Poppy is an intriguing artist. Musically, she fuses some of the most ferocious strains of modern metal with the glossiest, bubbliest pop. Imagine Katy Perry raised on Slipknot, or the unlikely offspring of Marilyn Manson and Lady Gaga. It is a strange hybrid on paper, but on stage the contrast works.
Conceptually, she presents herself almost like a virtual construct, a performer who seems designed to wear whatever mask the audience projects onto her. That ambiguity is part of the narrative of the show. It makes for an immersive experience, but it also creates a certain emotional distance between the artist and the crowd. At times she feels almost holographic. Occasionally, when the audience grows particularly loud or chants her name with enough insistence, the façade cracks for a second and a brief smile slips through. Otherwise she remains fully committed to the role.
Despite the cool, almost robotic presence at the center of the stage, the reaction from the audience is anything but sterile. Songs like “Concrete” are sung back with near religious fervor by a crowd strikingly balanced between men and women, still relatively rare in metal audiences, though thankfully becoming less so. After a little over an hour, the show comes to an end. What happens to the avatar once it leaves the stage and waits to reappear the next night in another city is anyone’s guess.
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