thing!) Axe was clearly trying their hardest to wingman for me — for all guys in attendance — in hopes that we’d wingman right back and help them close the deal with that sultry, sexy social media demographic. Everything was set up perfectly: The glowing, cylindrical innuendo was there, the aphrodisiacal bass, the just-flirty-enough-to-cause-a-twinge-of-jealousy Axe girls, the dancing, the Orpheum bar, the 1:00 a.m. end time, everything. That all left just one piece of the puzzle, one possible thing I could have been missing.

Shouldn’t have worn that fucking Old Spice.