but his rueful rhythms haven’t just aged well over the years – they carry added weight‘Fully committed to turning the audience into a perspiring heap of sportswear’ … Sean Paul at Electric Ballroom. Photograph: Brigitte Engl/Redferns
“People would pay hundreds of pounds to be here. They’d give their heart to be here!” asserts radio presenter Ras Kwame, whose job it is to ensure that enthusiasm blazes away at a level just below outright hysteria. Technically, tonight’s event, titled Island Life Presents, is a showcase for a handful of acts affiliated with Island Records, but few are here to see sweet-voiced London trio WSTRN or sunny reggae newcomer Kiko Bun. It’s the prospect of a one-off appearance by Sean Paul that’s brought fans out in their sweaty multitudes on the hottest September night in decades. Paul’s mid-noughties purple patch, when he near-singlehandedly took Jamaican dancehall into the mainstream, is well behind him (and to add insult, he’s recently been treated to the sound of Justin Bieber and Major Lazer using dancehall as “inspiration”). Lately, he’s transitioned into a more appealing Pitbull, hired to deliver the bouncy coup de grace to other artists’ hit singles. But Paul’s confidence in himself as a headline act hasn’t waned. His peppery contribution to the Sia track Cheap Thrills helped to launch it into the sales stratosphere, but tonight he slips it in with zero fanfare, zipping through it so he can return to the more pressing business of playing his own songs. It’s the same with Tory Lanez’s hit Luv: a priapic-by-numbers read-through, then back to Paul’s own considerable hits catalogue. Half-chant, half-croon, his lilting flow is irresistible. Complemented by the melancholy minor chords that make his biggest tracks – We Be Burning, Get Busy– sound like queasy laments, he directs every word at the front row, who sing them back at him. An athletic figure who looks half his 43 years, he’s fully committed to turning the audience into a perspiring heap of sportswear: “Ladies in the house, you have a dangerous kind of love for me,” he says, before rapper Fuse ODG bounds on stage and the two deftly trade verses on Dangerous Love. A thread of sexual yearning grumbles through every song, poked and prodded by Paul, who is never so focused as when a girl appears – one lady leaps on stage and dances with him during the easygoing I’m Still in Love With You, the show’s only nod to the reggae of his youth. It’s crowded up there: a pair of mostly naked dancers twirl alongside a DJ, whose console is decorated with a Jamaican flag; MC Fahrenheit parades around, arms aloft; and guests appear for a number or two, then leave. At times, the show is directionlessness; but thankfully Paul’s hit songs make this a minor complaint. His dancehall rhythms haven’t aged – if anything, their lamentful quality makes them a good fit for this strange, troubled year, and the genre’s renewed popularity could send him back to the top. “Who’s smoking tonight?” he asks coyly, and smiles regally at the ensuing cheer. Caroline Sullivan
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