Walking through the shrine to Mammon that is Shepherd Bush's Westfield shopping centre, it wasn't hard to spot my first fellow Paloma Faith fan. Clad in fake leopard skin and skyscraper heels in a delicate teal, she was appropriately turned out for one paying homage to the most glamorous – in a fabulous old Hollywood way – of English songstresses.
Shepherd's Bush Empire, decades past its glitzy best, provided a faded but apt backdrop, and once the supporting act had bounded off, you could almost see the audience checking out the set and pondering the night ahead. A black and white pie slice style stage – rather like King Arthur's roundtable missing its legs – suggested, rightly, that our star would provide the colour, while a mirrored background and splendid Baroque frills added to the anticipation of something a world away from the usual coy girl singers and over processed boy bands.
By the time Faith joined her sharp suited band and Motown-lite singers on stage, the audience was ready to welcome her with a noisy mixture of rapture and reverence. Not many women can carry off a sparkly lemon flying suit, vertiginous red heels and a pair of giant fruit machine style cherries as a headpiece. This one can.
So the performance started long before Faith opened her mouth. But when she did. Oh my. She belted out Stone Cold Sober, and straight away we knew this was one of those rare performances that might even improve on a favourite album. God, that girl can sing. She has one of those voices that swoops, apparently effortlessly, from loud, raunchy and raucous, to ethereal and almost timid. Add great song writing skills, joie de vivre on a big scale, and a stage presence that betrays her burlesque past, and it's easy to see why Faith's audience regards her with the adulation so rarely seen in these cynical times.
Working her way through album Do you want the truth or something beautiful, Faith pranced and slunk around the stage like the 24 year old she is. And at times she looked like nothing so much as a girl who'd rifled through the dressing up box and was just having fun – albeit with the voice of a 70 year old New Orleans chain smoker.
An earlier show had seen Faith pluck a young boy out of the audience, then serenade him with Romance is Dead. Tonight it was the turn of debonair grey haired Larry. Lifted onto the stage, he clambered onto a stool and made the most of his minutes in the limelight, and was rewarded with several kisses from his diva.
An homage to Billie Holiday prompted Faith to change into a gold lame evening stress and matching tassled beret – perhaps another nod to an earlier career – giving the band an backing singers time to shine. But, girlish through and through, she couldn't resist the urge to leap about the stage in her ballgown, delivering a rocking version of the Beatle's You never give me your money.
The encores heralded one final costume change, into a tight, tight, tight blue dress with shoulder pads and a jauntily angled yellow hat. The front of the dress was splashed with sparkly gold brocade, the overall effect one of a sexy pschedelic air stewardess who had trouble climbing steps. Etta James's At last was sung in a shiver-making way, as if it belonged to at least one 24 year old from east London, and the last song of the night, New York, had the audience hollering the chorus as if their lives depended on it.
A great performance – in the true sense of the world – from start to finish. So good that I can't decide whether I want Paloma Faith to achieve bigger things or to stay my secret. I suspect I won't have much say in the matter.
Shepherd's Bush Empire, decades past its glitzy best, provided a faded but apt backdrop, and once the supporting act had bounded off, you could almost see the audience checking out the set and pondering the night ahead. A black and white pie slice style stage – rather like King Arthur's roundtable missing its legs – suggested, rightly, that our star would provide the colour, while a mirrored background and splendid Baroque frills added to the anticipation of something a world away from the usual coy girl singers and over processed boy bands.
By the time Faith joined her sharp suited band and Motown-lite singers on stage, the audience was ready to welcome her with a noisy mixture of rapture and reverence. Not many women can carry off a sparkly lemon flying suit, vertiginous red heels and a pair of giant fruit machine style cherries as a headpiece. This one can.
So the performance started long before Faith opened her mouth. But when she did. Oh my. She belted out Stone Cold Sober, and straight away we knew this was one of those rare performances that might even improve on a favourite album. God, that girl can sing. She has one of those voices that swoops, apparently effortlessly, from loud, raunchy and raucous, to ethereal and almost timid. Add great song writing skills, joie de vivre on a big scale, and a stage presence that betrays her burlesque past, and it's easy to see why Faith's audience regards her with the adulation so rarely seen in these cynical times.
Working her way through album Do you want the truth or something beautiful, Faith pranced and slunk around the stage like the 24 year old she is. And at times she looked like nothing so much as a girl who'd rifled through the dressing up box and was just having fun – albeit with the voice of a 70 year old New Orleans chain smoker.
An earlier show had seen Faith pluck a young boy out of the audience, then serenade him with Romance is Dead. Tonight it was the turn of debonair grey haired Larry. Lifted onto the stage, he clambered onto a stool and made the most of his minutes in the limelight, and was rewarded with several kisses from his diva.
An homage to Billie Holiday prompted Faith to change into a gold lame evening stress and matching tassled beret – perhaps another nod to an earlier career – giving the band an backing singers time to shine. But, girlish through and through, she couldn't resist the urge to leap about the stage in her ballgown, delivering a rocking version of the Beatle's You never give me your money.
The encores heralded one final costume change, into a tight, tight, tight blue dress with shoulder pads and a jauntily angled yellow hat. The front of the dress was splashed with sparkly gold brocade, the overall effect one of a sexy pschedelic air stewardess who had trouble climbing steps. Etta James's At last was sung in a shiver-making way, as if it belonged to at least one 24 year old from east London, and the last song of the night, New York, had the audience hollering the chorus as if their lives depended on it.
A great performance – in the true sense of the world – from start to finish. So good that I can't decide whether I want Paloma Faith to achieve bigger things or to stay my secret. I suspect I won't have much say in the matter.
No comments:
Post a Comment