Lianne La Havas’s newest album, a self-titled 
record of anthems and lullabies, is perfectly 
representative of herself as an artist. The collec-
tion of 12 songs firmly defines her ingenuity as a 
singer-songwriter, encapsulating her chamele-
onic musical aptitude through the ebb and flow 
of a lilting guitar. Even in the most brash and 
declarative moments on the album, La Havas’s 
supreme control and calm when navigating the 
most climactic emotions is an astounding feat. 
In the past, you could have compared her 
to a lot of fellow soulful singer-songwriters, 
but with this release, the musician has pushed 
herself to the highest echelon of creativity. 
Lianne La Havas is the distillation of years in 
the business for the singer, and her dues have 
finally been paid — you can feel her heart in 
each word, reaching out for you to join her in 
a closer look at life, love and all the gray confu-
sion in between. 
In the five years since La Havas’s last full-
length release, Blood, our world has been 
turned upside down and inside out in every 
way imaginable. The singer captures this chaos 
within the bubble of her own experience, creat-
ing a case study in turmoil, emotional and phys-
ical, matched with the incredible beauty of her 
songwriting. Letting the waves of life roll over 
her, La Havas does not shy away from dark-
ness or honesty throughout the record, provid-
ing her listener with a prismatic view of a love 
affair gone sickly-sweet. 
On “Bittersweet,” the brightest point of the 
album, La Havas counters the raspy sensual-
ity of each verse with a euphoric embrace of 
the refrain’s melancholy. “No more hanging 
around,” she sings, and the lilting guitar bursts 
forward into an explosion of percussion, vocals 
reaching new heights. Slower, more introspec-

tive tracks like “Green Papaya” and “Paper 
Thin” add a diary-like quality to the record, 
offering the listener insight into the intimate 
moments of her life. 
Beyond anything else, La Havas’s newest 
material depicts the push and pull of self-doubt 
in striking clarity, whether it is an irresistible 
love in “Can’t Fight” or the flirtatious ques-
tioning of “Read My Mind.” The songwriter’s 
woven melodies and shifting chord structure 
illustrate the slippery slope of love just as well 
as her lyrics, mediating the outside world’s 
frenzy with a spiraling interiority of her own. 
But despite the status of these songs in limbo 
between her brain and a potential audience, La 
Havas still feels grounded in an awareness of 
herself. Even on the brink of losing herself in 
the music, the singer always pulls back to real-
ity, showing us how beautiful it can really be. 
Listening to Lianne La Havas is like taking a 
Magic-School-Bus-style journey into the inner-
most memories of the album’s creator, as snip-
pets of joy and frustration peek through mellow 
soundscapes. She makes everything her own, 
highlighting new facets of covers like Radio-
head’s “Weird Fishes” with a level of class and 
meticulous arrangement that has become her 
trademark. The record percolates La Havas’s 
thoughts and emotions through a filter of musi-
cal wisdom only she could provide.
Though this is La Havas’s third record, in 
many ways it seems like a reclamation of self, 
a debut-do-over of sorts. With this release, the 
songwriter consistently redefines the unique 
style that put her on the map in the first place 
— her skilled blues guitar, cheeky British 
vocalizations and soulful lyrics — with a more 
mature and lived-in perspective. It’s almost like 
we’re meeting her all over again, and it’s a joy 
to experience. 

