culture

Florence And The Machine’s Show Borders On Spiritual

By Aaron Scott (OPB)
Oct. 26, 2015 9:12 p.m.

Florence Welch knows how to strike a pose. She also knows how to whip a crowd into an ecstatic frenzy, whirl like a dervish, conduct thousands in a sing-along, make the Memorial Coliseum feel intimate, throw herself to the ground, exult love with earnestness, and lay her hands on fans’ faces like a Pentecostal preacher. To say nothing of actually singing. That voice.

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In other words, Florence and the Machine’s Memorial Coliseum concert on Saturday bordered on a religious experience.

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From the opening moment, when Welch entered the coliseum by walking slowly along the front row, embracing the audience with the house lights on, it was clear this wasn’t going to be an arena concert dependent on flashing lights, flashy videos and fancy stages. Instead, the crowd’s roar built with each second Welch remained silent, slowly ascending to the stage, barefoot in a white silk, bell-bottomed jumpsuit. Finally, just when it seemed the audience couldn’t get any louder, Welch threw one hand to the sky, the house lights dropped, the first note of “What the Water Gave Me” blared, and the frenzy erupted.

She followed “What the Water” with “Ship to Wreck,” the first single from her new album. Then she said, “this one needs a choir: can we sing this together?” before conducting the entire audience in a barn-burning “Shake It Out.”

And so the night went: every time it seemed Welch’s performance had reached its zenith, she ascended another notch.

The showmanship was delightfully old school, Welch equal parts Mick Jagger and Billy Graham. The stage was set like the Ed Sullivan show, the band dressed in suits on red circular raisers, an array of vintage movie lights fanning out between them and a backdrop of shimmering, rippling silver squares. And for once, the band wasn’t all boys: three of the female back-up singers doubled as the horn section (or more likely, it was the other way around).

But don’t mistake old school with tired: Welch never stopped moving. She skipped, spun, pranced and ran across the stage, pausing long enough only to leap on a raiser and strike a grand gesture or beckon the audience with twirling fingers. And her band kept up, alternating from a shiver inducingly spare version of “Cosmic Love” to a rocking rendition of “Mother” worthy of the biggest hair band.

The audience devoured every note and flourish. During "Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)," a woman appeared out of nowhere on stage, and Welch embraced her, warding off security and walking the woman backstage, later pointing at the 100 section and saying, "I saw her jump from there—that requires some guts." Then Welch herself rocketed off the stage and raced the course of the coliseum, her security guard desperately trying to keep up, before bounding onto a speaker and leading the audience in singing "This is a Gift," glowing like an angel in a celestial sky of twinkling cellphone lights.

Welch might be new to the stadium-scale stage, but she seems knit of its fabric, transmuting the cold enormity of the arena into concert gold. Nowhere was it more apparent than the finale of "Dog Days Are Over," when Welch told the audience first to turn and embrace each other, to tell each other that they love each other. Then she entreated her fans to take something off and wave it above their heads like a flag, shouting: "And with it, take off something you don't need, because Portland, you are free!"

Of their own volition, the audience started throwing those items on stage—shirts, jackets, bras—and Welch caught them in welcoming arms, like she was accepting the burdens off their shoulders and lifting them—and us—with her voice to the heavens.

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