Chris – the figure at the centre of Christine and the Queens – is loose in the aisles of the Festival Hall auditorium, one arm encased in a knight’s leather gauntlet, shirtless but for some nipple tape. He clasps hands with one or two fans; kneels down before one woman, who places a hand gently on his head as though in blessing.
A performer who has morphed personae over the course of four studio albums, Chris’s latest iteration tonight is made of powerful stuff: sinew and muscle. The French singer-producer’s physical presence tonight suggests a full recovery from the knee injury that dogged the rollout of last autumn’s album, Redcar les Adorables Etoiles (Prologue). (Redcar was another persona, leaning into Chris’s embrace of masculine pronouns.) His moves tonight encompass Michael Jackson and Fred Astaire; they nod at statuary, flamenco and vogueing, and remain almost as important as Chris’s transcendent vocals. But for all this display of ripped artistry, tonight’s show – the second of two that close the Meltdown festival, curated by Christine and the Queens – also finds the left-field pop outlier grief-stricken and lost. He is tormented by lust, consumed by yearning and plagued by visions. He inspires awe – and no little tenderness.
