Leona, as if beamed through a Star Trek transporter, is now barely visible behind a charcoal vocal booth curtain, singing a song no one has mentioned, a soaring reverie over mournful piano and strings, called Blank Page. "I am a blaaaaaank page," she serenades, a soul-bending power lilt somewhere between Sinéad O'Connor and Barbra Streisand, "waiting for life to start." It might just do for Leona what Someone Like You has done for Adele. Confronted by the force of this year's other Hackney Heroine there's no talk here, any more, of Hollywood hounds in jerkins. Instead: total silence. Other than the sound of a reporter's ruined mascara descending towards the floor.
her worst so far, anyway so excited for new music
