“I do talk a lot of shit sometimes.” Enrique Iglesias is sitting on the arm of a sofa, chatting with Clive and Anita. Clive is from London, Anita is from Poland, and they are engaged to be married. Clive admits he’s ‘a little shaky’ about the whole thing. Enrique asks the couple to share some vodka shots with him to calm their nerves, whilst his band of troubadours play delicate accompanying flamenco riffs to placate the squealing Wembley crowd. It has been three years since Enrique’s last London show, and he’s making up for lost conversation.
The show is simply jaw-dropping – booming bass, precision lighting, tight musicianship. Having made his entrance on a platform rising up through the stage (classic but still effective), Enrique pelts to and fro along the T-shaped stage, belting out a quick succession of energetic numbers and making sure each section of the crowd gets their necessary quota of mobile phone pictures. At one point he relieves an ecstatic fan of her camera and photographs the contents of his underwear, all without missing a note. Enrique’s attire is as simple as his motives: white t-shirt, jeans, trainers. He is sexy without being sleazy, emotional yet sincere.
Clive and Anita are pulled from the audience during the slower section – the Montel Williams chatshow section is a great way of maintaining momentum without having the songs blend into each other (or exhausting the performers) – and plied with vodka until Enrique decides it’s time to up the tempo once more. The sofas disappear and he’s bounding off again to howl at the moon for recent werewolf-epic single Tired Of Being Sorry. And what’s this? The lights dim, and the vast LED backdrop shows a familiar sight: two 10ft high vertical lines moving up and down at the sides of the screen, bouncing a dot in between, all in time to the beat. A ping-pong beat. This is the most awesome thing I have ever seen at any gig, ever. Enrique is having the time of his life, and stands grinning at the end of his T surrounded by hands clamouring for a touch, only to be showered in an enormous cloud of silver ticker-tape.
But it’s not over! Encores may suck for indie bands, but we all know Enrique hasn’t played Hero yet. What none of us were quite prepared for was another audience-plucked victim, Donna. Enrique needs someone to sing Hero at, and flustered Donna looks like she is about to wee herself with joy. Donna is married. “Ah, shit,” sighs a lovestruck Enrique. “Is he here?” Donna’s husband is at home minding their new baby. The audience members stop muttering ‘lucky bitch’ under their breath and turn to each other with an ‘awwww’. The ballad is duly sung, with plenty of hugs administered to the tearful Donna (at one point Enrique places her hands on his BUM!) – and then they both disappear down into the stage through the trapdoor.
Best gig ever.