Kate Bush's Before the Dawn at the Hammersmith Apollo, 16th September 2014



The woman whose music has formed the soundtrack to most of my life, and who has loomed large in my imagination all those years, is now visible in the flesh. She's been remote for so long, existing via a collection of sounds and images – in the trees, under ivy, on the wily, windy moors  –  yet here she is. And I'm standing feet away from her.

I never thought this would happen. Like many I had reconciled myself to the apparent fact that Kate Bush's 1979 Tour of Life had put her off for life – "physically it was absolutely exhausting," she since recalled – and that she would never perform live on a scale that would give fans a chance to see her again.

Her need to retreat was understandable and the world seemed to respect her fiercely-guarded privacy. Bar the odd public appearance her invisibility was refreshing and the music more than made up for it. For many years she remained nebulous, discernible through soaring vocals and mesmerising storytelling conjuring elemental forces – unintentionally feeding the Kate Bush myth. 

But times change. As Kate explains in her show programme, 'Before the Dawn' was born out of a wish to "do something different from working on another album," and "a real desire to have contact with the audience that still liked my work". Contrary to the impression she had given of wanting to remain distant from her fans, Kate Bush was putting herself on stage again.

Beyond her presence, though, it was impossible to predict the show's content. It was always going to be different from the usual rock gig, although I knew what I wanted: in addition to that incredible voice I wanted the hair, with that downward gaze and pouting mouth. I wanted banshee wails and lower-octave 'oohs'. I wanted a shimmer of sequins and lace, and to see her dance while wearing the microphone headpiece she pioneered back in 1979. Above all I wanted to see her play the piano.

"Where's the piano? I can't see a piano," I said as we sat down before the stage upon which there appeared to be every other kind of musical instrument. Was this show going to be so different that there wouldn't even be a piano? Were there to be no familiar Kate Bush tropes?

From the moment she appeared, launching straight in to 'Lily' – a song that calls for angelic protection and inscribes a sacred space on the stage (no barriers or bodyguards here) – that thought was forgotten. Seeing her up close requires a few moments to process: that amazing hair – and yes, that pout! – with that rich and powerful blackbird-pure voice surfing the octaves, making me ashamed that I'd doubted it could sound as good outside a studio. 

After the aural theatre of her opening songs, culminating in 'King of the Mountain' – "the wind it blows!" – and the release of confetti-rain from the ceiling, it's time for 'The Ninth Wave', the conceptual song cycle that forms the second half of the 'Hounds of Love' album. Over the years I've imagined myself singing all of Kate's songs, and in my head I have been that woman lost at sea, skating past trees and accused of being a witch, as well as the blackbird with its wings in the water. Now that technology has enabled a multi-media dramatisation of this piece, combining music, theatre, film and puppetry, here it all is being brought to life in front of me, and Kate needs her microphone headpiece (yes!) to navigate it all: a massive buoy floating in the ocean, a helicopter scanning the audience, eerie fish skeletons carrying Kate through the audience to her possible death, along with black feathers and wonky scenery that reminds me of German expressionism, a Gesamtkunstwerk.

"Do you know what? I love you better now," she sings in 'The Morning Fog', bringing 'The Ninth Wave' to a close before the interval. After standing ovations at the end of each song, this line also gets an eruption of emotion from the crowd. Whether she meant us or not, here we're made to feel like part of the team. That thing about no cameras? It was about being present in the undiluted moment, and it's paid off. The warmth and generosity between Kate and the audience pervades the venue in a way that could not be captured on film, making for a complete and satisfying theatrical experience.

"There's the piano!" says husband when the curtain goes up for the second half, 'A Sky of Honey'. Kate Bush returns wearing a blackbird-inspired outfit comprising layers of elaborately embroidered metallic-hued fabrics and feathers glistening in the lights. We go from the oceanic to the cosmic, on a celestial journey from sunset to sunrise, involving a backdrop of flying birds, an artist's wooden doll, mediaeval minstrels, long-beaked bird masks, more black feathers, and in a clever if under-used mix of film and live action, Kate's son Bertie as an artist 'painting' the constantly-changing sky onto a screen, its colours running when it starts to rain.

Airy, spacious and meditative, it's a definite change in pace from the first half. As such, its flaws are exposed. The artist's doll should be charming yet, like the large paper plane paraded around the stage, it treads a thin line between whimsical and irritating. Lifelong fans will be used to these 'borderline' aspects of Kate's work (noticeable mostly in videos and film (think 'The Line, The Cross and the Curve')), products of uncompromising and fearless experimentation, and the side-effects of brilliance. In this context they just about work, and 'A Sky of Honey' forms an exquisite companion piece to The Ninth Wave.

Finally Kate sits at the piano for 'Among Angels'. I'd heard that people had cried during previous shows and this was that moment for me. Never seeming to realise the impact she and her music have had on people, Kate has always been easy to adore. But the genius of her music lies in its psychic function, its images and archetypes stirring up associations and intuition, appealing to aspects of my elemental self that exist deep below the ego.

And as rock gigs go, this one is strikingly lacking in ego. With the exception of one song Kate was present on stage throughout its three-hours, generous with herself as well as with her material (we didn't even have to sit through a supporting act). In turn, the audience showed similar consideration. Not only were cameras conspicuously absent, but when standing to show a little devotion people were careful not to obscure the view for too long. Throughout the evening there was a strong sense of the rock gig being redefined not only in terms of content, but how the audience relates to it – and to each other. 

This in itself is revolutionary. 'Cloudbusting''s anthemic crescendo gives us a chance to say thanks. Once again we're up on our feet: "Yay-ee-yay-ee-yay-ee-ee-oh!"  

"I've had to fight all my career to be heard," she says in her programme notes. "People always think I'm talking out of my a**e..." Reinforcing her reputation as an extraordinary artist, 'Before the Dawn' also reveals Kate to be an ordinary, humble person getting on with evolving her work.   

When it gets this good, the future looks very exciting indeed.

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