More about: St Vincent

After a brief but jaw-dropping twenty minutes catching the end of her Glastonbury set, I knew I had to take up an offer to see St Vincent perform again. Texas-born, the multi-instrumentalist, singer and songwriter, aka Annie Clark, is currently touring her Grammy-winning 2021 record ‘Daddy’s Home’. And she is the definition of a spectacle. 

A nine o’clock start, I was eagerly waiting to watch the show at Hammersmith’s Eventim Apollo, which was welcomingly unaccompanied by festival malaise. Whirring Primal Scream engulfed the room as floating pink clouds and a sultry city backdrop towered the stage. It had an almost dystopian ballroom energy; Beauty School dropout gone wrong.

Clark takes the word ‘show’ seriously. Entering on as if to play, then immediately sauntering off, she embraces all the visual drama and irony behind her project. The attention to detail throughout the evening reminds me why live music is as irreplaceable as it is. The night begins with ‘Digital Witness’, and the clouds I thought were pink turn to white as the house lights dim. Defined silhouettes of flares and Clark’s perfectly poised hair assure me that it’ll be a show full of style. “You better fuckin’ believe it, bitch” she exclaims before rolling into ‘Down’. It’s funky and eclectic as expected, and Clark’s extraordinary taste in musicians is showcased. Pianist Rachel Eckroth is boothed up at the back of the stage surrounded by keys and synths galore, as she glitters through the song.

“Oh, London” Clark laments. She addresses the audience properly for the first time, and charmingly tells an anecdote about ordering food. The skit is solidified and as the last word trails, bassist Justin Meldal-Johnsen immediately strikes as the next tune begins. It’s got a variety show energy, with St. Vincent the charismatic compere embracing all art forms. Later on, she tells us of writing for the Great American Songbook during lockdown, and gives a brief rendition of a song about London town. An air of ‘Happy Birthday Mr President’, Clark is hilarious and clearly so loved by her crowd. 

St. Vincent is famously an artist spanning both era and genre. Her consistency has never needed to come solely from her sonic, Clark herself is the coherence. Any change in tone merely feels like the songstress shedding a skin. Her glacé rendition of ‘…At The Holiday Party’ is delivered with patience, and feels a far cry away from the digital latex-laced moments on MASSEDUCTION. I am gently reminded of her unexpected collaboration with Bon Iver on ‘Roslyn’, and more recently ‘Somebody Like Me’.

A performance of ‘Daddy’s Home’ has an overarching nod to sunny 70’s boldness, but is juxtaposed with dark undertones of US motel stench and tattiness. And despite the vintage Cadillac-tinged essence, it all feels rather futuristic. Clark’s menacing tyrannical stares create something of Hunger Games energy when paired with her spoilt teen stomping in ‘Fast Slow Disco’. 

After a roaring sea of applause from the audience, the band return for an encore. Launching with ‘Your Lips Are Red’, I feel I have been plummeted into an 80’s horror film. Eckroth dissonantly clambers across the keys with a crashing but calculated part. The musicians are at the forefront as the lights pulsate a hot red, reminding us of their organ quality. Clark’s zombified backing vocalists hound the players before sashaying into ‘Live The Dream’. The show ends on ‘The Melting of the Sun’, a wholesome tune that feels welcome after being whipped by such gripping turbulence throughout the night. A lengthy introduction to the musicians on stage, the St Vincent team is clearly one of collaboration.

The evening is as much a performance piece as it is a gig. A theatrical show delivered with total elegance, every decision is made with intention yet the timeless feeling of live unpredictability isn’t missing. ‘Daddy’s Home’ feels deeply personal, but St Vincent is a character, and one we can’t permeate. A woman on the edge, she charges through a trope that is so often depicted as hysterical. Her notes turn to screams before contorting into howls, as she unnerves and unleashes primal frustration. Before returning to her guitar with a knowing, contained look. It’s decadent but never indulgent, and I feel nothing but pride in the female ability to roar. St. Vincent is truly a rockstar. 

See photos from Phoebe Fox below:

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More about: St Vincent