A few weeks ago, I saw Florence + the Machine live at The Greek Theatre in Berkeley. Months earlier, I was saying “yes” to everything, and consequently got myself entangled in weekend plans for months on end. This show was one of the things I agreed to.
Despite the fact that my experience was probably entirely cliche, I have to admit that I was very moved by Florence Welch’s show. I love seeing live music–performance in general. But this was probably the best show I’d ever seen, and it was in large part because of Welch’s generosity (the drummer’s cool too).
The first most striking thing about the show was that her movements (for over two hours) were effortless, but profoundly beautiful. I read somewhere that she was diagnosed with dyspraxia as a child, but now her every movement is stunning.
She wears her hair long and wavy and messy. Her all-white costume was beautiful from a structural perspective, but not typically sexy. Her face is stark and sometimes harsh and absolutely stunning. She wears very little make up. She does nothing to soften her appearance or make herself more conventionally palatable.
In doing so, she is completely extraordinary and unusual, and none of us could take our eyes off of her for the entire two hours of the show. I can’t think of any other woman, at her level of fame, that allows her face to be raw and so vulnerable in public.
We left saying she deserves to be worshiped. We left saying we saw a panty line. We left saying I”ll bet she doesn’t shave. No, she’s too busy making art to do any one uncomfortable thing that serves only the viewing pleasure of others. No doubt she pleases herself, and in doing so, she is absolutely pleasing to others.
I left wanting to spend more time creating for the sole purpose of my own viewing pleasure. I left wanting to type the words that are bubbling out of me. I left wanting to bang on the piano in rhythm. I left wanting to let there be love. I left reminded of my own unique taste, reminded that it’s all I have–whether I am loved for it or not.