Somewhere between a dominatrix and a preacher, Nathy Peluso stands alone yet commands the center of the Roundhouse stage, she prowls. She commands. She makes the mic stand look like an afterthought, an accessory to be tossed and wrangled. The lights pulse, and so does she. This isn’t just a concert. It’s a reckoning.
“Corleone” doesn’t start so much as it descends. That orchestral grandeur, the film-score foreboding—it doesn’t build anticipation, it grips it by the throat. Peluso emerges like a figure from some unwritten telenovela—part femme fatale, part crime lord. She’s winking at us, but there’s menace behind it. The brass swells. The bassline coils tight. And just like that, she detonates.
Nothing stays in one place for long. She doesn’t do transitions; she shapeshifts. From the hard staccato raps of “BZRP Music Sessions #36,” where she spits at triple speed and the crowd spits back, to the slow-burn seduction of “Delito,” where every syllable drips, where her voice is syrup, slow and lethal. The room tilts. One moment it’s a club, bodies pressing and sweat-slick; the next, it’s a jazz lounge, dark corners and slow exhalations. She takes her time, but only when she chooses to.
And then—boom. “Mafiosa.” There’s nothing subtle about it. The crowd screams before the first note even lands. It’s pure attack, sharp edges and hip thrusts. The way she snarls it, the way she hurls it at us like a gauntlet—this is a battle song. Not a club anthem, not a hype track, but a full-blown, chest-thumping, bone-rattling declaration. The audience isn’t just moving; they’re rallying.
She does this all night. Makes us pliable. One moment, we’re animals, hands in the air, eyes rolling back. The next, we’re believers, hanging onto her every murmur in “Buenos Aires,” swaying in some communal fever dream. That song should be a closer, a lullaby for the chaos she’s left behind—but she won’t let us off that easy. She stretches it out, teases it, turns the venue into a cathedral of yearning. Her voice is rawer now, rough silk. She lets herself falter just a little, just enough for the moment to feel dangerous, like it might break open.
And then she leaves. No bows, no farewells, just a last glance, a last hip flick, and gone. The beat lingers, echoing in the bones. The lights come up too fast, the spell breaking before anyone is ready. People look at each other, dazed, giddy, a little wrecked. The only thing anyone can agree on is that they weren’t ready for it to end.
Nathy Peluso doesn’t just perform. She possesses. And tonight, we were all willing hosts.
Words & photos – Richard Isaac
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