Laura Marling, Secret Cinema, London

, she was incredibly reluctant to give anything away about her latest venture, Secret Cinema. The only adjectives we could prise out of her were “crazy” and “strange”. She simply said “it’s going to be something.”

Its fair to say, then, as we board a DLR bound for East London wearing out of place black-tie dress and clutching a bunch of flowers for Mrs Undine - as instructed - we haven’t got the foggiest what to expect. The Grand Eagle Hotel, a looming old building with towers projecting out of its decadent front, is identifiable by huge gates, manned by smart bell-boys in beige uniforms. As we approach, a young man with a moustache cycles past and doffs his cap at us. The attendant on the gate calls us ‘madam’. It feels like we’re in an Evelyn Waugh novel, and it also feels completely surreal.

A stern looking lady who appears to be in charge of the hotel barks at us as we walk in, and we nervously hand over our tickets. “Oh, Hunt, of course! Ladies, join The Dixon Party over here!” The Dixon Party turns out to be a pair of two equally bewildered gentlemen, and we’re taken upstairs to our rooms. En route we meet two giggling maids who seem to be spending most of their shift flirting with our porter. Leaving the rest of the Dixons behind, we’re left to acclimatise in our room.

Before long though, the door hurls open with great force, and in stumbles a drunken flapper who throws herself wearily down on the bed. She is apparently in need of a nap. There’s no cocktails left at the bar, she sighs – “I think I drank them all”. Begging to differ, we excuse ourselves, and quickly locate the alcohol. Between us we sample ‘The Hunter’ a velvety pomegranate concoction topped up with bubbly, and the equally potent ‘Champagne Breakfast’; a mixture of gin, marmalade and yet more of the fizzy stuff. At £8 a pop, they’re pricey, but the bartender gives us an informative lesson on Beefeater gin so it surely counts as educational. That’s what we tell ourselves, anyway.

After wandering round rooms full of origami eagles, and the biggest pool table we’ve ever seen, somebody seizes our arms. It’s our friend, the tipsy flapper, who appears to be back on her feet, but still in high spirits. “Are you looking for love?” she slurs. She takes an unsure “yes” as her cue, ushering me away from my accomplice into another room, where a confused looking man is sat on the bed, presumably subject to similar fate. After being grilled on the nature of love, the gentleman on the bed grows very flustered as the flapper looks deeply into his eyes and says “I love you” with terrifying conviction. The situation as an onlooker is hilarious, but I’m soon subjected to the same fate, being ordered to convince everyone in the room I love them, unconditionally. It goes well with the fellow guest, who accepts the declaration as genuine rather quickly. The flapper is having none of it. “I think you’re just playing games,” she huffs, before announcing the experiment is finished.

I reunite with my friend-date for the ball, who has been accosted several times in my absence. Over the next hour we find a room full of doves, another ‘psychology experiment’ where we draw pictures of frog princes, and a misty smoke filled basement full of flowers. Couples are wildly ballroom dancing in the foyer, and a kafuffle is occurring in a room down the corridor. The butler has torn up somebody’s booking slip, and scattered it on the floor. The couple involved are quite disgruntled. “Did you see his suit?” simpers a well-spoken, fair-headed gentleman, “it was at least 20 years old.” Yes, it was just sooo 1900’s, we reply slyly. After sharing a moan about how our room was rudely invaded by an inebriated and indecent young lady earlier, we leave – but not before we’ve had time to pin up the photo of the Old Lover we were instructed to bring with us. Barry White looks very dashing amongst all the other photographs.

We haven’t got much time until the ball now, so we head off to re-home our secret gift to a stranger. My friend couldn’t think of anything decent, so she has a lime stealthily hidden in her bag. With quite some nerve, she plonks it down on the desk in front of the Hotel Manager, before walks off in silence. She has no idea how to react, and corpses slightly, pulling a very confused face. Fair enough, really. We also give a bunch of flowers to the maid. She thinks they’re from her favourite porter, and blushes before pinning them in her hair and skipping away.

A bell peels out, and we quickly make our way to the Ballroom. Before long Laura Marling comes onstage, and plays the beautifully flowing four tracks that begin ‘Once I Was An Eagle’. With the backing of a cello, double bass, and an additional guitar it is stripped back and absolutely stunning, and the room is spellbindingly silent. The backing band sweep off stage, and it’s just Laura Marling now. She brings us ‘Master Hunter’ with reigned in vocal rage and the spine-tingling ‘What He Wrote’, too. Marling is at her most likable tonight, as she stops before the chorus of ‘I Speak Because I Can’ and giggles. “You’ll have to help me out,” she laughs, “it’s been a long time”. The room obliges happily. ‘Little Bird’ isn’t without its moments either, and Marling laughs knowingly with the room as she catches the bottom string by accident. Still, other than that, she’s flawless, and the set speeds by in a flash. “See you next door for cocktails,” says Laura Marling, departing far too soon.

Tonight, with the help of event extraordinaire Secret Cinema, Laura Marling has created something “crazy” and “strange”, and she has also breathed new innovative life into the traditional live music format. The Great Eagle Ball was immersive, surreal, wonderful, and beyond our most hopeful expectations. Word on the grapevine is that this is only the first in a series of ‘Secret Music’ events. If this first outing is anything to go by, future shows are bound to be incredible too.