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Hotly tipped in musical blogospheres since late '07, Santogold has taken her time to arrive into the limelight. She's truly there now though - as slots on the notably bookish Newsnight Review and regular 'props' from infamous US showbiz blogger Perez Hilton indicate. In truth it was always going to happen: Santolgold (Santi White) boasts MIA as a chum, Mark Ronson as a supporter and Diplo as a producer.
Having been informed that our ailing heroine has cancelled other UK dates in deference to this one, gratitude later turns to grumpiness after 30 minutes and still no Santogold. She might be achingly hip, but we now have aching hips. Detecting discontent (loud booing is a particular hint), her DJ Darko comes out to pacify the paying public: an odd bevy of blonde beauties, jumpered men with floppy fringes and those of enough years to remember when his Smiths and Sting records first hit the charts.
'Roxanne' is nice, but we want Santogold, and eventually out she bounds. Flanked by two implacable dancers in tight white outfits and fabulously bedecked as ever, she signals to a relieved Darko and quickly launches into a furious versions of 'You'll Find A Way' and ‘L.E.S Artistes’. The peaks are astonishing: no-one else on the current music scene can match Santogold's shrill, pure notes, and most would lose tonsils trying. Up close and personal, her vocals sound even better, enervating and gloriously unfettered.
Between songs, a precocious lad named Liam is invited on stage to demonstrate his freestyle dancing, and a story about label-mate Spank Rock nicknaming narcotics is rather lost in translation. Meantime the fast and furious keep on coming amid a sea of samples, including the sassy rap and catchy chants of 'Shuv It.' "We think you're a joke, shove your hope where it don't shine", sings along Gigwise and the gaggle, between 'ay-yay-yay's from the encouraging ringleader up on stage.
It's not quite as disco-delicious as the red and green lights, glitter, mirrorball and tacky tinsel drapes would have us believe, but the tunes so far have definitely had a radio-friendly slant. But, suddenly, a shift: 'Shuv It' is followed by a grittier, slower effort, with the lights dimmed as if to prove the point. The effect is like when mum used to replace chocolate digestives with the plain old variety. Still plenty nice, but really half the fun.
Things continue thus. 'My Superman' comes next, an dreamy, atmospheric slow-burn punctuated by vitriolic “eh-ehs” and sultry mutters from Santogold. That voice, previously all-conquering and lung-bursting, suddenly seems neutered, occupying a much lower note range. These are finely crafted, quietly exhilarating songs, sure; but Scala is now much stiller, its hordes swaying in admiration rather than wobbling in giddy wonderment, and no longer jabbing fingers in the air. Not that the singer seems to notice, her irresistible grin as broad as before.
So did we wait all night (okay, 45 minutes) for one Santogold, only for two to come along at once? Final song 'Creator' suggests otherwise - as raw and edgy as its recent predecessors, it's also markedly noisier, infected with the shrieking bravado of those initial numbers. "The thrill is to make it up" bellows Santogold, and perhaps that's the point: her songs, and showmanship, represent one constant, free-flowing experiment. Even chocolate digestives can lose their appeal after a while.
