Florence and the Machine review: A testament to the soul-shifting power of pop

Standing barefoot on the lip of the Spark Arena stage, Florence and the Machine delivered a kind of rapture for the final night of her Dance Fever tour.

The high priestess of pop has scarcely sounded better than this evening. This was goddess material – with a flick of her index finger the drums cease, with a swinging fist the beat kicks in, with a wave of her nimble fingers the crowd starts to crest into every chorus.

How do you sound so polished and raw at the same time? How do you convince 40,000 people to put their phones away for an entire show? How do you capture the distinct aesthetic of Ophelia as dressed by Molly Goddard?

This was a show at once physical at emotional. The mother-of-two in front of me, pulling her hair out at Florence’s first glide onto the stage. The teenage girls behind me, screaming giddily into one another’s faces. The couples throughout the arena, gripping one another a little more tightly during the love songs.

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King Princess opens, leaning into the grunge elements of her repertoire where possible, and twirling around the ultraviolet stage in a pleated skirt that is part Thom Browne, part Queen of Hearts, and all sex appeal.

This is a set delivered with a purr, and then a roar, crawling across the Spark Arena stage much to the delighted shrieks of adoring fans.

Then there’s Florence – swerving between the crowd, cradling fans’ faces, releasing herself to her followers again and again – all while singing every song like it’s the first time.

”This is our last show and, Auckland, you’re bringing so much good energy,” Florence says.

“You’re going to ask – what the f… is this? Is this a cult?” She banters, who were trembling at their fingertips to cradle her (quite literally glowing) face.

The setlist races through a Lungs and Ceremonials-heavy set, before a middle section favouring How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful and Dance Fever.

Florence describes Dance Fever as “being about the resurrection of dance” after the hiatus of lockdown. She compels us to shake, shiver, and shimmer like she does – dispersing magic dust to the masses with every expert twirl of her gown. The Florence look feels like a high-fashion catwalk directed by Terry Gilliam – perhaps picture Ophelia wearing Molly Goddard, and you’re halfway there.

The final 45 minutes of her 2 hour 20 minute set is a glorious symphony of early hits and the propulsive joy of Dance Fever. She races to-and-fro across Spark Arena – covering miles, barefoot, in twirls across the stage – caressing the crowd in her embrace. A special treat for concertgoers of this tour is a rare live performance of Never Let Me Go, which the singer said she had sworn off singing.

“10 years ago I stopped singing this song. I said if we made it through, I would sing it on stage again.”

Florence and the Machine prove they might just be the apotheosis of pop –the richness of her voice, its forceful choral power, has evolved in depth and maturity. She’s never sounded better. She charges into the high notes with fresh vigour, taking the kind of big swings with the ambitiously quiet utterances of her most iconic tracks that only a major star in full command of their repertoire can do.

Her intervals are a welcome pause between moments of rapture – any pop star of this calibre knows how important it is to suspend the audience in mid-air between successive hits of dopamine, allowing them to revel in the spaces between the hits themselves.

Florence sings from the kind of satisfied exhaustion that attends any of us at the end of a long ceremony. During the pandemic, we needed to be ushered into her era of disco fever. Judging by the ecstasy on her face at the end of this set, it looks like she needed it too.