Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the show is that the music doesn’t feel overshadowed by the performance. At one point, accompanied by a gospel choir, she sings the old hymn Amazing Grace prostrate on the stage, a performance that is concluded by a stagehand dragging her into the wings by her ankles.
There are numerous costume changes, but not all the costumes are capable of containing the woman wearing them: “Maybe you’ll get to see some tit,” she says, pre-empting another wardrobe malfunction. Her performance of My Jamaican Guy ends with Jones at the top of the stairs, flat on her back with her legs in the air, wildly scissor-kicking. Her between-song chat ranges from gnomic – “It’s been a long time,” she growls, “like no time at all” – to so out-there it seems to confuse even her: “Does that make any fucking sense to you?” she frowns. She sings Amazing Grace prostrate on stage, a performance concluded by a stagehand dragging her off by the ankles
