Queues slithered down the intricate backstreets of Brick Lane back then in hopeful stalk of luminousness to encircle the wrist although Van Etten's London sojourn centres around this long-since sold out, ATP-endorsed return and, with the can of Serpents spilt coincidentally with the release of her revered latest still writhing in the mind with raw vigour, it would appear that she's opting to lick them open wounds a little longer yet in place of plastering up the outpour. Opening with the rowdy stomp of Warsaw, its scrappy barre chord yowl and rigid kick drum marching orders instantaneously enliven before the empowering drawl of Peace Signs off of 2010's blink-eyed (E/L)P Epic continues in equivalently sanguine vein. The ebullient bob of Save Yourself with its hypercritical refrain of "Don't you think I know you're only trying to save yourself/ Just like everyone else" retains its world-weary cynicism whilst simultaneously exhibiting Van Etten's highly perceptive neo-poetic lyrical approach, with the pent-up passive aggressiveness of Don't Do It clinging similarly to the visceral neglect tweaked within.
However irrespective of the great humility Van Etten outwardly demonstrates, as defiantly affirmed on a quietly triumphant Give Out "confidence is speaking" and it tonight speaks volumes: sneering out from a dense EBow-induced mist, a rancorous Serpents borders on the remorseless, its continual reference to temporal and transpirational change further accentuating quite how accomplished a performer she has now irrevocably become; the tumbledown acoustic stroll of Kevin's (imaginatively denominated thus for it was written round Kevin's, she reliably informs us amidst vinyl and David Shrigley vandalism the preceding day) hauls unnervingly adroit multi-instrumentalist Heather Woods Broderick to the glower of quavering spotlight; and the lounge fuzz of a harmonium-less Magic Chords ("they're hard to fly with") lowers the tempo if never the tone. If Van Etten's ever felt on the losing side there's never been a better time to brush chips from shoulders, for although several thousand miles from home there would appear to be a thronged open-brick tunnel's worth of swaying heads and swooning hearts willing to put pedal to the metal to reliably inform her it'd be worth putting every last one of the aforesaid miles on the old odometer just to experience this evening. The lost pup yelps of Leonard meanwhile provide unexpected elation while pertaining to wide-eyed wonder and if Van Etten were once in dire need of rehoming, she seems comfortable enough here. Deferential sorrow is eventually restored in the show's closing moments as a drone-driven I'm Wrong (complete with haywire guitars singed and prodded by violin bows) and the practically stationary waft of Joke Or A Lie stupefy like an unremitting barrage of disconsolation.
Amidst the gurgling of trains and immaculate songsmithery comes comedic garble employed quite effectively to counterbalance the confessional "self-therapy" Van Etten locates within the splurging of the soul and while it may be one thing to serendipitously lay down the highly nuanced intricacies of the heart in Aaron Dessner's garage, it's quite another to do so in the typically emotionally guarded realm of Shoreditch. Captivatingly for such an assumedly reticent creature therefore, these jovial interludes compose around thirty of her ninety as she quips engagingly (or perhaps necessarily disengagingly) on quirky family dynamics, discusses videogame dreams, and divulges particulars on rehearsing onstage instrument reconfiguration, besides aiding in tinging the overriding lyrical doom, despondence, and self-reflective emotional appraising contained within her therapeutic Americana fare with an unannounced lightness. Despite persistently conceding that she's not constructed for comedy, again her distorted sense of conviction confutes the reality that besides embodying one of the most endearing individuals to pass through this clunky old town in a long old while, she's arguably one of the more entertaining too. A rousingly vociferous All I Can – encased within encore – resuscitates dormant sensations that it always ought to have put an end to Tramp and although a heartfelt, almost a cappella run through of Love More seals up one of the most heartwarming performances of recent times, it's this predecessor that elucidates most potently Sharon Van Etten's subtle powers to helplessly enamour and enchant. Tumbling around Europe in support of her third record, she is but a great case in point that the best things come from those who wait.
