Her black leather bodice indicates she's all grown up, but Janet Jackson is looking lost. As cheers wash over her, she grins in the hope that the chaos will end, mouthing, "It's too much," while her eyes reveal a hint of sadness. She's only sitting on a stool, after all.
Janet Jackson has had this reaction for 17 years, as famous for being a kid sister as for being a pop diva. But it's not until she grinds to her greatest hits that you realise just how much success she's had, as each songs butts up against the next, prodding at our collective memory. And she works hard to make sure we don't forget again.
Not that it's the ultra-slick, professional artist we're first introduced to. Pictures of Jackson flash before our eyes, settling on an image of her lying on a couch wearing nothing but white boots. She's not just selling albums these days, she's selling sex. Standing high on top of a pole, wearing white, sparkly fringed trousers and bra top, a white hat pulled over her eyes, Jackson is poised and in control as the dance rhythm of Come On Get Up gets the crowd off their seats. As she throws herself into a complicated and perfectly executed dance routine - dipping low to reveal an expanse of cleavage, moving her hand to her groin for instant crowd satisfaction - it's clear that she needs all her energy for her moves and is miming to her song. As a result, the dancing is inspired but the sound distant.
For an artist like Jackson and a show like this, where the spectacle is what matters and the sweat-count noted, it's an understandable compromise. More importantly, it's giving the crowd exactly what they want - perfect songs they know by heart and a visual feast of ever-changing sets and ever-decreasing outfits. Rhythm Nation, made famous by its memorably routine- infested video, is the ultimate example, the tight, regimented moves playing off against the structured, sassy beats. The S&M fantasy of Would You Mind, Jackson dressed in a black PVC catsuit as she gyrates outrageously on top of a fan plucked from the audience and strapped to what looks like an extended dentist's chair, a look of absolute terror on his face, provokes gasps. But Jackson's Teletubby-meets-stripper costume for Escapade is much more frightening.
When Jackson concentrates on the sound and sings live, she succeeds on a whole new level. A medley of ballads including Let's Wait a While and Again reveals the hushed sensitivity behind the style, and the snatched glimpses of 1980s chart classics retain their freshness. As well as a stomach you could break bricks on, Jackson's new-found sensuality has given her the courage to enjoy her past.
