Developments in audio-visual technology mean that a tribute musical can now be staged with a live band accompanying archive clips of the original star; this is how Frank Sinatra, after a fashion, is currently wowing ’em at the London Palladium. It is also the backbone of Dusty, except that in this case the celluloid/vinyl Dusty Springfield shares centre stage with Alison Arnopp portraying her in the dramatic component of the show.

Not that there is all that much drama. Like the Carole King musical Beautiful, Dusty decides to go out on a high note, in this case the album Dusty In Memphis, released in 1969, some 30 years before the blue-eyed soul queen’s death. There is no climax to the story, barely a perfunctory tie-up of its main strand, the relationship between Springfield and her childhood friend Nancy (Francesca Jackson), a fictitious character created to function as narrator and foil. The show’s thesis is that Springfield’s (at the time) closeted lesbianism, and in particular her feelings for Nancy, are the root of the unhappiness which dogged her career. This is a little problematic when the script is too coy to mention the L-word  or even explicate Springfield’s affair with songwriter Norma Tanega (although they get a fine romantic duet on “I Close My Eyes And Count To Ten”). When the whole notion rests on a figure who didn’t in fact exist, it moves beyond speculative and into fantastical.

Another risk is putting the singing voice of your lead actress up for direct comparison with that of the star herself. Arnopp is more nasal and “yippy” than Springfield, although strong and assured, as are Jackson and also Witney White as Martha Reeves of the Vandellas. Jason Kealer has produced a multitude of period costume designs from beatnik leotards to a fringes-a-go-go minidress. The production has been dogged by misfortune: after beginning previews in May, its opening night finally took place some three months after originally scheduled, and even Arnopp is not the Dusty originally cast. The end product is far from a disaster, but still, in the words of la Springfield’s final major hit in 1989, nothing has been proved.
 
Written for the Financial Times.