Florence Welch is taking back control by banishing the booze from her gigs. Craig McLean met her ahead of this week’s big shows
BAC K S TAG E a t the SSE Hydro i n G l a s g ow, the nine touring members of Florence + The Machine are huddled together in a c o r r i d o r. T h e y ’ re d u e o n s t a g e in 10 minutes in front of a sold-out Saturday night audience of 13,000.
But right now they’re performing for themselves. Florence Welch — barefoot, diaphanous Gucci frock, sturdy emerald-green support underwear — leads her half-girls, half-boys group in a neara capella version of June, the opening track on her fourth album, High As Hope. There is twirling, clapping, ululating, hand-holding, some elbowbumping waltzing, a little bit of acoustic guitar and much intra-band bonding.
“Ho-o-o-o-ld on to each other,” choruses Welch in that remarkable voice, sharp edges, and there’s fabric hanging from the ceiling.
“I actually wanted scent-design, because I’m a loon!” she announces, laughter exploding volcanically from her, “like a church smell pumped into the venues. But they were, like, for health reasons you can’t do that. What if someone is allergic? And also — how expensive do you want to make this tour?” she laughs again.
Off-stage and in conversation, Welch is still very Florence-y. A jangle of jewellery around neck and wrists and fingers, expressive hand gestures, much flicking of hair, lots of cheerfully out-there emotionality. But there’s a relief, too, that High As Hope was received and reviewed so well. Especially as the first single, from its opening line, was especially revealing.
At 17 I started to star ve myself, I thought that love was a kind of emptiness, she sings on Hunger. In spring I attended an early playback of the album, hosted by Welch in a private members’ club in Mayfair. Introducing the songs she appeared uncharacteristically trepidatious. Hearing Hunger, and then Grace, her apology to her younger sister for being, basically, an annoying, attention-hogging sibling, I understood why.
The admission of a teenage eating disorder was t h e b i g g e s t w o r r y, “because it was such a big piece of myself to give to people. And it would have been heartbreaking if it had been received in the wrong way. But people received it with love and kindness. Which was life-changing for me.”
In what way? There is a pause, a hairswish, a clank of the three crucifixes round her neck.
“It was something I’d kept secret my whole life,” she eventually replies.
“But I’d started talking about it to some people who could help, and other women who had experienced similar things.
“And that beginning to bring things plunges into the packed audience. Trailed by her security guard, she sings as she goes, clasping hands with fans, climbing onto railings, vaulting over barriers, circumnavigating the arena, before returning to the stage.
Then it’s into main-set closer, What Kind Of Man, which she sings inches away from the fans jammed up to the crush barrier, pressing forehead to foreheads and applying palm to faces as if offering absolution to her male followers.
It’s quite the performance, a night bookended by hold-on-to-each-other tactility and connection. Lord knows how far she’ll go at her two south London homecoming shows this week.
“The quieter my life became offstage, the more ferocious the performances became,” Welch had acknowledged in Camberwell.
“A lot of those self-destructive urges and energies that I used to kick the s**t out of myself with suddenly had a new place where they could live and be free. The beast was finally free,” she said with another guffaw, “but in a way that was constructive.”
⬤ Florence + The Machine plays
The O2 (theo2.co.uk) tomorrow and Thursday
The quieter my life became offstage, the more ferocious the performances became