The streets of Brixton are throng with posses of perfectly buffed girls wearing sleek leather jackets, big Gucci sunglasses and clutching Prada handbags. Leaving the station you can't see the usual hordes of travelcard touts and Special Brew brandishing lost souls 'cause the 'bling' shines so damn bright. Yep, Missy's in town.
Outside the Academy hordes of Brixton kids are lined up looking longingly at the door and jealously at those slipping through it. Later they'll make a calculated group rush for it and some will disappear into the crowds inside with bouncers in hot pursuit.
Inside it doesn't even look as though the show is sold out but the celebrity count's high with the entire balcony cordoned off for the wrist-band wearing invitees. After all, the whole of Europe is here to witness Missy Elliott's only live date in the would-be Union. And anticipation is high given that most are yet to experience the live reproduction of this most studio-based of sounds.
When a tracksuit clad Missy takes to the stage with a full band behind her, horrifying visions of a funk lite session band reproduction of Timbaland's beats flood the mind. Then she launches into 'One Minute Man' and it works. In fact, it works better than it ought to. 'Scream AKA Itchin' does too. And then 'Get Ur Freak On' doesn't just work; it jumps off the train and powers around the office taking care of everyone else's business as well as it's own. The crowd, suffice to say, go wild.
The phenomenal 'Lick Shots' almost sounds better in its live interpretation; complete with dancehall roots proudly displayed it takes on a trance-inducing heaviness from the stage. The crowd slip into a kind of religious mantra as they chant the whip crack chorus: "Time to lick shots - Bblaaaaghh!"
And then, with Brixton in the palm of her hand and just a few songs down, Missy effectively calls a halt to the show. At first it seems like an interlude bringing the cultural elements of a good hip-hop show to the proceedings. Three aspiring dancers are plucked from the crowd and brought to the stage to compete against each other and illuminate the brilliance of Missy's own dancers. Mission accomplished. Then it's the turn of the would-be singers to get on stage and try out a bit of open-mic sparring. You sense that we're only just spared a descent into karaoke thanks to a bit of careful talent spotting earlier in the evening.
Missy hosts all of this with not inconsiderable charm and star quality and all humble punters display the necessary sycophancy as they take the stage. At this point we're well oiled to receive some more shots from her mic. 'Beep Me 911' maybe? 'She's A Bitch' or 'Hot Boyz'?
Nope, it's the turn of the aspiring 'rappers' to get up on stage and test their skills. The only antidote to the growing frustration of all this pissing around being the satisfaction of witnessing the infinitely superior skills of a couple of home-grown talents to Missy's own lame 'playas'. Then the sea of heads is parted for our star to take a little wander amongst her people in the crowd, all of whom, we're repeatedly informed, "she loves." Though we're beginning to wonder if she cares enough not to rip them off for £17.50 with only a glorified Letterman performance in return.
And on and on it goes, incredibly, Missy leaving the stage effectively without playing another song and hordes of adoring fans skilfully romanced whilst their pockets are emptied. Had she only rehearsed a few songs? Is America more in thrall to celebrity personality than the music? Did someone tell her that a Brixton gig ought to be like Showtime at the Apollo? Whatever, justice wasn't done to one of the year's most exciting albums and Brixton was short-changed.
