Some artists need flash bombs to make an impression on stage. Some need giant screens. Some need to run around like hyperactive toddlers. All Grace Jones needed was a hula hoop – not the delicious potato snack, but the plastic ring. For the ten minutes or so of ‘Slave to the Rhythm’ that ended her set on a balmy evening in the courtyard of Hampton Court Palace, she languidly rotated the ring around her hips, all while she strode across the stage, then climbed a set of stairs. Not a single revolution was missed. I realise that you don’t come to these pages for reviews of hula hooping, but by God, it was astonishing. I like to think it was what Henry VIII would have wanted.
It was a fitting end to a brilliantly unhinged show. She had a different piece of extravagant headwear for each song; her patter was ludicrous: even after she and her band had left the stage, she was still talking into the mic, unseen, as the crowd filed out: ‘Go home now! Go home and fuck each other!’ The insanity was a delight, but it didn’t overshadow the main event – the music.
The insanity was a delight, but it didn’t overshadow the main event – the music
If Jones is best known as a face and a body – Amazonian, imposing, a Bond villain’s henchwoman – never forget the extraordinary records she has made.
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