Unapologetic authenticity meets aggravation, as Banks delivers an furiously efficient yet audacious set.
A tour titled “back to the union jack” could have been a hard sell in Glasgow. A post-10pm, sub-40 minute set should be harder still.
As the unremarkable supporting DJ set rumbled on, anticipation of Banks’ arrival turned into frustration, then for some, indignation. We danced, but more reluctantly, we debated buying more shit booze. A minority took to Snapchat to have their moment: “Come out for the faggots”, one attendee wrote on their phone screen in huge text, before turning it horizontally and lifting it up for the amusement of the crowd behind. Another wrote “maybe come on stage already”, as if assertive manifestation would make a difference.
Punctuality at concerts seems more cherished these days, but why? A basic matter of courtesy and respect? Was Justin Bieber’s infamous two hour delay at the O2 the turning point, because the mums complained? Even Grace Jones was on time at her Meltdown set a few years ago, but not Azealia Banks. So just what she was up to became the burning question. Perhaps she was tweeting, or posting, indeed her audacious online presence is likely responsible for both the relative stagnation of her career to date and the exclusivity of her fan base, almost all of whom grew up on the internet. Which brings another irony – despite her political leanings it was lots of Glasgow’s queer community, some of its most socially conscious residents, who packed out the O2 Academy last night.
Starting with ‘Luxury’ worked well, indeed she got through most of her biggest successes despite the time constraints (‘Count Contessa’ being a notable absence). ‘New Bottega’ was a standout, its pulsating beat and simple refrains binding us together synchronously, but ‘Liquorice’ not so much, such were the poor acoustics of the venue, especially inadequate for Banks’ bass-heavy repertoire. Arguably this was all build-up, though, with ‘212’, her masterpiece, catalysing an already boisterous and exhilarated crowd to jump about everywhere and bellow “I GUESS THAT CUNT GETTING EATEN” in adoration and frenzy. Then she threw a few things at the audience and walked off. (No encore.)
Throughout the show the stage was completely bare, with just one modest DJ tucked away in the corner who pressed play. The visuals could generously be described as minimalist, but including a saltire was thoughtful. All you could look at was Banks herself, who spoke maybe four sentences to us in total, but kept on smiling coyly, and even waved to some lucky ones. Sometimes she would mash things up and start her songs a capella, leaning on the DJ booth, at other points she would shuffle about authoritatively, commanding the stage but always remaining cool and restrained.
What does it take to be effortlessly cool? Someone being their authentic self is a good starting point. Yes, she will choose efficiency over a tedious 3-hour set. Yes, she will wear a 50-inch wig, a mini skirt and statement boots, because what else would do?. We wanted more but we still felt satisfied and energised as we filed out. Her brevity was discussed as a statement of fact, not resentment. “Is Azealia Banks the queen of rap?”, one man posited. Good question. To withstand logical explanation, to still appease despite constant aggravating manoeuvres, to win us over against the odds is certainly an artist’s work.
