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There’s something thoroughly intoxicating about someone with masses of self-belief. Think Cantona in all his pomp and circumstance, making cod-philosophical statements about seagulls and trawlers. Freddie Merucry prowling the stage in a crown and ten-foot cape. Grace Jones with her flat top and jumpsuits.
The Gaga may at times project vulnerability, but it seems at odds with her ballsy, spiky, up in yo’ grill stage presence. She oozes charisma, the crowd hanging on her every pronouncement.
The venue is awash with all shapes and sizes squeezed into lace bodices, ripped tights and glittering eyeshadow. It’s not often you will be at the gents with a meathead from Blackburn in a gold bikini top and afro at the M.E.N., but we’re in Manchester, and the free bitch is in town, so all bets are off. Some sheepish dads are even sporting feather boas and cowboy hats.
We are here to be set free, insecurities are to be left at the door, and you can be anyone you want to be. High theatrics, mind-boggling costumes and some good old cursing thrown in now and again keep the hysteria at fever pitch.
Musically speaking, it’s the piano ballads where she demonstrates an impressive vocal range and a deconstructed version of Love Game breathes new life into one of her older songs. Sone of the tunes do drag, but the promise of a ridiculous costume change around the corner keeps the momentum going. Highlights were the Fantasia meets sofa tassle get-up, and the nun’s habit/skeleton claw combo.
In terms of takeaway images, she always delivers something, and tonight’s had to be her prostrate on the floor, bathed in blood, with the a flaming metallic thirty-foot Jesus carefully positioned betwixt her legs.
Her electronic pop may be less than memorable, but when you’ve got somebody firing off manifestos to her ‘little monsters’ dressed like Dali’s daughter on acid, who gives a damn?