Monday’s show at Rod Laver began with a trip to the men’s, because there was no way I was waiting in the queue that snaked out of the ladies’, and also I knew that the kind of men who were there to see a Kelly Clarkson show were unlikely to be good at standing up for themselves so I definitely wouldn’t be getting in any shit.
The stadium was pretty packed out, and filled with a ridiculous amount of merch. Merch which had been purchased in the break between The Fray and Sarah De Bono, and hastily squeezed on over the top of whatever attire was initially keeping all of those giant 40-year-old boobs in check. Many fans had these daiquiris in plastic glasses, the stems of which glowed with LEDs, and they waved merrily amongst the dye jobs.
When the screaming began I was impressed with its ear canal-raping properties, as it reached a pitch that I remember producing myself when I was a 12-year-old lamb and Hanson came to Southland Shopping Centre. There was an eight-year-old girl to our left who was compulsively grasping her shirt in earnest, while her dad gently squeezed earplugs into her little ears.
Clarkson has pipes, of course. She also has an extremely southern accent which took me by surprise. Did you know you can pluralise ‘y’all’? It’s ‘y’all’s’. Anyway, one of her new tracks called Honestly almost had the power of something from Farnham’s Whispering Jack, and her backing band are all obviously at the top of the session game. KC introduced them each individually in fact, and helpfully explained that they were most talented and had lives doing things other than supporting her.
I think the show may have been slightly more palatable than the usual ex-reality thing because KC is solid in the arse, and for some reason that gives a girl gravitas. She was relaxed, she danced with her band, and she even snuck around in the catacombs of the arena to pop out the back of the floor, near the sound desk. As she stood on a raised dais up there, wrinkled and baby-smooth fingers alike were pawing at her legs and I was reminded of that bit in Labyrinth where Jennifer Connelly falls down the chute filled with green hands, which slide lasciviously all over her puffy shirt as she tries to keep from plummeting.
I just don’t know how that many people in Melbourne wanted to pay to see the show. Who are they? Did one wrap up your Hungarian salami at the deli last week? Did one pour your beer last night? Your waxer, your hairdresser, your study buddy, could they have paid? Ghastly questions of course, and probably best not to think about.
BY ZOË RADAS
LOVED: My friend’s comment that maybe the dad next to us was widowed, and how lovely of him to take his daughter to this spectacle.
HATED: The swinging boobs all up in my face.
DRANK: Water.
