How do you describe a Gracie Abrams concert in one word? Bows. There are thousands and thousands of them at the O2 Arena tonight, most of them pale pink, and therefore starkly visible among the floor crowd even from seats high-up. Bows are Abrams fans’ Swiftian friendship bracelets – a clear identifier of standom that might cause a commuter to text a friend and ask: “Do you know why there are so many girls with bows at the station?”
It’s mildly ironic that Abrams’ fans are so clearly delineated given that Abrams’ tour for her second album, last year’s The Secret of Us, rarely feels so distinct. In a live setting, it’s hugely apparent that despite her astronomical success – her single That’s So True spent eight weeks as UK No 1; she supported on much of Taylor Swift’s Eras tour – the 25-year-old hasn’t yet carved out her own niche. Anyone just a few years older than the bulk of the crowd – a group that, judging by the pungent smell in the arena, is around that age where you’re old enough to sweat but not to have the confidence to ask your parents for antiperspirant – will probably identify Abrams’ songs by their reference points.
Mixed in with the BO are the distinct scents of the National (Aaron Dessner produced both of Abrams’ albums), Lorde, Mumford & Sons and – above all – Swift and Phoebe Bridgers: a nonspecific pastiche using energetically strummed acoustic guitar, quotidian lyricism and precious twig-snap percussion; coffeehouse folk for the contactless delivery era. The songs from The Secret of Us feel richer and roomier in this live setting – Abrams’ band thankfully not giving in to arena-pop tropes such as heavy-handed drums or needless guitar solos – and her voice sounds strong and tour fit. But it’s impossible to listen to Abrams perform I Love You, I’m Sorry and Risk without wishing you were watching those far superior artists.
It may be an issue of scale. Slighter songs on the album, such as I Told You Things, are turned into beefy, rollicking singalongs in this setting, and Abrams delivers every lyric on every song with a goofy, endearing grin, clearly stoked to be here. But in such a large room, backed with relatively sparse production – a tiered stage and a B-stage designed to look like Abrams’ bedroom – tedium eventually sets in. Abrams feels like a consummate performer in search of slightly better songs, although the crowd would never let you know – the kids in bows are basically moshing throughout, even when the song doesn’t at all warrant it. And hey – successful careers have been built on less.
