Missy Elliott has been on a doctor-ordered diet, and now has a waist, but in every other way she's still larger than life. She embodies the hip-hop maxim that there's no point in coming to Britain for one gig if you don't bring along 38 of your nearest and dearest, including 20 dancers, a DJ and a hypeman (a co-MC, whose bellows were eclipsed by Missy's). There was also a sharp-suited mountain whose only task was to help the rap queen, who recently had foot surgery, out of the hydraulic box from which she made her entrance. And let's not forget the towel man, and the functionary who, when her foot played up, was ready with a scooter to take her to the other side of the stage. Nice work if you can get it, and she seems a fun boss, consistently smiling and generous about giving solo spots to others in the entourage.
Her generosity ultimately made this show, her first here since 2000, less of an event than it should have been. Missy Elliott has a back catalogue full of spanking, genre-defining hits that would have filled an entire evening, if she'd decided to perform them. In the event, the 60-minute set was stuffed with time-wasters: 10 minutes squandered on her protege, Jessica, a hoofabout by four of the dancers, the inevitable stupid contest to judge which side of the crowd was loudest. Have I mentioned the rollerskating display? So we were left with 40 minutes of Missy, whose powers as a live MC seem to have been diminished anyway by long periods of studio work (her fourth album since 2001, The Cookbook, is out now).
She can bawl with the best of them, but the beguiling subtleties of Get Ur Freak On, Work It and The Rain have been lost. Work It did boast kinetic magic, as Missy's flow seemed to meld with jolts of electronic static that in turn were synchronised with the lights - this, with its nod to partner Timbaland's minimalism, is what modern rap should be. But then it was over, Missy announcing that she was on her way to a party around the corner. She invited us along, but I wonder how many bothered to go.