It appears Rachel Chinouriri has a good memory. “I remember you!” she yelled excitedly to one fan early on, highlighting that she currently sits in a nice position – popular enough to be playing busy shows in decently sized venues, but at a level where she can still see the eager faces looking back at her.
At one point those fans all had their eyes shut, after the British-Zimbabwean singer instructed everyone to close them and imagine they were in Hereford during the pastoral strum and hum of “Pocket”, one of the night’s most laid back moments. The fact the audience agreed so quickly with Chinouriri’s request indicated just how in thrall they were to her, and you could understand why.
Like many a modern pop star, for the 26-year-old genre is something to be ignored, and so her set plundered from all aspects of pop history. Heavily centred around this year’s debut album “what A Devastating Turn of Events”, it created an enjoyably restless, lithe vibe, where you were never quite sure what direction she would travel towards. The vulnerability of the brutally affecting, shimmering “I Hate Myself”, followed by her discussing her issues with self-esteem, was a stark contrast to the swaggering “Dumb Bitch Juice”, which featured a bluesy riff that would have been at home on Exile On Main Street.
These ideas all bubbled together, sometimes on the same song. It worked brilliantly on the early highlight of “I’m Not Perfect (But I’m Trying), flitting from a tender, sparse start into a sashaying Bangles style beat, and on the way the chiming guitar of “So My Darling” was suddenly bolstered by thick bass. That’s a credit to both the singer’s versatility and her tight four piece backing band, especially the terrific, vibrant playing of guitarist AC Stockhoff.
As a performer, Chinouriri was a bright figure, in an outfit of pinks and oranges that would have lit up even the murky fog that had enveloped Glasgow all day. Her presence and chat was like that of an enthusiastic friend, which sometimes became a little too familiar, repeatedly asking how the back of the room was doing, followed by the middle and then, yes, the front. The actual stage show itself was also a bit pedestrian, offering only a bland lights display and perhaps limited by the relatively modest setting.
However even against a prosaic backdrop Chinouriri’s talents were clear, whether on the alt guitar crunch of "The Hills" or the sprightly new wave bounce of “All I Ever Asked”, all 80s sheen. That skill let her withstand a mild dip towards the end when a couple of her more indie rock numbers slowed the pace. The fleet-footed finale of “Never Need Me” and “Can We Talk About Issac” had no such issues, before she skipped offstage and the PA started blaring “Superstar” by Jamelia. Chinouriri might well achieve that status someday herself.
