There is a huge buzz around it. When we see the customary sign at the North Greenwich tube station, featuring a compilation of the O2 performing artist’s lyrics, a Spanish woman jumps up and down in excitement because her language, her culture, has found its way into one of the biggest UK concert tours of the year. That’s because Rosalia astounded us all last Summer when she released her sophomore album, Lux, a blistering multi-lingual operatic epic that sounds completely alien to anything else you would have heard in your life.
We enter and the buzz continues. I am right at the back of the O2, in row U of all places, but I can still faintly hear the buzz. There are people in wedding attire because purity, Christianity and romantic bliss (or lack thereof) form a great deal of Lux’s identity. There is no support act. Instead, we play in with two hours of classic Italian opera, like The Apprentice theme. Then, the band come on, strumming their cellos like they are cutting into wood. You can feel the sound in your heart like a blade. Finally, Rosalia comes out of a box and graces the crowd in the first of many costume changes.
You know in the next ninety minutes that you are watching the genesis of a truly special artist. An international Madonna. Of course, Rosalia’s previous albums were a huge success, but over here it was her performance of Berghain on the Brits which saw her truly blow up. She recreates that here, with a taster of the bombastic dance remix released in March, but without Bjork and that insane Bjork-y outfit. Still, as the kids say, it slaps. And I can say that, as one of the kids. She makes up for Bjork’s absence with a surprise appearance from Lola Young in a faux confessional booth. I imagine this will be a new gimmick where she does a slightly different spin on it every night like Charli XCX’s Apple Girl or Sabrina Carpenter’s Juno.
Off the bat she goes full-on with her cracking rendition of Porcelena, a sensational, bonkers track that epitomises Lux and is perfect for this first act. In-between acts, we get snippets of the band, and a kiss-cam type tool where members of the crowd are forced to match the facial expressions of various regency paintings. I hate this sort of thing, so I went to the toilet. Otherwise, the results are sublime, with subtitles at the top that I cannot see from humble Row U. It all concludes with Foccu Rani, Rosalia’s magnum opus. But where does she go from here? The Royal Albert Hall? As she tells us, is her lifelong wish. We can only hope.