Raye review – a matter-of-fact masterclass in poignant pop | Pop and rock

Raye is sitting at a piano recalling the moment in her career she learned to fake it. It was 2016 and her manager was suggesting she jump on a track with dance act Jonas Blue. “On first listen I hated the song,” she says. “That was when I became a great actress because everyone thought I loved this song. But I’m going to perform it for you now.”

Such candour, rare in pop today, is understandable from Raye. It was only last year that the 24-year-old tweeted that her record label were preventing the release of her debut album despite her securing seven Top 20 hits and racking up millions of monthly listeners on Spotify. “I’m done being a polite pop star,” she wrote, and parted ways with Polydor soon after.

Judging by tonight, that much is true. Joined by only a guitarist, she delivers an intimate evening of acoustic performances and unflinching anecdotes about the horrors of the music industry. After opening with the biting and emancipatory Hard Out Here, her first song as an independent artist, Raye tells the sometimes upsetting story of her career, one song at a time. She describes how Don’t Leave was stolen and given to another artist. She recounts being forced to record guest features for a song she says “sucks”. And before Bed, her biggest hit, she admits: “It’s not my favourite song, but it did great for my bank account.”

It would be bleak if Raye weren’t such an effervescent performer. She spices up her setlist with jazz-inflected versions of Secrets and the Jolene-like Natalie Don’t, adding scatted ad libs and vocal runs. She also repeatedly stops songs mid-line to crack jokes about bad boyfriends or to poke fun at her dire previous situation.

Even heavier new songs, like the stirring Black Mascara, which details her experience having her drink spiked, and a ballad about sexual violence, feel less like trauma dumping and more like group therapy, each showcasing Raye’s exemplary talents as a songwriter. “This is my story,” she says at one point, “and now I get to change the narrative.” If tonight is anything to go by, consider it done.

Raye is sitting at a piano recalling the moment in her career she learned to fake it. It was 2016 and her manager was suggesting she jump on a track with dance act Jonas Blue. “On first listen I hated the song,” she says. “That was when I became a great actress because everyone thought I loved this song. But I’m going to perform it for you now.”

Such candour, rare in pop today, is understandable from Raye. It was only last year that the 24-year-old tweeted that her record label were preventing the release of her debut album despite her securing seven Top 20 hits and racking up millions of monthly listeners on Spotify. “I’m done being a polite pop star,” she wrote, and parted ways with Polydor soon after.

Judging by tonight, that much is true. Joined by only a guitarist, she delivers an intimate evening of acoustic performances and unflinching anecdotes about the horrors of the music industry. After opening with the biting and emancipatory Hard Out Here, her first song as an independent artist, Raye tells the sometimes upsetting story of her career, one song at a time. She describes how Don’t Leave was stolen and given to another artist. She recounts being forced to record guest features for a song she says “sucks”. And before Bed, her biggest hit, she admits: “It’s not my favourite song, but it did great for my bank account.”

It would be bleak if Raye weren’t such an effervescent performer. She spices up her setlist with jazz-inflected versions of Secrets and the Jolene-like Natalie Don’t, adding scatted ad libs and vocal runs. She also repeatedly stops songs mid-line to crack jokes about bad boyfriends or to poke fun at her dire previous situation.

Even heavier new songs, like the stirring Black Mascara, which details her experience having her drink spiked, and a ballad about sexual violence, feel less like trauma dumping and more like group therapy, each showcasing Raye’s exemplary talents as a songwriter. “This is my story,” she says at one point, “and now I get to change the narrative.” If tonight is anything to go by, consider it done.