![]() ![]() ![]() Tonight, Murphy has also brought along a hat that suggests both The Handmaid’s Tale and beekeeping, and, for a disco cut called Narcissus, a black honeycombed cowl that makes her look like a microphone on legs.įor all the costume changes and the stagecraft – the gig starts with a camera crew following Murphy backstage – these are not the show’s most memorable takeaways. Apparently, Grace Jones’s seminal 1985 album Island Life had pride of place on the mantelpiece in the front room of a friend’s house, searing itself into the young Murphy’s consciousness.Įven in her Moloko days, she preferred outre get-ups – the sort of thing now thought to be the preserve of Lady Gaga. Those who recall Murphy as the singer of the trip-hop-adjacent 90s dance act Moloko will remember her refusal, back then, to unthinkingly endorse a whole shopping list of “girl singer” cliche – as well as a powerful voice that could uncannily ape the US soul singers who turned up on house tracks. Close your eyes, take away the visuals, and this gig still works as a great night out “Am I incapable of love?” she wonders repeatedly on the throbbing, relentless Incapable. Desire and regret crop up as well, naturally. Murphy has songs about the possibility that we might be living in a simulation. ![]() Murphy’s eulogy for music itself feels like an epiphany of sorts the climax of a set dedicated to working everything out on the dancefloor: heartbreak, curiosity, even abstract ideas. Although a number of female artists have flown the flag for disco and house music over lockdown, this is emphatically not a Dua Lipa gig. “Music! Rrrrah! Music! Music! Music!” she yells. A riot of trippy cartoon visuals throb with colour on a giant screen at the rear. “Rrrrah!” the Irish-born, Manchester- and Sheffield-raised singer growls, as her four-man live band ramp up the pressure behind her. ![]()
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