Would-be soul diva takes her

New York bow BY CHARLES AARON

MAY 12, 2008 APOLLO THEATER, NEW YORK CITY

Harlem nocturne: Duffy basks in uptown bliss.

Who’s That Girl?

So why was that tiny pale marionette with the otherworldly voice and the featureless one-word name testifying to same-sex, interracial couples at Harlem’s Apollo Theater?

That’s cheeky hyperbole, of course, but no matter how dispassionately unbiased or musically catholic (or blithely oblivious) one might be, it was hard not to indulge in some identity-politics rubbernecking at the American coming-out party for Welsh waif Duffy. Although her debut album, Rockferry—nine tautly constructed torch songs, plus one finger-snappin’ Amy Winehouse mock-up (“Mercy”)—had already topped the U.K. charts, the 23-year-old blonde had been on the defensive since late March, when London hip-hop/R&B star Estelle, whose “American Boy” displaced “Mercy” as the U.K.’s No. 1 single, trashed trendy white Brit neo-soul singers like Duffy and the woeful Adele: “As a songwriter, I get what they do. As a black person, I’m like, you’re telling me this is my music? Fuck that!” Duffy’s rote reply: “If the talent and desire is there, I don’t think it matters what color you are.”

Mmm, then why did she celebrate her album’s U.S. release uptown at the most storied black-music temple in the world? It took no great leap to see the booking as a rebuttal—an 8 Mile freestyle moment, in which Duffy goes to the hood and sticks it to her doubters.

Of course, in this era of gentrification, the crowd was heavily white and British, with a notable gay contingent (Dusty Springfield nostalgia, perhaps?), or essentially, one big Harlem Heritage tourist group.

Still, backed by a tasteful six-piece (no horn-section hamboning or guitar grimacing), Duffy commanded a powerful stillness. Spotlit in a white minidress, she opened by nailing the petitely bluesy “Syrup & Honey.” Though once a finalist on Wawffactor (Wales’ American Idol), she broached no melismatic pitchiness. She wailed meticulously on signature ballads “Rockferry” (cue prerecorded

FROM LEF T: LUC Y HAMBLIN; WES ORSHOSKI/RE TNA

“To Sir With Love” strings) and “Warwick Avenue” (Smokey Robinson sends his regards). Her stage moves—slowly unfurling an arm, carefully flipping a wrist, tiptoeing in circles in steep red pumps—didn’t enhance the songs so much as ensconce her as a rarefied pop china doll.

Possibly Duffy’s authenticity is less a factor of race than her own limited musical/personal experience. After a teen Evanescence-derived, Welsh-language project stiffed (see her Aimée Duffy EP), she was mentored by hipster benefactors Jeanette Lee of PiL and Rough Trade Records and producer/cowriter Bernard Butler of Suede, who gave her a Soul 101 seminar (hence the Motown Mad Libs lyrics). But what if next year they packed her iPod with Arthur Lee and Judee Sill records? Considering that voice, the possibilities could be eerily endless.