Royal Albert Hall, London
Six months ago, in an interview with the Observer, Leslie Feist talked somewhat obliquely about the philosophical realisation underpinning her latest album, Metals: that the mind can believe and feel two entirely opposed things simultaneously. The same duality is in evidence throughout her live show, which is a morass of contradictions. The Royal Albert Hall is huge and packed to the rafters, yet each time she steps away from the microphone to sing in a gossamer whisper, she makes it feel as intimate as a bedchamber.
There is little that panders to a mainstream audience in her songs, particularly the more recent ones: rhythms are jerky or ritualistic, and melodies sidelong. As often as not she eschews obvious choruses for decorative vocal flourishes. Centre-stage is a percussionist who scratches at a horizontal violin and uses a bow as a drumstick. But if the music is defiantly arty, the singer employs every trick in the cheesy performance handbook, leading mass sing-alongs and even encouraging a Mexican wave.
This amiability does much to soften the stark edges of Feist's songs: she has been touring Metals long enough that the show, polished to precision, almost lacks feeling. What keeps it fresh is her aptitude for improvisation: you have to listen closely to her vocals because at any minute she could be singing an instruction to join in or a comment on proceedings. Just as we're all yelping along to Sealion, she chimes: "Don't you think it's kinda weird we're all singing the word 'sealion' together?" cheerfully puncturing the mood.
But you also have to pay attention because, for all its thunder-and-lightning crescendos, her music shivers with tiny, filigree details. Get It Wrong Get It Right is built around the barely audible twinkle of a music box, and frequently percussion is provided by the stamping feet of her backing singers. They are a band in their own right, Mountain Man: Feist leaves them alone to sing one of their own songs and she is almost upstaged, the fluttering folk sound is so pure and strong.
It's a generous gesture, but the most generous of all comes when Feist invites people who are "feeling romantic" on to the stage for a slow dance. First one couple climbs up, then another, then a deluge, until the stage is packed with people swaying in unison. It's a heart-warming sight – only the song Feist sings them is Let It Die, and deals with love skewing the mind and the death of a relationship being present in its beginning. It's a typically contrary, startling move from an artist unafraid to challenge expectations.