7

The last time I was in a theatre was an 
oddly outstanding experience. It was Feb. 29 
— leap year Saturday — and I was nestled in 
one of the 2,256 red velvet seats of London’s 
Royal Opera House. That morning, I had 
crawled off the cramped seat of a transat-
lantic flight that had brought me there from 
Detroit and napped only briefly in my friend’s 
apartment. By the time the lights dimmed 
and the orchestra finished tuning, the jet 
lag had already made my eyes heavy and my 
body limp. Nevertheless, my mind stayed 
sharply awake: I had saved and splurged for 
a week-long Spring Break adventure, and the 
only available day to see the Royal Ballet was 
the evening that I got there. I was not going 
to waste it. I bought the cheapest tickets and 
got to the opera house a full hour-and-a-half 
early. 
It was only upon opening the program that 
I realized I had unknowingly purchased tick-
ets to the retirement performance of Thiago 
Soares, a dancer I had been watching on You-
Tube for years. When the show ended, sup-
porters threw buckets of flowers onto the 
stage until the brown flooring was impossible 
to delineate from the white and yellow rose 
petals. I stood watching until the absolute 
end, so tired I could barely stand but still not 
wanting to leave. 
At the time, I didn’t realize that this would 
be the last time I stood in a theatre for what 
will likely become over a year. I didn’t real-
ize that it would only be a few days before 
the Royal Opera House closed in response 
to dangers regarding COVID-19. By the time 
I flew back to Michigan a week later, people 
were already wearing masks on their faces 
with panic in their eyes. But my ignorance of 
the sudden changes ahead did not decrease 
my perception of the extraordinary present: 
The shift in time zones and leap year calen-
dar date were backdrops to the unannounced 
floral show and the sheer insanity of my feet 
on the Royal Opera House floor. Looming 
pandemic aside, I knew this experience was 
singular and special. 
Friday, I saw the Royal Opera House again. 
This time it was on my TV, because the com-
pany streamed a complete recording of “The 
Sleeping Beauty.” I sat on the couch in sweat-
pants underneath the warmth of two blan-
kets and watched the entire two-and-a-half 
hour show. The music was beautiful, the cos-
tumes exquisite, the dancers delightful. But 
the opulence was, of course, not the same. 
“The Sleeping Beauty” is a ballet full of 
tricks, especially for Princess Aurora, here 
played by Fumi Kaneko. In the first act, the 
princess makes an explosive entrance only 

to be followed by the long and luscious Rose 
Adage, a dance with four suitors that is, 
undramatically, one of the hardest six min-
utes of a ballerina’s career. The scene is a mar-
athon of brute strength masked by delicate 
grace that culminates in a set of balances atop 
one pointe shoe. The suspense of the whole 
endeavour makes it a performance especially 
well-suited for live audience. The balance is 
so difficult that it’s impossible to predict the 
ballerina’s success — instead, you sit helpless 
in the audience, willing her to succeed. The 
first time I sat in a dark theatre and watched a 
dancer step into her Rose Adage balance, my 
heart raced and my breathing became short. I 
felt intrinsically involved in her work. 
On my TV, Kaneko hit each balance sol-
idly. She even held the last one for an extra-
impressive second before finishing to roaring 
applause. But my heart rate didn’t spike; I 
knew the Royal Opera House wouldn’t stream 
a performance with a faulty Rose Adage. The 
recording was too safe to be exciting. Plus, I 
was on my couch — there was a distinct lack 
of red velvet and golden lighting. The magic 
just wasn’t there. 
At the show’s first intermission — on You-
Tube merely treated as a short pause and a 
repeated request for donations — I picked up 
my phone and absentmindedly allowed my 
thumbs to take me to Instagram. Then, on 
the Royal Opera House’s account, I read that 
Kaneko had only learned she was cast in this 
performance the morning of the recording. 
She knew the role from past runs, but in this 
instance she had less than a day to prepare. 
What a detail! The behind-the-scenes excite-
ment suddenly piqued my interest. I thought 
about those balances again: How many times 
had she been able to practice? How many 
rehearsals did she have in that tutu? When 
the second act started, I felt more anticipa-
tion than before. Sure, I knew she’d land her 
turns and sustain her extensions, but instead 
I could take advantage of the up-close camera 
angle and look at her face and eyes. I imag-
ined what she might be thinking, how her 
day’s chaos may have unfolded. 
The amount of prep time a dancer has is 
not something that would ever be written 
in a performance’s program, nor would it be 
announced over a loudspeaker before the 
overture’s first notes. In the world of live per-
formance, such details do not matter — when 
the curtain lifts, the world pauses. Asterisks 
about how one’s day went are less interesting 
than artists who can suspend reality. Over 
a screen, though, things feel a lot different. 
Context matters — in fact, it helps. 

Thursday, July 30, 2020
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com ARTS

SUMMER SERIES
SUMMER SERIES

CLARA SCOTT
Daily Arts Writer

MUSIC REVIEW
MUSIC REVIEW

ZOE PHILLIPS
Managing Arts Editor

Context in quarantine 
performance of dance

Lianne La Havas’ new 
album is masterful

Read more at michigandaily.com
Read more at michigandaily.com

