BEFORE I KNEW her voice, the name Florence brought to mind a beautiful Renaissance city full of spires and dusty cathedrals and hot little flats. Or sometimes a Pre-Raphaelite girl, lonely, leaning back against a tall willow tree, near water, with a flame of undone red hair, loosely clad in a white robe. Looking out at her middle distance with a mixture of confusion and longing. But that was before I heard the music of Florence and the Machine.
She is something of an oddity, a singer blessed with the ability to make even the most painful realities sound like celebrations. When I made my way to the Olympia theatre three years ago, I felt like I was part of a secret society.
I found myself staring at fellow pedestrians on Dame Street, the expression on my face hopefully alluding to my question: “Are you one too?” I believed, in my fraught state, that we communicated on some superior level, of which the rest of the universe was ignorant. I am sure I frightened a few people that day. Standing outside the Olympia, I felt quiet sympathy for those passing by, without a ticket, or those even more pitiable – the ill-informed innocents who knew nothing of the extraordinary event that would soon take place. That evening was to be one of the best in my life so far.
When one is at home alone, feeling drained by a day of school, where the hefty mixture of hormones, homework and Irish-speaking teachers confiscates any lust for life you ever felt, listening to something that seems to make whatever you feel make sense, can be a relief or a salvation. Florence – since I had discovered her – had felt like that for me. But the relief her songs brought to me on these sorry occasions were nothing compared to what I would feel that night. I had come prepared; I knew all the songs on her debut album Lungs, word for word. So that when she appeared between the battered bird cages that littered the stage, barefoot in a vintage wedding dress, resembling a warrior bride of old, I felt I understood her extremes.
Her opening song Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up) is recognition of the burden this gift will give her, yet it is sung in exultation. For the next two hours my best friend Lydia and I shared an experience that was almost spiritual. While some people stood almost completely still, submerged in sounds that seemed to come from somewhere far away, yet so near, others bounced and bumped and screeched, too involved in Florence’s exuberance to stay still. Florence had climbed on her band’s amplifiers, cat leaped and sung Happy Birthday to her friend’s father, inviting us all to join in. I was aware that her singing was more than performance, it was a need. There was an intimacy we all shared that evening, as we watched her fling herself around in her bewitched, lovesick reverie.
WHEN I SAW HER recently, in the much bigger O2 venue, something had changed. The intimacy had been replaced by the professional distance conferred by success. The stage was bigger, as was her audience. However, from my seated position up on the balcony, the space that surrounded her made her look vulnerable. This time the backdrop was a shining collection of silver panels, which gave the set a 1960s feel that accompanied the release of the new album Ceremonials. Perhaps it was just the view that made it feel different, looking down on her that is, instead of up at her. Maybe it is my own illusion.
However, I felt her performance had changed. She was more still on stage now. With experience perhaps, her delivery was less uninhibited, less fevered then the first time. She had already proven herself to us. It did not change my absorption in the mixture of old and new material. I had gone again with my best friend, and we agreed that she was still extraordinary, but different.
The next morning I remembered a promise I had made to friend and made my way to an intriguing second-hand clothes shop from which I had purchased a sweater. I hoped to find one similar – and I did. As I spoke to the shop assistant I was aware of a figure to my left. As I remember it, it was not the face I noticed first, but the hands. I recognised Florence’s bird cage tattoo on her middle finger. When I spoke, my voice sounded high-pitched. I told her that I had seen her the night before. I didn’t want to alert the people around her to her presence, and then for her to be engulfed by fans. She was my hero, I was not prepared to share her. However, as I would find out, the others were part of her entourage. She spoke very quietly, in a small voice. Her bodyguard was kind; he gave me a pen, and told me to wait until she was finished. She bought two embroidered silk scarves.
I opened a copy of Portia Coughlan by Marina Carr, the only thing I had with me – for her to sign. She asked what it was and I said it was a play for school. There beneath my mother’s initials, Florence wrote her message. “To Nadia, lots of love, Florence”. I wish I had told her that when she sings everything seems to make sense. But I didn’t.
Her face looked tired beneath her wide black hat. She left the shop – surrounded by her entourage – yet I thought she looked very alone. But then I understood why the emotions in her songs sound so real – it’s because they are. And her lyrics came into my head, “Cause it’s so easy to sing it to a crowd/ But it’s so hard, my love/To say it to you out loud.”