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