Some performers wish you to know they can sing like angels and howl like banshees. In fact, so proud are they of their foundation-shaking vocals, they hesitate to allow anything as trivial as a song get in the way.
Anastacia, a purveyor of booming ballads that make Mariah Carey’s Live 8 turn look a triumph of understatement, is one such believer in the uplifting power of pure cacophony. Her vocals are a hollering onslaught, a freight-train of melody chugging straight from her lungs.
What doesn’t come across on Anastacia’s records is her personality. She’s self-deprecating and feisty (and a fighter too, having overcome Crohn’s disease and breast cancer). Close-up, songs that sounded preening and bombastic when lurching from your stereo, feel impassioned and even, perhaps, a little tongue-in-cheek.
Since her initial flurry of hits, five years ago, the 31-year old New York native has been painted as an empowering, feminisied twist on the chin-stroking ‘quality’ rock of Sting and Elton John. Actually, Anastacia is something far more agreeable and preposterous: a Bonnie Tyler for the new millennium.
This is made plain from the opening riff of her Marlay Park show: the performance begins with her vast backing band plunging into a ludicrous soft-metal boogy-woogy.
Half a dozen guitarists appear to share the stage; several wear bandanas and frazzled grins. One cannot rule out their referring to each other as ‘hip cats’ and ‘daddy-o’ at the after-show drinks.
Anastacia eventually surfaces, perched on a balcony and dressed in a billowing jade suit that suggests a Beverly Hills yoga teacher. Before the number has ended, she gives a glimpse of all her tricks: soaring falsetto, booming bass-notes, shrill, shouty bits. You feel breathless just watching.
It’s pretty camp stuff. Yet Anastacia is a likeable mistress of kitsch. Pacing back and forth, she strives for a meaningful connection with her audience. Unfortunately, most have taken advantage of the balmy evening and are reclining, near the back, on inflatable sofas.
Will she call out ‘let me see those arm-chairs in the air?’ Of course, not. We’re at an Anastacia show; the crowd has surrendered its irony and self-awareness at the gate.
Objecting to Anastacia on the basis that her music is tacky and sentimental is rather like staging a one-person boycott of reality television. Really, it’s not going to improve the situation. Resisitence is futile. It’s also pretty stupid.