August 14, Sade arrives at Key Arena (tickets $60-$175). You will not believe this–no one can–but the British-Nigerian singer is 52. You want to read something into her being the daughter of a lecturer in economics and a nurse, as her drawing-room soul repertoire consistently explores the wounds of romantic losses, or gains foregone.
The latest album before her Ultimate Collection, Soldier of Love, went platinum, of course. I don’t think Sade has ever been in the position of losing a fan, once you’ve succumbed to that husky catch in her voice. The upbeat numbers can be criticized for their sheen and polish–the ideal sound for a modernist airport lounge in some exotic locale, it’s been said–but “Nobody expresses adult sorrow and melancholy with such graceful pain,” admits the Evening Standard.
Every siren has a mystery you can’t quite plumb the depths of; with Sade, it’s the feeling that despite the elegance and sophistication, she’s been hurt just like you. But of course it is a performance, all the languorous attractions and slinky exits; she is not really like you. She is just Sade for the length of the song, when that intimacy will vanish like a shade pulled down.
Two days earlier, on August 12, Adele arrives at the Paramount (tickets are sold out) for her rescheduled show, the original date put off because of laryngitis. She is also British, and no one can believe her age, either. Now 23, she’s ninth on the list of ” richest British and Irish music stars under age 30.” The U.S. learned of her after a Saturday Night Live appearance in 2008, and the day after, her album 19 rose to the top of the iTunes charts and was number five at Amazon.com.
The queen apparent of “heartbroken soul,” Adele sings her unrequited soul into submission, her lower register dark and stormy, like a cello with its hands on its hips. She can still sound a little pinched when she soars up for those high notes, but the ease with which she turns that thundering instrument on a dime leaves you struck dumb. Pitchfork says of her song “Someone Like You” on her album 21, “Sometimes, pop music can still break your heart.”
Adele’s vocal forces are backed by justification, which is essential for a siren. You can’t very well go luring sailors to their deaths if you’re unsure of where you stand. When you hear “Rolling in the Deep,” you totter away singed with righteousness.
If you don’t have Adele tickets, head over to the Neptune on August 12 for rising star Irish blues-and-rockabilly singer Imelda May (tickets $14 advance/$19 day of show). Her latest album, Mayhem, just dropped here in the U.S. on July 19. She’s triple-platinum status in Ireland and gold in the U.K., if you’re susceptible to the herd instinct.
May got her start in burlesque clubs and as part of a swing troupe before going solo, and has retained a ’50s look from those earlier days. On Mayhem, she wrote 13 out of the 14 tracks, and covers Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love.” Pop Matters loves the “bittersweet” remembrance of “Kentish Town Waltz,” but don’t get too used to dreamy balladeering, because along comes the punchy “Inside Out,” with its woozy brass and May growling, and hollering off-mike.
May is a siren’s siren: her fans include Jeff Beck, Jools Holland, Wanda Jackson, and Elvis Costello. People who have lived, you see. You go on long enough, you get a thicker skin, the bubblegum doesn’t stick anymore and you think you’re over sirens–that’s when May and her badgirl ’50s outfits jumps you.
