Which is why in this “no shame zone” of the Concert Hall, there was no embarrassment in demanding not only that you get some attention, ahem, down there, but that it be effective (the buoyant Minneapolis sound of Worship Me, which segued briefly into Aretha’s version of Respect); admitting that you aren’t feeling great just because everyone wants you to (the harder edge of Exactly How I Feel); and revelling in the attention under – or over, or off – the covers from a line of admirers (the jangle guitar funk, all hips and groin, of Boys, or the odd angles and Missy Elliott/Timbaland sparse rhythm of Tempo).
And that’s how a Lizzo show rolls: ’70s soul, ’80s funk, ’90s hip hop and 21st century R&B pop moulded into joy-filled messages of affirmation whether you’re black, white, brindle; tall, wide, spindly; straight, queer, flexible – or, yes, old, male and shaky.
Who could resist the electro-pop exuberance of Juice, or for that matter the self-possession of Like A Girl? Especially when it’s delivered by someone who can rock a flute solo as comfortably as she twerks, and all with a look over the shoulder of “isn’t this just the best fun?”.
A pump-primed audience did mean Lizzo, singing to pre-recorded backings, could get away with a dodgy sound mix, which often let her voice merge into the background in the verses, leaving her to be rescued by the power runs of the choruses. And I couldn’t help thinking about how good this show might sound with live brass and bass, human-propelled drums and keys.
But then given this was a gig that could have been in a much bigger room such was the demand, the next time we see Lizzo she’ll probably have upped the ante.
After all, as she told us in the farewell Truth Hurts – yes, another in-control kiss-off – “Yeah, I got … problems, that’s the human in me/Bling bling, then I solve ’em, that’s the goddess in me”.