An Eden without Man: Florence + The Machine
According to Florence + the Machine, the dog days are truly behind us. In her ever-stunning autumnal fashions, Florence Welch took the Hollywood Bowl stage and turned the amphitheater into her pulpit this past Saturday.
For those not familiar, performing at the Hollywood Bowl is a feat many legends, such as the Beatles and Elton John, have achieved. Seating 17,500 people at its current capacity, the Bowl opened up its gates to the sounds of the opening acts of Wet Leg, known for their biting song “Chaise Longue,” and Hope Tala, a soothing Jamaican British act.
These openers served a fresh take on the indie-rock genre for the audience. Yet, the crowd varied in age, some being weed-smoking elders and others merely young teens who probably had just begun to form their own thoughts about the world at hand. What a lesson they were in for.
Florence + the Machine’s set was scheduled to play after the openers had ended, but this short intermission coincided with a surprise blackout. The darkness only lasted a few seconds, but the lights came on shortly after to reveal a confused and disappointed crowd. Despite the backup generators kicking in, the blackout was still affecting the whole area. Though people were dazed at first, the volume began to rise as news spread that there would be no Wi-Fi, service or food orders until the power came back on. There were also worries that the Bowl’s strict 11 p.m. curfew would cut the headliners’ performance short. This waiting game lasted a while, though many dads in the crowd began to start organizing a semi-successful wave to pass the time.
About a half hour past the announced starting time, the lights came on and the crowd cheered as Norm Levin, one of Hollywood Bowl’s video directors, logged into his Microsoft account on the big screen. What could’ve been a panic-filled disappointment became a bonding moment for many in the crowd as they drank too much alcohol and spoke with their neighbors about past experiences at Florence + the Machine concerts.
As the lights began to dim, it signaled a triumph that would only be the first of the night. The set design consisted of gargantuan crown moldings and an assortment of chandeliers — simple, until the lights came on. The scene was beautiful, even more so as smoke started to pour out from behind the candelabras.
At last, there she was: Florence Welch, in a glittering Edwardian lawn dress, promenaded out of the shadows. Before even speaking a word, the human embodiment of Art Nouveau was already giving, and our knees were too. Then came her voice. Each audience member was blown away by her half-yodel, half-primal singing. It was enrapturing from the start.
Asking the audience to put away their phones is a form of defiance that Welch has adopted, and in doing so, she actively works to make the space feel sacred. As she barreled into a declaration of her reign with her song “King,” one thing was clear: This would not be just another stop on a tour, but the creation of Eden. Welch growled into the mic, “I am no mother / I am no bride / I am king.” As powerful as she is, there was a sense of intimacy that could only be from the gathering of women and femme persons. This tour was not made for the male gaze. Yet, there’s an unmistakable difference in this matriarchy: Florence asks the audience to uphold women without falling into misandry.
“Dance Fever” was an album written in quarantine, at a time when there was yet to be a foreseeable end to isolation. During her performances, Welch expressed her emotions with the fury of a caged phoenix. It’s rare to have a sound reach into your bones and snap you awake, but this was one of Florence’s many abilities to capture the audience.
God must have heard this fallen angel’s requiem, sending a bout of rain as a rebuke. Welch was not happy about the precipitation, stopping halfway into the show to say, “I’ve been told I can’t perform the way I’d like to, so I’m going to go find out why.” Thankfully, this unplanned intermission came to a close soon after as Welch defiantly ran past the front of the stage onto the platform that went past the pit. There was no stopping her, with all the ecstatic energy of a child who hadn’t ever stepped foot outside before. After finishing the song, she turned to face the audience once again, grinning deviously: “Whoops!”
The audio crew, despite earlier troubles from the blackout, did a stellar job with the mix. The drums rang out like war had begun, and Welch sang with reckless abandon — a mere mortal instrument of a greater power. In her command, the sound became gospel, and there would be no opposition that could stand against her people. There aren’t many things more powerful than a woman or femme person who knows their power, and with Welch’s charisma, it wouldn’t be surprising if the whole tour had been a precursor to a cult uprising that would be able to rival that of Scientology.
Despite Welch’s seemingly infinite well of energy and breathtaking presence, there was still something so grounded about her performance. She made no attempt to hide her fleeting breaths, nor did she submit to a habitual presentation. During her reprise of “Cosmic Love,” it was as if this was the first time she had uttered the words. The audience was silent at times when she seemed to literally breathe out the words, and it was impossible to tell if the rain on the crowd’s faces were actually tears.
Florence Welch’s concert was a resurrection of dance, and a call for freedom. With her extensive discography and incredible voice, it’s hard not to foresee potential world domination — to a greater extent than she already has achieved. Even for those who haven’t heard her music before, it’s an easy recommendation to go to a Florence + the Machine show. Welch’s artistry is more than just her sound. It’s magic.