St. Vincent Brings Theatrical Fire and Intimate Fury to Mission Ballroom

Photos: Gerardo Federico

Annie Clark, better known by her fiercely enigmatic moniker St. Vincent, doesn’t just perform—she conjures. And at her May 16 stop at Denver’s Mission Ballroom on the “All Born Screaming” tour, she delivered a show that was part rock opera, part guitar god ritual, and all raw, unfiltered intensity. It was the kind of night that reaffirmed why Clark remains one of the most compelling and complex artists of the past two decades—miles removed from anything resembling the mainstream, and exactly where she wants to be.

I’ve followed St. Vincent for over a decade, and this performance felt like the culmination of years of evolution. I first stumbled across her while prepping for Pitchfork Music Festival 2012 and was immediately captivated by her haunting, angular live performance from the year before. That curiosity turned into admiration when I caught her amid the lush scenery of Denver Botanic Gardens in 2014. Four years later she blasted through a standout set at the short-lived but memorable Grandoozy Festival—though unfortunately, I had to photograph her from a frustrating distance thanks to a badly placed photo pit.

But all of that felt like a prelude to this—her triumphant return to Denver, now older, sharper, and even more self-possessed. From the second she walked onstage, decked out in a sharply tailored black satin jacket and gripping her signature Ernie Ball Music Man guitar, it was obvious: this was a woman who knows exactly who she is and where she’s headed. You won’t find her swimming in the shallow end of the Top 40 pool—she’s far too precise, too conceptual, too herself for that.

The Mission Ballroom was buzzing well before showtime, the crowd swelling with excitement as the set time approached. When the lights finally dimmed and Clark took the stage, a wave of cheers rolled forward like thunder. What followed was a performance that walked a razor-thin line between meticulous and chaotic, glossy and gritty.

Clark’s set was a balanced cocktail of roiling rock anthems and smoldering ballads, shifting gears seamlessly as she tore through new material from All Born Screaming alongside fan-favorites from across her catalog. Her solos weren’t just technically impressive—they were full-body expressions, danced out across the fretboard and into the audience’s collective bloodstream. Her playing was precise but never sterile, emotive but never overwrought. She wailed, she shimmied, and she absolutely owned that stage.

One of the more human—and strangely charming—moments came when she briefly paused mid-set to deal with some sawdust or grip dust on the stage floor, the kind of hiccup that would throw off a lesser performer. But Clark just laughed it off, brushing her shoes and getting right back to business, showing us all that her perfectionism includes space for spontaneity.

Then came “Birth in Reverse,” a gut-punch of a track that has aged into a monstrous live staple. Clark’s guitar tone during this number was a force of nature—grinding, serrated, and impossibly rich. It wasn’t just heard; it was felt. The audience roared their approval, and the energy level surged.

But the wildest moment came soon after, during her performance of “New York.” Mid-song, Clark casually stepped onto the speakers at the front of the stage, locked eyes with a nearby security guard, and—with a grin—grabbed his hat, popped it on, and climbed onto his shoulders. To his credit, the stunned guard played along, slowly carrying her to the crowd barricade. From there, she leaned back and launched into a full-on crowd surf, all while singing. She rode a sea of eager fans farther than most artists dare go, never missing a beat. It was spontaneous, bold, and weirdly intimate—a perfect encapsulation of what makes her so mesmerizing. And yes, the guard got her safely back onstage, probably with a story he’ll be telling for years.

The encore was a more reflective affair, capped by a heart-wrenching rendition of “Candy Darling.” Bathed in warm lights, Clark’s voice softened into something almost conversational, wrapping around each lyric with gentle control. It was a perfect closer—vulnerable and theatrical in equal measure, and a reminder that while her guitar may howl, her voice can haunt.

St. Vincent isn’t an artist you passively watch. She demands attention—and earns it—with every calculated move and improvised lurch. There’s an architectural intelligence behind every note, every twitch of her fingers on the fretboard, every wide-eyed stare into the audience. She’s built an entire world and invited us in—but make no mistake, she’s still the one holding the blueprint.

If you missed the show, you’ll want to check out my TikTok—I managed to catch a few of the more surreal highlights on video. But even that won’t quite do it justice. The St. Vincent experience is something that has to be witnessed in real time, with your own eyes, vibrating through your own bones.

And lucky for us, Denver got the full effect.