Soul sensation Olivia Dean, crown jewel of pop, serves up supernova masterclass

Live review: Soul sensation Olivia Dean - a supernova masterclass from the UK’s new vivacious crown jewel of pop music.

By Luc Burke-Lejeune

The freshly sweet 'Art of Loving' tour landed for two wondrous sold-out nights at the Co-op Live in the heart of Manchester, and I was fortunate enough to be seated for the second night of pure, soul-stirring joy.

Not so long ago, catching Olivia Dean felt like being privvy to a beautifully kept secret. It’s hard for me not to think back to the year ‘24, squeezed into the low-ceilinged, sweat-slicked confines of Leeds Stylus.

Back then, Dean was simply just a rising star in her vivid-neon auburn dress; her voice was already too great for the student-filled room, and her sunny charm and presence that cold Yorkshire night certainly made a few hundred people feel like the only ones in the world.

Fast forward to tonight at Manchester’s sonorous Co-op live, and the secret is well and truly out of the bag, as Olivia Dean and her first-rate band of backing musicians are now taking over arenas worldwide.

But before the woman of the hour could take to the stage, Jalen Ngonda provided the perfect tonal appetiser to tonight’s showing.

His consummate talent, drenched in warm, amber light, Ngonda channels that golden era of Motown with a precision that feels both vintage yet also effortlessly vital, as tracks like If You Don’t Want My Love and Just Like You Used to feel so timeless you wouldn’t be able to convince anyone the track came out three years ago and wasn’t just the findings of a dusty treasured vinyl in the back of your local record shop.

His abiding falsettos were a razor-sharp tool in his inventory of long-winded guitar solos, foot-tapping basslines and graceful retroactive flounce, all of which helped to slice through that early arena chatter and forcing those early arrivals (which were in the many) to stop and take notice.

By the time he closed his gorgeously 70s-stimulated set, the venue walls and polka-dot-dressed attendees were sufficiently greeted with that fragrant punch of soul and heart that would live on throughout the rest of the vivacious evening ahead.

Opening her effervescent show to the twinkling tune of The Art of Loving (Intro), a sweeping curtain that had been there since entrance was projected upon within the retro styling of that bygone golden age of that pipe-smoking Hollywood pull.

As the title cards for the show had been displayed, the audience were more than ready, cooped up with their popcorn in hand (or, in this case, the cheapest drink on tap), and as the three-storey curtain finally dragged back, revealing the silhouettes behind the drapes, we were treated to that beautifully entangling lure of Nice To Each Other.

With the amphitheatre stage now fully revealed for Dean and her band, the scale of her transformation is beyond staggering, as she’s always had that untamed sparkling sway with her romantic anthems, but despite the 20,000-strong crowd and the hi-tech gloss of the UK’s newest mega-venue, that energy she shined at the Stylus is still unbelievably strong, as her uncanny ability to make a resonant void of thousands feel like a cosy hidden-away jazz club remains boldly intact.

Her set was an intimately curated journey of beauty and bliss through the experiences of emotional growth and the empowering of womanhood.

Lady Lady felt particularly resonant tonight; its bassy, rich groove underscores a lyricism about moving out and maturation that seems to hit home for a predominantly female crowd that has clearly grown alongside her and her sincerely tender lyrics.

The ethereal UFO followed, creating the most cinematically still moment of the night. As Dean sits on a stool, backed only by her long-time bassist and guitarist, the arena transforms into a sea of twinkling phone lights.

It's a standard arena trope, sure, but the way Dean’s voice cracks with genuine emotion makes the raising of goosebumps feel intensely earned rather than prematurely engineered.

The undisputed peak for the long-term devotees of the Londoner and her crew comes with the mid-set, as an undisputed one-two punch of heritage and hedonism. Carmen was a pulsating, brass-heavy explosion, a technicolour tribute to her grandmother and the Windrush generation that turned the panelled floor space into a picturesque carnival of celebration.

Then comes the funky, strutting groove of my personal favourite Ladies Room. It’s a track that captures everything pronounced about the 27-year-old: the witty, conversational lyricism, the effortless cool, and that London girl charm that hasn't been diluted by her new fame.

Watching her every twirl and spin across the velvety beige-coloured stage while singing about the sanctuary of a nightclub bathroom is that undefined truth we as a country have been searching for when it comes to the next national pop treasure.

Echo was where the band truly flexed their impressive musical muscles. As the live arrangement of Echo was a significantly punchier and more muscular variant than its studio counterpart, with Dean leading a call-and-response that had the Manchester crowd vibrating from its own voices.

It's a moment of pure, rhythmic synergy that proves she’s just as comfortable leading a funk-inflected riot as she is a piano ballad.

As the spectacular evening of motion reaches the midway point, she reaches for The Hardest Part on her star-shaped B stage, and if there were any doubts about her vocal stamina, they are extinguished here.

It was a definitive masterclass in control, vulnerable in the verses and soaring in that brimmingly magnetic hook, reminding us that beneath the glitz of the arena production lies a songwriter of formidable, old-school weight.

The show then reaches its zenith with the inevitable, joyous eruption of mega hit Man I Need.

Unaccountably massive in popularity, the track recently surpassed the billion mark on Spotify and I think everyone in this room would argue that still wasn't enough streams for the deafening volume produced during this generational anthem.

As the final chorus kicked into action, a pair of giant pink sparkling mirror balls descended from the rafters, refracting light across every corner of the arena like a celestial birthday party.

A massive confetti cannon filled the air with a blizzard of pinks and purples, reflecting the artist's remarkable growth from pub back rooms to arena stages without compromising her essence.

By the time the lights come up, it’s clear we’re no longer looking at a one to watch. Yes, the time for tracks like White Trainers may be long gone, but Olivia Dean has incontestably arrived on the world stage in unproblematic grace, proving that you can scale up the spectacle without watering down any of the magic that got her here in the first place.