Follow her Twitter feed and read her interviews and Azealia Banks gives off the impression of being a vixen, a wolf, a heartbreaker and a feminist; a complete control freak whose mind is as dirty as anything you’ll find down the dance arena long drops.
As she steps out onto the Other Stage, which is ablaze with mercury popping temperatures, oncoming sun burn and dehydrated drunkenness, all of that brazen bravado seems to evaporate.
In a lime green carnival suit, with spiked legs and sleeves, Banks looks like she’s about to unleash a Saturday afternoon spectacular, but what she delivers is timid little girl.
Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the size of crowd but she doesn’t look like she’s in control here. She saunters from one side of the stage to the other looking lost and passionless. She doesn’t seem comfortable.
Luckily, her kaleidoscopic chart house tunes help things sizzle. ‘No Problems‘, an acid bouncer that could’ve dropped on the last Major Lazer LP, morphs into Wigan pier mayhem as smilies collide on the screens behind her.
‘1991‘ rolls back the years and the Hudson Mohawke magic on ‘Jumanji‘ turns it from a slice of rave into a steel drum belter.
“I got in a lot of trouble for putting this in this next song but y’all know I don’t give a fuck,” she declares over ‘Born Slippy‘ which segues into her now bootleg-only take on ‘Harlem Shake‘. The crowd gobble it up and it changes her mood and her energy levels and by the time ‘212‘ builds, grows and spins into a dizzying drop, Banks bounces up and down like she finally enjoys her live performances as much as her Twitter feed.
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