Praise Be. She’s not our wee bird anymore, is she? As the crow flies, Lorde is probably only 2kms from where she grew up on the North Shore, when she takes the stage, 9 o’clock on the dot, at Spark Arena.But she’s travelled an eternity since the days when she was spotted a school talent quest. The hordes that turned out for Lorde – mothers and daughters, gaggles of teenage girls, the occasional melange of males – own her, though.
She isn’t just an icon, a representation of what you can do with drive, talent, determination and a fiercely strong song book: she’s our version of that. Lorde went out and conquered the world and now once again, she’s come home.
But she’s a hell of a proposition now, the woman whose mum still calls her Ella. A global superstar, someone whose sound and songs changed the way young women were recorded and produced (Taylor, et al) and having reinvented herself after a difficult breakup, she has, as she tells us in a mid-set monologue, found the person who loved all this before it took off for her at 14,15. Herself.
This, she tells us, is the True Lorde.
It is certainly a spiritual experience for the 12,000 faithful, packed in with little room to spare on the hottest day so far this year. This is true worship, I thought, looking at the expressions around me. They scream, incessantly, loudly, they actually tear at their hair, they cry, and, as you’d expect, they spend a lot of time filming the remarkably filmable set. They love Lorde, no question.
Kevin Abstract, ex of rappers Brockhampton, got a warm welcome on this stickily hot night, and while his between song patter didn’t kinda land, his swagger and sonics got the kids jumping, in the first ten rows anyway.
Visually, the looped video of him walking around Auckland drinking water was, you know, weird, and he spent more time tuned to the onstage camera than the crowd, but such is a modern performance, I guess.
The big screen beamed him to the rafters, and once his bulky trainers got into their stride, he’d done his job.
Half an hour later, the strobe strobed, the riser rose, the hammering synths of Hammer beat us into a state of hysteria, and Lorde, after the tension strained to breaking point, broke into that first track off the latest album, Virgin, and the New Zealand leg of the Ultrasound Tour was underway.
There was barely a breath between Hammer before that international clarion call induced another set of lung-tearing screams: Royals.
Um, Good Lorde! Was it slightly perfunctory, a let’s-get-this-out-of-the-way-now kinda treatment? I mean, second song in? Mebbe…a little.
It did, of course, take the energy to even greater heights, and certainly her Les Mills style dance routine kept us glued and grooving.
Then came a judicious selection from her (almost) flawless songbook with a well-balanced mix of the new and the legendary. A thrilling Buzzcut Season, her hair blasted back from that famous face, eighties style, after a massive electric fan is wheeled into place.
The fan was the first of many well-executed prop shifts: the sets and backdrops were a critical part of the show, as was the cast of support crew.
She clambered up a giant set of drawers, lay atop it and let off a fiery torch at one point, triggering another burst of screams from the floor.
During a pumped-up Supercut she took to a treadmill, singing while walking in perfect time, then jogging, determinedly, with remarkable control and seemingly indefatigable energy.
By this point she’d provocatively ditched the belt holding up those jeans, and then they, too came off. So great, to strip, from waist, to hip, she sings in the third song of the night, Broken Glass and she certainly, over the course of the evening, sheds some clothing.
Because this new Lorde is, as she’s told us, gambling with gender roles now, searching her sexuality, all a part of a deep dive into her psyche, and all part of the show.
The olive Calvin Klein’s in which she performs much of the show are a pretty brave move, especially when they get a spray of water from the onstage dancers: “I wrote this song in the shower, thinking about how desperately I wanted to kiss someone. So, it’s time to get…wet…
Subtle as a train crash, right? But bless, the obvious sexual gag probably floated over the be-blonded heads of much of the multitude, and, indeed, that was as close to Gaga-like crudity as it got.
She’s pretty wholesome, is our Lorde.
There was a band, of sorts, critically positioned either side of the main act in slightly submerged orchestra pits, (let’s remember who the star is here, people) – and a reminder that a lot of this really was live. Some keyboards, some rhythmic electronic drum hitting, and a couple of guitarists appeared at various time, raising the volume to levels similar to when I saw The Cult here last year.
There are also, two dancers who orbit the star in various seemingly randomly chosen modern dance moves, and after a while, become my only gripe. They added nothing, visually, were a distraction rather than an augmentation, and although Lorde used them at times to good purpose, she didn’t need them. Meh.
As she says in Favourite Daughter – Now every day the plane takes off/ And every night the room fills up with people who are convinced I’m not Just some kid fakin’ it.
There’s no fakin’it here. Moving from speaking to singing again, she delivers Oceanic Feeling and then a delightful Big Star, one of only two only entries off Solar Power, with the band lying semi-circular around her, one of the few simple, slow moments, and the furthest she’s ever gone from the full-on synth assaults of the other albums. It was sweet, and a nice gear change.
The momentum builds until we hit Team where her energy meets ours and the place erupts into riotous ecstasy.
You just can’t go past that first, remarkable album, it would seem, and maybe that’s all part of that feeling I kept getting from the crowd, that that was the time when she was most ours.
Pure Heroine being recorded here, cultivated here, the songs borne of her growing up on these very shores. Sure, everyone sang to every song, no question – those 27 million monthly Spotify listeners listen to the whole catalogue, it would seem, but Team, complete with Palestinian flag colouring, got the biggest cheer of the night.
Oh, OK, second biggest. Green Light was the hellraiser. Staggering laser lighting framed her gloriously, she sang, we sang, she gave more, the crowd screamed louder. It was the summit of a stunning performance, one of power, energy, and control – brilliantly delivered, excitingly choreographed yet remarkably spontaneous.
Being the 47th show of the tour, the whole unit is well-grooved. This is utterly professional, not a hitch or a dropped stitch.
To finish? She wanders off, quietly, singing David, and suddenly she’s on the floor with the crowd, in a reflective jacket that catches and reflects the light, as she walks purposefully through the throng who are now, honestly, mesmerised. (I see a girl swoon, sweetly.)
Then, of course, launched into Ribs, saying she was reaching right back to where it all began. Let’s leave it all out on the floor tonight, she commanded, dancing wildly mid-arena, and we obeyed, dutifully.
Lorde certainly did, as she skipped down the alley to the Exit sign with a final burst of star-bright energy. The house lights came up, and the hometown girl had over-delivered in no uncertain terms.
Not a cue missed, yet enough spontaneity, energy and sheer power to remind you why she sits at the very top of the Pop pole and has done so for more than a decade. A stunning performance from Lorde, a remarkable individual. We were truly blessed.
Michael Larsen
Photographer Sam Penn