Anna Calvi

A necessary preamble: you can't organize a concert in a small, enclosed venue like Circolo degli Artisti, in Rome, in the middle of a scorching July heatwave. Even though, in fact, it's one of the less torrid days of this infernal month, and a faint gust of air conditioning tries to save those present. In reality, there's no air to breathe, and the greenhouse effect will force many onlookers away from the stage in search of oxygen. Circolo degli Artisti is not to blame — quite the opposite, it deserves credit for pulling together, in just a few hours, the staging of such an eagerly awaited event, after the sudden — and, weather-wise, disastrous — decision to move the concert from Parco San Sebastiano to the new location, due to the (wrongly) forecast rain. The only drops that fell were the sweat of the crowd, musicians included, forced into a prolonged endurance test within the venue's walls.

Having fondly filed away the humble, dignified solo performance by Vera Di Lecce, voice of Nidi D'Arac, built on guitar and sampled vocals, the wait in the sweltering room becomes unbearable, and some lose patience. "Now she's got to play the Hollywood diva... just get on with it and play!", howls a booming voice from the back. A "protest" that will remain isolated, however, because for the rest of the audience Anna Calvi will give off the opposite impression: little posturing and plenty of substance, in a set of just over an hour that will draw on virtually the whole of her hugely acclaimed self-titled debut, also throwing in a few choice cover-song treats.

When her blonde hair is finally spotted near the stage, the excitement, combined with heat-induced exhaustion, sparks an uncontrolled collective euphoria. Anna Calvi seems almost taken aback by it as she launches into "Rider To Sea", the album's opening track, plucking the strings of her twangy guitar to renew the ritual of this desert-like instrumental western-noir. Beside her, drummer Daniel Maiden Wood and Mally Harpaz, juggling harmonium, bass pedal and percussion. It's the ideal introduction to the English singer-songwriter's music. Music steeped in tension simmering just under the skin, bewitching and sensual in an anthology-worthy "No More Words", with that alienating whisper of hers swelling bit by bit, and even moving in the astonishing cover of "Surrender", the English-language reworking by Elvis Presley of "Torna a Surriento", which, passing through Calvi's powerful vocal cords, turns into a heart-stopping torch song.

The excitement is sky-high, even though the young woman says little, clinging to her Telecaster as if it were her shield, sweat beading on her forehead and disrupting her hairstyle. Yet the shyness that has always marked her out does no harm to her qualities as a performer in constant growth. On stage she moves little, but with no awkwardness at all, despite the stiletto heels: if anything, she projects a haughty self-assurance that comes very close to what one would call "charisma". Cold and fiery at once, with her twenty-nine years, blonde curls and scarlet lips, she bewitches the crowd by hissing the odd "thank you" in a thin voice, or a broken "come stai?", suggesting that her ties to Italy don't exactly rest on her command of the language. Then she fires off, out of nowhere, the blazing bullet of "Desire", its sinful blues charge detonating in the blend of voice and drumming in a swirling crescendo. It's pure delirium, and perhaps never before had her "second home" shown her this much enthusiasm.

What's striking, beyond the sheer power, is the control of a voice both thunderous and crystalline, one that never slips out of her grasp. Except on "Suzanne And I", when, seemingly startled by the crowd's roaring singalong, she lets out a little laugh, before picking back up the thread of another of her swollen rock liturgies, suspended between sin and redemption. It's no accident that someone who knows a thing or two about such matters, like Nick Cave, immediately wanted her at his side under the banner of Grinderman (though in truth, everyone seems to be fighting over her: after the over-the-top praise from Brian Eno, Jim Kerr too recently confided to us that he has a soft spot for her).

Sharp-edged feminine charm of indecipherable geographical origin (English by birth, half-Italian, dressed like a Spanish flamenco dancer in a red shirt and black trousers), Anna Calvi is the true female crooner of the 2000s. On stage, that's confirmed by a "First We Kiss" delivered with theatrical flair à la Scott Walker (one of her genuine idols, beyond the nonsense talk about PJ Harvey and company), swinging from an innocent whisper to rock fury, unleashed by her guitar's searing distortion, because — it's worth remembering — the girl is also seriously skilled with her inseparable instrument. And that's reaffirmed by a rousing "Love Won't Be Leaving", belted out at full volume, as if she finally wanted to surrender to the embrace of that audience from which a veil of distance, of haughty elusiveness, always seems to separate her.

Power and control, that's the secret, as confirmed by "Blackout", one of the album's hit singles, whose vocal shading betrays a tribute to one of the earliest and most powerful icons of female rock: Chrissie Hynde.

"The Devil", then, is the perfect farewell: after the sultry "Jezebel" (an Edith Piaf cover), another spine-tingling flamenco number, a heart-wrenching plea that melts away even the last drop of sweat still clinging to your skin into pure melancholy.

The concert ends, some air to breathe is finally found again, but the sense of breathlessness lingers a while longer. Because, for once, the word "magnetic" to describe a live show is not out of place.

Has a star been born? No, she's already grown well beyond that.

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