We knew there was little danger of getting crushed in the mosh pit this evening but only a stint in a nunnery might have adequately prepared us for the heavy-curtained reverential silence of the Olympia. The churchy awe fits. The Joanna Newsom experience is significantly less like a gig than a mass intrusion on a little girl’s tea party. A not particularly rock congregation – older folks, nodding musos, sensitive types – remain attentive and oh-so-quiet, lest they scare their limerent object away altogether.
Perhaps it’s the near-savant musicianship. Perhaps it’s the eccentric vocal that hovers between Bjorkian drama and the vaguely unsettling baby-woman speak of a Tennessee Williams’ heroine. But doll-like and otherworldly, even in person one can’t quite believe Ms. Newsom is born of mortal flesh.
Playing without the impressive contingent of strings required for Van Dyke Park’s arrangements on Ys, the pared-down, zen-like backing – a cymbal stroked here, a violin smear there – ensures that all attention is directed toward the harp. It’s a splendid display, though the endlessly mounting progression of largely unaccompanied chords leave you grasping as if at clouds, vainly attempting to hang on to a snatch of melody.
Contrary to convention, Ms. Newsom’s digits, like everything else about her, are tiny but mesmerising. Perched delicately, she sets about her unlikely instrument with the deft movements of a hummingbird. The effect is like watching a naked finger-puppet show.
Every so often, she realises we’re here and talks sweetly in our direction. Tellingly, she runs out of banter while waiting for the wax to dry on her fingers and is forced to recount a visit to the Hard Rock Café. She laughs and laughs at the recollection. Even she knows how it sounds. A faerie queen in the home of the €10 burger? Why, the very idea!
And we depart, no surer of her existence than before.