A mystery that’s all the better unsolved
Rihanna Aviva Stadium, Dublin
Rihanna is modern pop’s great enigma. Where contemporaries Beyoncé and Taylor Swift have become ubiquitous in our lives, as famous for their gender politics and selfie addiction as their music, the Barbadian singer remains unknowable – the classic mystery in plain sight.
Even after the tabloid attention brought by reports of domestic violence at the hands of then boyfriend Chris Brown in 2009, her inscrutability endured. Rihanna, 28, inhabits her songs and celebrity like an actress slipping through roles.
That veil was as tightly wound as the bleached Jedi robes she wore as she arrived on a dais in the centre of the crowd. Tears streamed down her cheeks – but was she responding to the audience’s adoration or the bittersweet lyrics of Love the Way You
Lie (Part II)? We had only started and already RiRi had us in a spin.
Rihanna is touring Anti, her first album in four years and one seemingly built on the premise that the artist born Robyn Fenty is a blank canvas upon which a multitude of musical ideas may be projected. Taking in doo wop, potty-mouthed pop and a cover of indie darlings Tame Impala, Anti celebrates messy eclecticism while rejecting the idea that pop star owes it to their fans to present a coherent vision.
She brought the same restless spirit to the stage. Rihanna veered from the almost slapstick risqué of Sex With Me (with some lively cavorting in a glass box) to Work’s bubblegum dance-hall. The connective tissue was a backdrop of brooding electro-funk that pushed her clarion vocals into the foreground.
Such understatement was reflected in the visual elements, wth the singer emoting against a blank white screen. Here was a refreshingly stripped – down vision of stadium pop that leaned on Rihanna’s low-burn charisma ( giant, glowing bubble-wrap was as high concept as it got).
She was never less than fascinating, swaying expressively through Pour It Up and grinning fiercely on
Desperado, a power ballad on tank tracks. You understood how Jay Z was moved to offer her a six album deal on the spot when she turned up at his office as a plucky unknown in 2005. There was no lack of hits either.
Rude Boy, her provocative battle cry of sexual ferocity, was rasping and raw and it is hard to think of another pop song of the past 15 year that communicates uncomplicated joy as powerfully as Umbrella, that chartslaying valentine to sensible rain-gear.
Here was a slick, sleek arena blockbuster that didn’t waste time on embellishments and instead delivered full-strength shots of sass and escapism. Long may this enigma stay unsolved.