The home of indie and rock has been invaded by the infidel. Bouncers warn us there’s a smoke ban, the bar is busy not crowded and the queue for the ladies snakes around the building. We’re in over 30s territory where navel flashing is a no-go and piercings and tattoos are well covered up. No wackiness and nothing out of the ordinary if you don’t mind. What did you expect?
For well over an hour, it’s clear that Florian Cloud De Bounevialle Armstrong expected more than this. Often cited as lacking some oomph (ok, a lot of oomph), Dido’s gone to the trouble of jazzing-up her repertoire for this week’s residency lording over her hometown crowd. She also appears to have selected well from the catalogue of session musicians who bolster her note-perfect vocals with a surprisingly funky cushion of rhythm that makes the atmosphere more carnival than dinner party. And her down to earth cockney banter belies her prim-and-proper image - "It’s funny being up here on stage. I’ve thrown up in those toilets many times," she unashamedly informs us. "And I got beaten up by a girl here once."
Despite these shocking confessions there’s muted appreciation for practically the entire show. She must have wondered if there was anybody out there. Or maybe she’s used to playing to a crowd who’ve grown out of ‘letting go’ or who were never that bothered in the first place. They’re just content to stand and watch, hug/snog/stroke their partner at opportune moments and get mildly excited when they’ve finally got a bit tipsy. It might sound clichéd but its true. Pity the director overseeing tonight’s DVD recording who’ll be busy superimposing wild crowd scenes for days to come.
But Dido’s probably too nervous to notice. Never the most comfortable on stage, at least she’s more at home in a smoky nightclub or graceful theatre. No-one questions her undoubted talents as a singer but as a performer she looks awkward, rhythm-less and almost disconnected. Sure she rocks out and show’s genuine emotion at times but there’s zero chemistry with the hired hands who, despite a polished arena sound, badly over-egg their part (yes, we’re talking about you, Mr Bongo Soloist).
Considering she only has two albums worth of material to draw on, the set is varied enough. Problem is, the sublime "Here With Me" and pumping "Take My Hand" are readily countered by the spirited if unadventurous "Hunter" and the lame "Life For Rent". "Thank You" has the desired effect of a pack of Pro Plus but these moments are few and far between.
Dido’s hampered partly by her audience’s apathy, partly by her lack of showmanship and partly by the tempo of her music. She does nothing wrong but knows playing live won’t make or break her career. Her audience will still worship the CD versions (and will prefer them) while she’s free to scurry back to the anonymity of the studio – an arrangement that conveniently suits everyone.
