Famous for her infectious pop-rock that cuts at lousy exes and champions the underdog, Pink came out swinging last night. Suspended from a bungee cord, that is.
Famous for her infectious pop-rock that cuts at lousy exes and champions the underdog, Pink came out swinging last night.
Suspended from a bungee cord, that is.
The 33-year-old belted the words to Raise Your Glass — no lip syncing, haters — while simultaneously doing flips high above the Value City Arena stage.
Indeed, many a Budweiser and Smirnoff Ice were hoisted throughout Pink’s two-hour concert, which was packed with dazzling visuals and Vegas decadence that never overshadowed the spitfire star.
Framed loosely with the concept of a television dating show, the singer born Alecia Moore spanned her catalog, from hip-hop-lite 1999 debut Can’t Take Me Home to her latest — and first No. 1 — release, The Truth About Love.
It was as much a treat for the eyes as the ears.
She spun, tangled in ropes, during the slow-burning Try. She hung from an orblike cage while singing of emptiness in Sober. While snarling through the sassy kiss-off So What, she slipped a metal ring around her waist and rocketed into orbit toward the cheap seats.
A smart crew of artful modern dancers nicely boosted several tunes.
The only detraction was a creepy emcee who added little value other than giving the singer a chance to change costumes and catch her breath.
Amid the pyrotechnics and pomp, Pink still felt like, well, Pink.
Unlike some diva peers, her empowerment messages don’t pander. She offers solace without the assumption that listeners need a messiah. Most appealing, she’s the proud poster girl for falling down — after a breakup or, more plausibly, a few drinks too many — but showcases the stumbles without feeling the need to puke glitter.
Subjects ranged from fear (Just Like A Pill) and broken homes (Family Portrait) to mischief (Trouble) and self-respect (a clean version of F*****’ Perfect).
In between, Pink touted her own imperfections that included “having a weird hair night,” being “ a reformed slut” and how “it’s so much more fun to be a terrible dancer.” (A “dork-o-meter” hummed at one point.) She spoke of past jobs in fast food and chatted with folks in the front. Somebody handed her a Smurfs hat. She wore it.
Never mind her killer washboard abs and a capacity crowd of fans. The performer ably proved that pink is a tough, goofy, relatable color.
Swedish garage-rock quintet the Hives offered a ferocious opening set that, despite a high-octane 40 minutes, garnered a mixed response.
The Hate to Say I Told You So growlers might have expected it. After frontman Pelle Almqvist asked how many in the sold-out arena had never heard of them, most people in the room raised their hands.