The Observer
June 14, 1998
Pop Music Review: Shirley Bassey
Shirley Bassey scarred my childhood. My father, otherwise a card-carrying musical ignoramus, was fiercely proud of his Reader's Digest Shirley Bassey boxed set. When he and my mother returned from a night's carousing, my sister and I would lie awake, half gassed by the beer and Campari fumes wafting up the stairs, waiting for the moment when the likes of 'I, Who Have Nothing', 'Diamonds Are Forever' and 'Something' would crackle forth from the family radiogram.
As Dad's favourite was 'Big Spender', it was never very long before, singing lustily, he got right to the point: apparently, he wasn't the type of guy to 'pop his cork' for every man he saw. See what I mean about scars? Little wonder then, that, as I settled into my seat for Bassey's diamond anniversary concert at London's Royal Festival Hall, my feelings were mixed. Shirley Bassey had better be good enough to make up for all those years of suspecting my father to be gay.
Bassey's imminent arrival is signalled by the orchestra striking up the first few bars of 'Goldfinger', the James Bond theme tune that made Our Shirl an international household name. The audience a strange mix of middle-aged couples ignoring each other, gay men holding hands, and little old ladies sucking boiled sweets stare excitedly at the walkway that slices the orchestra in half. Sure enough, it isn't long before Bassey appears.
Considering that she is reputed to be in her early sixties, Shirley looks great. Not as good as she does on her programme photographs (where she seems to have remained 25 years old for the past 40 years), but still hot enough to make the women in the audience wish that they'd persevered with the HRT. Her gown gold, glittery, slashed from the floor to the neck provokes a collective 'Ooh!' from the stalls, as well it might. It is a fabulous gown, a gown that most definitely does the trick.
While most of this audience will never get to Vegas, Bassey is glamorous enough to make them feel that Vegas has come to them. A true diva, La Bassey stands for a moment, fixing us with one of her trademark stares (part devil -may-care defiance, part trembling vulnerability. Imagine a modern-day Norma Desmond on the day she forgot to take her Prozac).
Then, she glides forward on heels that would cripple a novice transvestite, opens her mouth and roars: 'GOLD FINGARRR!' The notes jump out of her mouth like cannonballs. Indeed, while no one could deny that Bassey has a powerful voice, sometimes it is at the expense of subtlety. She is less a torch singer than a flamethrower.
When she does her versions of Madonna's haunting 'You'll See' and Grace Jones's smooth and sleazy 'Slave To The Rhythm', it's like listening to a hurricane pretending to be a slight breeze. Not that Bassey doesn't have her softer side. As the set unfolds ('This Is My Life', 'I Am What I Am', 'My Way', all the classics), there are many moments when it feels safe to listen without your socks stuffed in your ears. Like when Shirley has her mouth closed. The rest of the time Bassey gives the crowd what they want full throated, microphone-swallowing vocal histrionics, Old Hollywood arm movements, facial tics that could get a lesser woman committed to a mental institution, and more heartfelt emotion in one song than some people experience in their entire lifetime. Bassey's trick is to take a feeling, magnify it, take the sting out of it with costume jewellery, then get up off the floor and start again. Moreover, for all that she is adored by the gay community, judging by the moist-eyed, middle-aged heteros rushing forward to join the grovelling scrum at the front of the stage, Bassey's appeal isn't merely camp.
When the time comes for Bassey to receive gifts from her fans, she is charm personified. She piles the offerings up on top of the piano, emotionally embracing the givers as if little hanging baskets full of plastic flowers were truly her heart's desire. Only one admirer gives Bassey a bouquet bigger than her earrings. When she sees it, she smiles slyly, and launches into 'Big Spender'. It is during this number that a vicious rumour circulates that Shirley may not be wearing knickers. Every time she sings 'Spend a little time with me!', she flicks up the skirt of her dress to reveal totally bare buttocks. Indeed, however hard one tries to peer behind the carefully positioned spangles, Bassey's under garments seem to be embarrassingly AWOL. During 'I, Who Have Nothing', the woman behind me is concerned enough to join the crowd kneeling at the front of the stage: Her mission? To have a good gawp, and settle the issue once for all. She returns none the wiser, blinded by the spangles.
For the encores, Shirley runs backstage, and returns adorned in a voluminous gold lame cape with feathers. She looks surreal, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of a haberdashery department fire. From that moment on, we can no longer tell whether she has knickers on or not, but, by this time, it has become plain to all that Bassey is both an old- school trouper and a new- school survivor. Britain's Tina Turner, if Tina Turner had had a sense of humour. Perhaps I should have taken my father after all.
By: BARBARA ELLEN