Last month, Leona Lewis was attacked by a fan at a book signing. Tonight, as fans arrive for her first major live performance, security at Hackney's Empire theatre is unrecognisably tight to anyone who has rolled up here for comedy nights in years gone by. Bags are searched; like butch panto fairies, bouncers wave metal detector wands at everyone going in the doors, including small children. Cyclists (well, me) must check in their helmets.
A walk through a metal detector is standard practice at clubs in London boroughs riven by knife crime. Two years ago, a childhood friend of Lewis's was shot dead in nearby Stoke Newington, not far from where Lewis once worked as a receptionist in a chiropody practice. With her big pipes, good looks and drive, local girl Lewis was supposed to have escaped all this, turning her 2006 X Factor victory into a passport to international fame. As she reveals on stage, Lewis was 13 when she first performed at the Empire; that she chose this cherished London venue, now scandalously earmarked for closure, for her first full-length live outing anywhere in the world reflects well on the 24-year-old singer. But it's not a little ironic that Lewis has traded the ugly, mano-a-mano dangers of Hackney for an altogether different calibre of menace: celebrity stalkers.
Tonight, she is among friends. "C'mawwwwn Leona!" shriek the fans as the lights dim. They are in for a treat. This is a stadium-ready show crammed into a pocket-sized venue. The stalls are within an easy bike helmet's lob of the stage, but the production values are stratospheric.
Dry ice cascades down a tiered stage. Half-a-dozen, white-painted male dancers stripped to the waist gyrate mysteriously. A system of screens and projections renders various Lewises larger than life; a full band and two backing singers mean this is no mere celeb PA executed to a tinny backing track. It all begins with a projection of Lewis, masked as though for Venice's carnevale, accompanied by the heavy orientalist pop of "Brave", a new track from her imminent second album, Echo.
Lewis appears in an explosion of ruched black, her dancers looking like Thai engravings brought to life. We might be in the Hackney Empire, but we are further east than the mere East End. All this stagecraft and set design are counterbalanced by Lewis's chatty "How you feeling?" and her effusive thanks, frequently expressed. "Bleeding Love", Lewis's greatest hit, comes early in the set, saving "Chasing Cars", her cover of the Snow Patrol tune, for the end.
Those not signed up to the fan club are entitled to be a bit more quizzical. The thump of the band drowns out Lewis's singing all too often. When you can hear her, Lewis passes all the vocal tests, hitting the top notes and swooping skilfully from human hairdryer to coo on "Happy", the new single. But her intimate husk, more appealing than her full throttle, is too often lost in the band's blare.
For all the slickness on parade at this homecoming, Lewis is really dipping a manicured toe into unfamiliar waters. This free show in a tiny venue in front of an adoring crowd makes a great rehearsal for Lewis's worldwide tour, planned for next year. But why has it taken Lewis this long to play live? She won The X Factor three years ago, an aeon in pop time. It took nearly a year for her debut album, Spirit, to be released. Clearly, Lewis and her mentors (Simon Cowell, Clive Davis, possibly the most renowned talent scout in the US music industry) have been playing a long game. Rather than cashing in on an ephemeral talent show win, Lewis has become a keeper diva. Spirit, released in 2007, was a huge success, selling 6.5m copies worldwide. But still she didn't tour it.
With sales like that, touring probably wasn't economically necessary. The official explanation cites Lewis's punishing promotional schedule, and Lewis wanting more than one album to showcase live. Both are probably true, but you suspect that Lewis's wooden manner might have something to do with it. She doesn't own even this familiar stage. The big league divas are not expected to dance like a Britney might, but Lewis veers between a knock-kneed default mode and some stilted vogueing on "Outta My Head", the night's token up-tempo club track.
You're never really expecting Lewis to ejaculate an "innit", but her transformation from local hopeful to anodyne celeb has been a bit too complete. There is evidence of some actual spirit in her. Lewis reportedly turned down £1m to open a Harrods sale last year because it stocks fur. But this is a characterless, if slick performance. Sadly, she could be any starlet and this could be anywhere.
