A couple of songs into the first of her three “A Matter of Time” shows in Manila, Laufey gave a disclaimer: If she seemed to be taking more sips of water than usual, it was because she knew Filipinos were “really good singers” and she could never give anything less than her A-game.
Well, that and the fact that it was hot and the Icelandic in her was melting away. But if she was indeed feeling the pinch—and the heat—it didn’t show.
Surprisingly playful
Laufey did as Laufey does, whisking the audience into a whimsical world of romance set to the bombast of an old Hollywood overture. In the show’s first act, which revels in the rush of idealized love, she was every bit the princess of her own fairy tale. She lounged beneath a gazebo and skipped and flounced about in a flowy, qipao-inspired gown (a nod to her Chinese heritage).
In the show’s first act, which revels in the rush of idealized love, she was every bit the princess of her own fairy tale
But while it can be easy to pin her as someone of delicate proclivities, she also proved to be a surprisingly playful performer. She flirted with cabaret theatrics, doing high kicks as she went down the stairs in “Dreamer” and striking cheeky poses with every sarcastic line in “Bored.” With its easygoing bossa nova groove, “Lover Girl” swayed one into the realization that they had become hopeless romantics; bursts of flamenco-like handclaps snapped them out of their reverie.
Hoping to “find a moment to be extra close and intimate,” the 27-year-old stripped the night of its storybook trappings and, together with keyboardist Heather Rivas, drummer Maverick MacMillan, and acoustic bassist Dario Bizio, evoked the haze of a cozy jazz lounge.
“Pretend you have a cigarette in your hand—or not, actually,” she said. “Don’t smoke!” Laufey warned her Filipino “Lauvers,” who turned the SM Mall of Asia Arena into a sea of frills, ribbons, and crowns.
Genuine dramatic arcs
It was immediately clear why this segment was one of her favorites. By rearranging her older songs “to make them a tad more jazzy,” Laufey allowed herself more room to improvise than on the studio recordings.
She toyed with the phrasing in “Valentine.” In “Seems Like Old Times,” she seamlessly transitioned between head voice, chest voice, and vocal fry with ease. Her movements were more spontaneous—the shuffle of her feet matching the sudden turns in tempo of her ad-libs.
By rearranging her older songs “to make them a tad more jazzy,” Laufey allowed herself more room to improvise than on the studio recordings
“Let You Break My Heart Again,” one of the night’s best vocal performances, moved more than a few to tears. That she could marry pop with established musical traditions and still find young listeners thousands of miles away from the “island in the middle of nowhere” she calls home wasn’t lost on her.
“You guys proved me wrong. People are willing to listen to this kind of music,” she says. If seven sold-out Manila shows were any indication, Filipinos had been doing just that for years. “You ignited this light in me and gave me the confidence to write in any genre I want and not feel limited.”
And if there are two songs that capture the expanse of her talent, they may well be “Promise” and “Goddess.” Much of Laufey’s music excels at establishing a mood. Songs like “From the Start” stay playful and charming, and “Falling Behind” wistful, at roughly the same emotional level.
“You ignited this light in me and gave me the confidence to write in any genre I want and not feel limited”
“Promise” and “Goddess,” meanwhile, have genuine dramatic arcs. They begin with restraint before hurt and disillusionment creep in, and, together with swelling orchestration, they build toward a breaking point or catharsis.
Confronting insecurities
While we could all derive pleasure from the fantasy world she has created, it was when she brought everything crashing down to earth that the evening felt most real.
In “Snow White,” inspired by the many impossible beauty standards women are forced into, she sang before a mirror, as if forced to reckon with her own insecurities—“things we’re afraid to talk about because it can feel like we’re giving away our secrets.” And in her closing song, the melancholic but edifying “Letter to My 13-Year-Old Self,” she lulled everyone into comfort, reassuring them that they’re beautiful in their own unique way.
Again, as stifled sobs and sniffles broke the silence across the arena, Laufey reminded us that humans are not all that different, and that songwriting’s “true magic” lies in its ability to bring people together and make us feel “so much less alone.”
“I hope you can feel that connection with the people around you and to me,” she says. “Because I certainly do.”
