A giant golden statue of the goddess Aphrodite lies recumbent on the stage. The action of Sam Smith’s gig plays out atop, along and in front of her body; musicians nestle in her nooks, dancers dry hump her curves. The suggestion seems to be that we are all her creatures – inspired by beauty, buffeted by desire, perpetually seeking love.
Although a Greek deity is the show’s organising principle – its three chapters are labelled Love, Beauty and Sex – you wouldn’t necessarily call all the antics that unfold over the next couple of hours classic, exactly. So much about this Gloria tour, in support of Smith’s recent album of the same name, is gaudy, over the top and maximalist – as you would expect from an arena-level undertaking – not to mention playful, knowing and redolent of Spinal Tap’s taste for set design. For Gloria, Smith has sloughed off their middle-of-the-road image in favour of something more liberated – and sexualised.
That said, 90% of Smith’s set does not, in fact, take place in any sort of depraved, low-rent Bacchanal – contrary to the online static that the Gloria tour has generated recently, suggesting the whole endeavour is a vehicle for the corruption of minors, and laced with satanic intent. You don’t want to give these spurious arguments undue weight, but really, much of the action tonight actually salutes the soulful heartbreak of Smith’s back catalogue in a way that plays considerately to the sorts of pearl-wearing fans who might one day turn up toting wicker hampers to see Smith at a stately home outdoor gig. The one use of the word “shit” – on Unholy, the abiding theme of the latter section of the show – is even censored by a ding. Gently, the set list ramps up to the climax of what Smith calls their “gay cabaret”. The 10% of the show that does get a little fishnet-y and pitchforked is small beer compared to Madonna at her most rampant, or Rihanna at her most light-S&M, or, indeed, Lil Nas X at his most outre. In between are some poignant and graceful moments that show considerable class. When you do cringe tonight, it is often because of the needlessly effulgent guitar solos, and the somewhat laboured contrasts between the sacred (the title track’s chorale, a Virgin Mary veil) and the profane (gaffer-taped nipples, Mephistophelean garb).
The distant past needs attending to first. Tonight’s introductory section promptly does away with a number of Smith’s career-making hits – the likes of Stay With Me and I’m Not the Only One – that established unrequited love as Smith’s favoured emotional terrain.
Between songs, a chatty, warm Smith recalls seeing Rihanna here at the O2 as a kid – “with my umbrella!” – and urges any younger people in the audience to follow their dreams. For this section, they’re wearing what appears to be the lovechild of a chandelier and a bustier accessorised with gold stack-heeled boots, a rococo-glam combo that would not cause the V&A to blanch in any way. Many costume changes follow. Act I (Love) brings more heartbreak, leavened by righteous kiss-offs to toxic exes. Perfect, from Gloria, provides a welcome shot of slow-burning R&B; one of Smith’s backing vocalists takes the Canadian pop singer Jessie Reyez’s parts. So far, so arena pop. Uptempo beats make a nice change from the mournful and piano-led past.
The first emotional high point, though, comes when Smith comes back clad in a magnificent green Valentino gown so sumptuous you wonder whether anyone is hiding under it, as the singer Kim Petras was during the duo’s SNL performance. When you manage to read it, Smith’s halo-like headpiece spells out the name of Brianna Ghey, the transgender teenager stabbed to death in a Warrington park in February. As Smith’s sorrowful voice husks tenderly over a discreet piano backing – the song is a cover, Kissing You by Des’ree – your gooseflesh stands to attention.
Very different, but also very moving, is another cover sequence in which Smith does not sing at all, but takes their place in front of the six dancers. As Donna Summer’s I Feel Love plays out, Smith leads the troupe in a sequence where six sets of arms echo their snaking movements: it’s minimal, and unexpectedly affecting. Having removed their shirt, it becomes apparent that this tour is not just about unapologetic sexuality, it is also about body positivity: the optics are very much Elton John meets Lizzo. Smith’s sense of liberation is physically enacted throughout the night by dancers executing especially fluid leaps.
As the songs begin to take a turn for the frisky, Smith’s voice – so well known for communicating heartache – subtly changes gear. Gimme may be dominated by Reyez’s nagging chant of “gimme, gimme, gimme what I want”, and Koffee’s perhaps tokenistic dancehall verse (those parts aren’t live). But there’s a pained lustfulness in Smith’s contributions that reaches to the back of the hall.
As Unholy’s infamous operatics ring out, we get to see Smith’s bare glutes jiggle about. There’s lashings of stage fire, and Smith closes the show dressed as a burlesque Beelzebub with a tricorn hat and pitchfork. The effect is more absurd than civilisation-shaking. Smith comes out of it with their reputation as a progressive LGBTQ+ figure considerably enhanced by the brouhaha. And Aphrodite has been handsomely served.
