Róisín Murphy
Trinity College Dublin
★★★★☆
The threat of rain and wind proved no match for the pop-funk icon as the Arklow-via-Long Island dance floor truthteller stormed with her most recent album, as well as old favourites.
The clouds briefly veil for the bizarre and brilliant Róisín Murphy, who beats to the rhythm of fan-favourite Simulation, as she emerges; a vision in cerulean, carrying a floor-dragging pashmina, after a blast of dripping drum beat. Simulation lasts for nine minutes, during which Murphy pivots between centre-stage and stage-left while a 5,000-strong crowd joyfully bleats. The weather is playing ball for now, but for the former Moloko songstress, whose internationally-acclaimed virtuosity skips around swirling wind with grit and humour, the changeable June forecast is no match.
Murphy isn’t short of hits, but it’s a mark of her control over the room that she can move into unreleased Hurtz So Bad, with the same momentum as the genre-transcending The Time Is Now, or, indeed, her own eccentrically stylish Let Me Know, without losing one member of the now-fizzing crowd.
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Few artists prowl a stage like she does; rich and soulful vocals commanding attention, with a sense of potent silliness always ready to puncture ostentation. This is largely unfurled by way of frequent costume changes – within the first 15 minutes, she sports a myriad of different, crowd-pleasing headdresses while executing mid-song costume changes that range from late-1980s raver to platformed glamazon-cum-debutante – some of them beautiful, others resplendent with folly.
During this time, Murphy pivots to The Universe, dialling the absurdity up to 10. Over an out-of-time electric guitar strum, she conjures up a perfect day with infectious glee. (At one stage, she uses her elbows to swing a human-size inflatable alien to the beat.) The next four tracks, including Sing It Back, signal a foray into somewhere between electro-ambience and space-disco. This, of course, still encased within a cocoon of invested playfulness, framed by Murphy’s cast and crew; a collective of creatives moving as one.
A series of high kicks introduces the dance track Murphy’s Law. Thousands of fans are now beaming in delight, leaving toilet queues to witness Murphy in action. She is in her element; deftly flowing to the beat of a deeply receptive crowd. Hands are in the air for what seems like miles. Bar queues are empty and a singular feeling of Sunday praise bellows out from the inclusive walls of a once unforgivingly exclusive space; rarely have echoes of time felt so near and yet so far.
For those who remember her lockdown release, the first thing you hear on Murphy’s critically acclaimed fifth album, Róisín Machine, is a smattering of spoken word, an extract from a monologue that appears in full later. “I feel my story is still untold,” she says, “but I’ll make my own happy ending.” Hers, the battle cry of a woman with which the term “underrated,” has clung like cheap fabric.
That said, revivalism is in her DNA – and it’s a pleasingly symbiotic relationship at that. Responsible for gutsy, defiant lyrics like “how dare you sentence me to a life without dancing when I’m already lost in the groove?“, not to mention her penchant for deep, breathy bellows while committing to absurdist costumery.
You see, Murphy lives this life, in lieu of simply conveying or embodying one – a refreshingly punchy take in a world thick in the trenches of status signals and entitlements to indulgence. At this gig, the crowd is getting what it wants, but so is Murphy; an overpowering display of pop curiosities, plunging dynamism, and near-five thousand people poring over every line.
