With all the sweaty love pulsing around the O2 tonight, it’s easy to forget that Beyoncé has suffered her fair share of criticism since she last appeared on the Irish stage. From bizarre allegations that she faked her own pregnancy, to the hostile backlash after she lip-synched America’s National Anthem at Obama’s inauguration to hoity accusations that she had no right to self-identify as a feminist in a recent Vogue interview, the world has frequently been less than polite to her.
I believe that there is no better answer to those questions than the evidence of my good friend and Mrs. Carter Show companion Karen, who confessed, a few minutes before curtain-up, that she didn’t really “get” the whole Beyoncé “thing” – and then went on to spend the best part of the next two hours digging her nails excitedly into my palm, elbow and shoulder.
I’ve yet to see someone not fall to pieces when Beyoncé is performing, so all-consumingly potent is her blissed-out presence and so dumbfoundingly wide-ranging her skills. Bringing energy, ferocity, musicality and co-ordination (turns out, there isn’t a more glamourous word to describe a woman who can spontaneously adjust the on-stage lighting while two-stepping and changing key), she’s a truly matchless performer, a hair-flicking, piano-climbing, note-busting, air-kicking, booty-popping, skirt-whipping, band-leading, horse-playing stick of dynamite.
The Mrs. Carter Show was not a perfect Beyoncé gig (I would have happily traded some hammy ballads, including an ill-advised ‘Bittersweet Smyphony’/‘If I Were A Boy’ mash-up, for more uptempo numbers like Jackson 5-esque stomper ‘Love On Top’ and the deliciously catty ‘Why Don’t You Love Me’), but it was perfectly delivered, and, given that its ringleader is among the most crowd-pleasing artists currently operating in the business, surprisingly edgy.
Whether echoing Tina Turner in full ‘Nutbush City Limits’ mode or plunging her hand into the multiple clasps of her adoring crowd, Mrs. Carter was never too polished or too goddess-like, despite what the artsy, royal-themed interludes might have you believe. Effortlessly navigating fire, confetti cannons and spark-shooting guitars, she even remembered Ireland’s penchant for a round of ‘Olé Olé Olé’, which, when you think about it, has to be the most confusing thing an American pop star can hear.
Even by the standards of a women who appears to be constantly out-doing herself, Beyoncé delivered one wildly impressing feat after another. There is nothing, I repeat nothing, that this woman can’t do.