Tonight’s introductory section promptly does away with a number of Smith’s career-making hits – the likes of Stay With Me and I’m Not the Only One – that established unrequited love as Smith’s favoured emotional terrain. The distant past needs attending to first. When you do cringe tonight, it is often because of the needlessly effulgent guitar solos, and the somewhat laboured contrasts between the sacred (the title track’s chorale, a Virgin Mary veil) and the profane (gaffer-taped nipples, Mephistophelean garb). In between are some poignant and graceful moments that show considerable class.
The 10% of the show that does get a little fishnet-y and pitchforked is small beer compared to Madonna at her most rampant, or Rihanna at her most light-S&M, or, indeed, Lil Nas X at his most outre. Gently, the set list ramps up to the climax of what Smith calls their “gay cabaret”. The one use of the word “shit” – on Unholy, the abiding theme of the latter section of the show – is even censored by a ding. You don’t want to give these spurious arguments undue weight, but really, much of the action tonight actually salutes the soulful heartbreak of Smith’s back catalogue in a way that plays considerately to the sorts of pearl-wearing fans who might one day turn up toting wicker hampers to see Smith at a stately home outdoor gig. That said, 90% of Smith’s set does not, in fact, take place in any sort of depraved, low-rent Bacchanal – contrary to the online static that the Gloria tour has generated recently, suggesting the whole endeavour is a vehicle for the corruption of minors, and laced with satanic intent.
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