Self Esteem
3Olympia Theatre
★★★★★
Thursday night at 3Olympia Theatre begins riotously. Moonchild Sanelly opens with a set that feels less like a warm-up and more like a party already in full swing. There are bubbles, singalongs, and plenty of ass-flaunting. Her energy is irreverent, playful, and irresistibly fun. At one point she launches into a song about falling in love, starting therapy, and swearing off tequila, only to confess that the abstinence, like the love affair, was short-lived. She’s back to her usual form, and the audience is all the happier for it.
The mood shifts as Self Esteem takes the stage. Rebecca Lucy Taylor emerges with eight backing singers, all dressed in Puritan costumes: long black gowns, stark white collars and bonnets gleaming under minimalist stagelights. The tableau is eerie, particularly when the dancers begin to twitch and spasm one by one, as if possessed. “For the next 60 minutes, you belong to us,” she announces.
The opener, I Do and I Don’t Care, is a sweeping choral piece that crests with the question: “If I’m so empowered, why am I such a coward?” The line feels like a mission statement, an inquiry into empowerment feminism from the inside. Taylor grapples with its uneasy comedy, shifting between soaring pride and biting self-contempt, reaching for glimmers of pure optimism from inside a broken life. Even when chanting feel-good feminist platitudes, it’s impossible not to detect quiet irony, though never mockery. She truly wants to believe, and that’s what makes her so interesting.
Beneath their bubbly surface, her pop songs hide a volcanic emotional terrain, shifting unpredictably between vulnerability, defiance, and absurdity. As she sings on F**king Wizardry: “Part of being funny is having some sincerity and using both of them wisely.” Her lyrics are clever in a dry, understated way. On alcohol: “I wouldn’t do it if it didn’t work, but it really f**king works, and that’s the curse.” On love: “When I’m buried in the ground I won’t be able to make your birthday drinks but I will still feel guilty.”
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The show unfolds with immaculate pacing and attention to detail. Each shift is both surprising and deliberate: a glimpse of black-and-white boxing shoes under Puritan gowns signals the move into gym kit and more aggressive choreography. High-energy numbers give way to moments of intimacy. In one memorable sequence, she picks up a banana, dials it like a phone, and leaves a voicemail for a lost lover before peeling and eating it. There’s a breathtaking a cappella interlude performed in near darkness, an appearance in an Irish jersey, a brass flourish, and a weird voodoo bit where “Ben” and “Eddie”, presumably two scumbag ex-boyfriends, are summoned.
By the time the final notes fade, the audience is on its feet, the room buzzing with applause. The set is rich, dense and dynamic, a masterclass in pacing and performance. Taylor has transformed her intimate, highly specific songs into an immersive experience. Vision and execution, perfectly matched.
