Patti LuPone holds court at the Coliseum – continuing her London love affair

Look up the word  “diva” in the dictionary and I bet it says Patti LuPone. I’m kidding, of course, but there are few present day performers outside the rarified world of opera that really deserve that appellation; Patti undoubtedly does however. Last night’s A Life In Notes concert at the vast London Coliseum was fully booked within hours of going on sale, and turned out to be an unmitigated triumph.

Although she’s been enjoying a TV renaissance in shows like American Horror Story and Agatha All Along, this beloved star’s real home is the stage. Whether it’s the Donmar Warehouse, New York’s intimate studio 54 nightclub, or the cavernous Coliseum, everything LuPone touches becomes pure theatre.

Conceived and directed by Smash co-creator Scott Wittman, A Life In Notes, which is also an album, is comparatively low-key for a performer whose name is synonymous with drama. It’s just Patti, two fine musicians (Joseph Thalken and Brad Phillips), an anecdotal script by Jeffrey Richman that sounds as though she’s improvising it on the spot, and a selection of songs that punctuated her life from her Long Island upbringing in the 1950s and 1960s to her present day hallowed career. The programme ranged from mid-20th century pop through Bob Dylan, to chanson to a smattering of the showtunes she’s synonymous with (nothing from Sunset Boulevard though, obviously). That such a simple format works so well even in such a large venue is due to sheer force of personality.

What is it that makes her so special? Obviously there’s that distinctive voice, a compelling expressive mixture of brass, slate and smoke, with her idiosyncratic manner of biting into certain consonants, then running words together. The lyrics are not always crystal clear but the emotional intent and truth consistently is. Some standards she caresses like a mother or a lover, while others she takes on as though going into battle (one critic famously described her Fantine as “stridently tubercular” when reviewing the original Les Mis). Watching her is to see a unique artist but also to bear witness to a direct line back to legendary old school Broadway divas such as Ethel Merman and Elaine Stritch, although LuPone’s instrument is rangier and more impressive than arguably the former and certainly the latter.

More than all that though, the key to her enduring and endearing (if formidable) appeal may be the sense of sheer wonder that she still brings to her craft and to the theatre itself. In her 2010 memoir, she describes herself, even after the international acclaim and the audience adoration and the Tony awards and the Olivier awards, as “a fan”, of the industry, of the talent. It’s a touching admission, especially coming from one so lauded and well established.

Furthermore, there’s also a sense with LuPone that, for all the Julliard training and the ability to connect with audiences equally well on cabaret or concert or theatrical stages, there is sometimes a magic at work in her performances, that not even she fully understands. It was fascinating seeing her in discussion at Theatre Royal Haymarket with Edward Seckerson back when she was starring in the Marianne Elliott Company pre-pandemic, and watching her react to listening to her own cast recordings, apparently slightly amazed at times by her own (thrilling) vocal choices. Certainly the stamina and the control over those golden pipes is something that has been hard won and wasn’t fully in place early in her career, as evidenced in the sometimes painful section in her memoir where she talks about playing Evita in the original American production.

Also, LuPone is funny and always has been. When your signature roles include Eva Peron (fascist dictator’s wife, died young), Fantine (saintly prostitute, died young) and Maria Callas (huge emotional turmoil, died fairly young), it’s easy for audiences to forget that you have terrific comedy chops. Last night’s show was a forcible reminder, climaxing in a bitterly triumphant “Ladies Who Lunch” that had the audience screaming. She even yodels (who knew?!) and there are still signs, beneath the sparkling gown and jewels, of the rebellious rock ’n’ roll obsessed Long Island kid, easy to love but impossible to control.

Like Donna Murphy and Betty Buckley, she is an actor first and that pays off rich dramatic dividends when interpreting song. Few of her contemporaries are so adept at turning audience mood on a dime from heartbreak to unbridled joy, except possibly Bernadette Peters who, wonderful as she is, isn’t really singing at this level any more.

Famously not a fan of the current US president (that’s putting it mildly: if you’ve never seen it, Google her response when questioned about him on the 2017 Tony Awards red carpet), maybe she should think about relocating permanently to London, which she describes as her favourite city. The UK theatre scene’s love affair with Patti LuPone shows no signs of cooling off. I hope she goes on forever.