The Olympia’s grandly decadent art-deco facades might have been built, Taj Mahal like, in her honour. When Alison Goldfrapp strides on stage, perched upon platform boots that would defeat all but the most seasoned drag-artist and looking for all the world like Tamara De Lempicka gone down the disco, you’re compelled and commanded by the performance long before she reaches for her siren’s call.
Tonight, there’s no room for the entire installation – the eroticised, unnerving troops of dancers she costumes with skin lycra, horse’s tails and theatre masks have been left behind. Even Her Royal Highness is drssed down – for her, at least – in black jeans and t-shirt. Only her cerise cape billowing in a wind machine turned all the way up to eleven and bobbing angel curls would allow you to pick her out of an identity parade.
Unsurprisingly, we’re straight into dramatics with Ms. Goldfrapp delivering Kate Bush proportioned vocals over Connery Bond themes that never got made. Over the next hour-and-a-half the Goldfrapp time-machine will jump between a subterranean sixties sound (‘Felt Mountain’) and the seductive Weimar cabaret of ‘Black Cherry’, but mostly (and sometimes literally) we’re loitering beneath a mirrorball.
The five-piece band, (including a guitarist – unimaginable in the early trip-hop years) look as though they’ll be whisked off to a Freddie Mercury party at any moment, while the sound owes much to the operatic electronica of Gary Numan and the glamorama stomp (‘Tiptoe, ‘Satin Chic’ and ‘Ooh La La’ somehow sound more T.Rex than ever).
It’s a party alright, but Alison Goldfrapp, switching between dominatrix cool and flirtatious Marlene giggles never lets you forget who the birthday girl is. If her mesmerising stage presence didn’t get you, the remarkable vocals, always dazzling in intensity and range, would catch you on the bounce. Long before the perfect electro-pop encore (‘Number 1', ‘Strict Machine’ and ‘Black Cherry’ provide the icing on the cake), there’s just no argument.
No wonder Madonna seeks to worship at her feet. And no wonder Alison Goldfrapp is having none of it.