Live
< Bjork at Hammersmith Apollo
words by Kate Hutchinson
Resistant luminary. Unnecessary eccentric. Unfathomable songstress. Or perhaps the most fascinating, awe-inspiring and peerlessly gifted artist ever to open her mouth. Whatever your opinion of the primordial pop empress, Björk’s live show is unquestionably an extraordinary event. It’s the first time the Icelandic star has played London in four years. At this, the first date of her national sold out tour, fans are so eager to hear her that they verge on belligerent.
As giant, animal-adorned, day-glo banners unravel from the ceiling and matching flags flicker, a hush falls over Hammersmith Apollo, only to be annihilated by rapturous screeching when the ten-strong all-girl brass troupe (Björk’s guest noise makers) and, finally, the vision herself, storm through the striking red lighting onto the stage.
They fire up ‘Earth Intruders’ with criminal force, Björk’s high fashion costume causing jaws to fall open. The sound is crystalline as the pulsating heartbeats and discordant synths of ‘Hunter’ scurry out and the singer shoots ribbons, Spiderman-like from batons in her hands, running across the stage so they flare in the air behind her.
She gushes with uncontained excitement at tonight’s ‘guests’ – but with her long time collaborator Mark Bell (aka Warp’s mind-bending beats manipulator LFO) confirmed on laptop duties and free jazz/bebop drummer Chris Corsano looking after the rhythm, the mind wonders as to who she’s got under wraps.
Broadsheet romantics described Björk’s performance in all its tranquil beauty, but did they sleep through the ear canal crumbling electro intermission? Apparently so. Bell injects his stomping rave track ‘Freak’ into a stunning rendition of ‘Hyperballad’ amidst a blinding light show while her keyboardist and general knob twiddler, Allan Pollard, punches the air. Green lasers skim the audience’s heads and suddenly the dumbstruck punters pogo relentlessly. Coupled with ‘Army of Me’, it’s a call back to her early days before her avant-garde eccentricities planted their roots, but then she floats back into the ethereal delicacy of ‘The Anchor Song’, backed by warm brass that darts and flits.
For those who had witnessed this show at Glastonbury, the acid rave pagan style that Björk currently hones is little new. But a surprise shows itself in gentle giant Anthony Hegarty who emerges from the wings to sing a rather awkward duet with Björk, ‘The Dull Flame of Desire’. They serenade not each other but survive in their own separate entities on stage, Hegarty cloaked in black, yeti-like, his creamy baritones quivering over a bassy soundscape.
As closer ‘Declare Independence’ trumpets and marches erratically, you can’t help but feel you are witnessing Shephard Fairey’s post-modern dictatorship sprung to life in Technicolor with a pop star commanding the legions. And we feel elated to be held under her tyranny.
Photography by Mic Wernej
Originally appeared in volume 2, issue 1 of Loud & Quiet magazine
