A few years ago on some TV awards show, before the infamous Pope-shredding incident, a young Sinead O’Connor came out to sing her first big hit, “Nothing Compares 2 U.”
Right off, it was clear from the stricken look on her face and her desperate arm waving that she couldn’t hear herself, and every line she sang just got wronger and wronger.
Anyone who’s ever done any singing in public knows that if you can’t hear what you’re doing, you’re gonna do nothing but make an awfully noisy and embarrassing spectacle of yourself.
And she was doing it live. On international TV, no less.
So it’s crash and burn, all the way to the instrumental break, at which point O’Connor just seemed to throw down her last shred of wear-with-all and exploded in the most amazingly sustained, bloodcurdling, on-key, pulsing banshee wail — over, on top of and through every bad thing that was happening onstage — impossibly long and stunningly powerful, finally dissolving into a dreamily lovely, hushed chant.
The crowd ate it up.
Last week at the Universal Amphitheater, again she fiddled and fidgeted with her sound most of the night. As often as not, she seemed unsatisfied with it and so occasionally a bit cautious with her singing.
But when she threw caution to the wind, as she did for most of her too-short 60-minute set, her voice was simply amazing. It was full of fire; rich and provocative in any octave or key, including some I don’t think I’ve ever even heard before.
Beyond the technical accomplishment, her singing had a candor and immediacy that was striking. It reminded me of the way Jimmy Cagney used to describe his acting method.
He always said, “Hit your mark, and tell the truth.”
That’s what this was like.
Dressed loosely in a dark, short-sleeved plaid workshirt, dark slacks and bare feet, O’Connor was backed up by a full band for her set as the opening act for Ireland’s venerable Chieftains, with whom she later came out and performed a spellbinding version of “The Foggy Dew.”
She addressed the crowd frequently and informally, including a few cheerfully unprintable examples of her bawdy Irish sense of humor.
When not crackin’ wise or speaking from the heart, she shuffled her feet, smiled shyly and seemed just deeply embarrassed to be a Pop Star. She was the anti-Bono.
The show hit its stride a few songs in, when they got to “Nothing Compares 2 U.” O’Connor introduced the song half-kiddingly, “I normally dedicate this song to any dead people present.” In response to the nervous titters from the crowd, she went on, “Tonight, I don’t even know the name of the man…” she trailed off and glanced over to the side of the stage, before reorganizing her thoughts, explaining, “I’m singing this song tonight for that poor black man who lost his life in Texas three weeks ago.”
It was a great rock & roll moment, and the crowd loved it.
It was doubly welcome at a time when Left-Wing elder statesmen like Bob Dylan hit town and don’t say boo during their shows. It’s nice to have somebody blow through who treats the audience like they at least both inhabit the same universe. (No offense to Bob, of course.)
The set list covered O’Connor’s whole career thus far, from the raucous rock & roll of one song introduced as “being written when I was 15, so that explains it,” to a gentle, affecting tune off last year’s “Gospel Oak.”
She’s mellowed with age, and it suits her — as it does her music, too.
Especially rich and haunting was an acapella number, “In This Heart,” which started with O’Connor singing by herself and eventually grew to include every member of her troupe.
For encores, she offered a beautiful, hope-filled version of Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song,” followed by a whispered, sparely accompanied “She Moved Through The Fair.”
Good sound or bad, her quietest hushed-whisper had more heart, soul and impact than any other pop diva’s most strangulated multi-octave lamentation.
Last week in Los Angeles, Sinead O’Connor proved herself to be one of that rare breed of celebrity: The kind that’s growing older gracefully.
Nothing compares.
©1998 Gazette Newspapers
