Maybe Mary J. Blige had a limousine parked outside waiting for her and running up a tab during her show Friday at a packed United Center. That might account for the singer-songwriter’s periodic inclination to hurry through a concert that at one point saw her race through snippets of nine different songs in a 12-minute flurry before exiting for one of four outfit changes.
Heavy on spectacle and light on her trademark personal connectivity, Blige’s 100-minute set was hindered by questionable pacing and condensed arrangements that minimized her formidable skills as a vocalist. The For My Fans Tour date doubled as a survey of the Queen of Hip Hop Soul’s career and a summation of her triumphant journey from a street-smart artist who burst on the scene to a superstar who overcame everything from serious depression to substance abuse.
More than 30 years removed from her pioneering debut, Blige long ago reached a point where she can rest on her laurels. Yet she continues to create, produce and add to a legacy that spans music and television to fashion and film.
Few contemporary singers can lay claim to her impact and success. Of her 37 Grammy nominations, Blige owns nine trophies and won at least one award each in the pop, R&B, hip-hop and gospel categories. Last year, she added to her crossover influence with her induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.
Though her recording output during the past decade slowed in comparison to that of her initial yield, Blige accelerated her work on the screen. Along with her Oscar-nominated turn in “Mudbound,” the Bronx native has appeared in movies (“Respect,” “Rob Peace”), acted in TV series (“The Umbrella Academy”), lent her voice to animated features (“Trolls World Tour”) and embraced the role of executive producer (“The Clark Sisters: The First Ladies of Gospel,” “Mary J. Blige’s Real Love”).
At times, Friday’s show too closely resembled a well-polished televised biography. Footage of old interviews, performances and news clips projected on screens during multiple breaks. A few of Blige’s quotations served as voice-over sound bites. The scenes evoked the quick-hit tenor of a scripted series.
But the 54-year-old singer has always distinguished herself and stayed relevant precisely because she realized her craft, themes and life demanded more than ephemeral treatment. Which made her decisions to trim a healthy number of tunes down to a verse or a chorus — and treat them as minor pieces of a fast-moving medley rather than fully developed stories — puzzling and frustrating.
Particularly when her voice displayed no apparent sign of deterioration. Indeed, hearing a completely invested Blige belt out a clarion phrase or push herself to the limit remains one of the most satisfying experiences in live music. When she sang, she didn’t lean on high-tech vocal aids or cleverly masked backing tracks. The downside? When Blige delegated extended parts to her trio of support vocalists or refrained from singing, those moments stood out for the wrong reasons.
Inexplicably, after first emerging on a second small stage located toward the back of the arena and putting a spin on big-entrance expectations while singing “Take Me As I Am,” Blige turned into the equivalent of a spectator. Holding out her microphone as her seven-piece band and auxiliary singers handled “A Dream,” she stepped onto a contraption that whisked her above the crowd and away to the main platform. Rather than dive into a song and drop the curtain on a set anchored by a statue-like representation of two hands holding a crown, Blige disappeared and ceded attention to a video montage touting her accolades and achievements.
Energy and momentum, stunted. They wilted again during the last quarter of the concert when Blige departed and a DJ who entertained before her set reappeared. The bizarre interruption left a deeper rut than Blige’s handing off of lead vocals to the audience, a habit that sank a cover of Rose Royce’s “I’m Goin’ Down” and weakened “I Can Love You.”
Other elements felt more cohesive, if slightly overwrought. A six-person dance crew focused on footwork and choreography that complemented the songs. Plumes of smoke, fireballs, spark showers, dry-ice fog and the occasional prop accented the moods. Never at risk of getting outshined, Blige flashed a vibrant wardrobe — elegant dresses, short bodysuits, cropped jackets — that matched pairs of tall, stiletto-heeled boots that presented mobility challenges she successfully conquered.
Blige required nothing, however, other than her voice and emotion. They would’ve been plenty. She channeled those strengths for intermittent stretches at the concert’s midpoint. Songs such as the hypnotic “Mary’s Joint” and the elegant, gospel-flavored ballad “Here I Am” unfolded in largely unabridged form as Blige uncorked a range that moved from husky, moaning lows to bright, rippling highs and most anything in between.
Raw, raspy and grainy on material that addressed resilience, determination and maturation, her dynamic voice tapped smoothness, sensuality and warmth on narratives that expressed devotion, adoration and happiness. Blige also connected jazz (scat singing, riffing on a phrase, improvising wordless lines), gospel (testifying akin to a preacher delivering a sermon) and hip hop traditions.
In addition to cutting down on banter, Blige struck a mellower, less aggressive tone than at several prior local appearances — a stunning 2004 gig at Arie Crown Theater and memorable co-headlining 2016 date with Maxwell at United Center included. Yet she proved capable of baring her teeth and fighting for women who are often erased, censured, abused or forgotten by partners, society and the like.
She reared back and shifted to a higher gear for the slow jam “Not Gon’ Cry,” a traumatic release that broadcast universal truths about sacrifice, loyalty and anguish. Equally intense, watching her disappear mentally, spiritually and physically into “No More Drama” as she swore off turmoil never grows old. Neither does witnessing its explosive conclusion, which Blige still manages from a crouched position.
The vocalist brought similar ferocity and control to “Good Morning Gorgeous,” whose empowering messages of self-affirmation and self-care came across as textbook Blige. Along with a fiery update of “My Life” and poised reading of “Be Without You,” it found the singer visibly manipulating her chest cavity to help convey soul-baring depth and intent.
Blige would’ve greatly benefited by increasing those occasions, and reducing the amount of abbreviated songs that sapped the music of meaning and weight. Brisk, truncated treatments are normally the parlance of pop mavens whose freshness dates rapidly expire and who seek to hide deficiencies. Not the mark of a legend with staying power, an enormous voice and a fearless attitude.
“I ain’t saying that I’m the best, but I’m the best,” Blige boasted on the swaggering “The One.” In her field and of her generation, arguably. Though not with an approach that too frequently took away from the skills that justify her claim.
