Old friend or somersaulting superstar? Pink is whoever we need to see reflected back at us

‘She’s everything a pop star should be – but you can also imagine her at a barbecue with a chardy.’ Pink at Allianz Stadium in Sydney Photograph: Jordan Pannowitz

I wasn’t expecting so many people to actually be wearing pink. After more than 20 years, Alecia Moore’s stage name barely even registers as the name of a colour. But as we approach the venue – a carful of people drives past, honking like it’s grand final day – we are surrounded by streams of people in bright outfits ranging from sherbert to raspberry jelly.

The four people sitting behind us are a perfect microcosm of Pink’s audience: twentysomething Laura and her mother-in-law Christine, and 12-year-old Pippa, at her first ever concert with her mum, Chloe. They all wear freshly bought Pink merchandise; none have seen her live before and radiate anticipation. “I’ve seen a lot of Reels of her setting up, so I’m really looking forward to seeing it,” said Chloe, of Pink’s infamous trapeze rig. Christine’s most anticipated song was So What; Pippa likes “all of them” and Chloe loyally insists that Pink’s very first album, 2000’s R&B-heavy Can’t Take Me Home, remains her favourite.

Australia loves Pink with a passion: she played 42 dates last time she toured here in 2018 and banked a cool $109.8m. With her eponymously hued and spiked-up cool-mum haircut, sequined leotards and muscular gymnast’s build, she cuts a figure both androgynous and powerfully feminine. She’s a working mother, a straight talker, a party starter, sometimes a vengeful or steadfast lover. She’s chilled and passionate. She’s everything a pop star should be – but you can also imagine her at a barbecue with a chardy.

There’s only one possible opener. Get The Party Started begins, and there she is, waving from a harness at the very top of the stage set, before dropping thrillingly from a pair of sturdy bungees and somersaulting over and over. The band sails right through into Raise Your Glass as two of her dozen dancers sail across the stage in giant flamingo floats.. Eventually she stops for a chat.

“Finally!” It’s her post-pandemic return to one of her most lucrative markets and she greets us like the oldest of friends. “How the hell is everybody?” It feels like she really wants to know. You could never doubt her sincerity for a moment. She sits at the piano and covers Adele’s cover of Bob Dylan’s Make You Feel My Love, but cheerfully gives up when she flubs one too many chords. She stops a few lines into another ballad when she spots fans calling for help and is both delighted and discombobulated when it appears someone is literally going into labour. “Congratulations!” she calls out, visibly wincing at the inadequacy of such an offering as the parent-in-waiting is stretchered out safely. “It’s gonna be great! You’re gonna do great!”

The long middle stretch of the show, while always anchored by Pink’s unshakeable, gutsy contralto, is a bit too full of the B-tier singles you don’t recognise until the chorus. Not even her immense personal charisma can lift duds like Just Like A Pill and Just Give Me A Reason, though the fan singalongs are loud and passionate. The crowd is, however, palpably underwhelmed when Just Like Fire morphs into an all-guns-blazing cover of Pat Benatar’s Heartbreaker; they also seem unmoved by the 2022 protest single Irrelevant, and its accompanying footage of Black Lives Matter rallies, the January 6 attack and pro-choice demonstrations against the supreme court. Her game, vinyl-clad backup singers manage to whip the very front of the crowd up a little with the “Girls just wanna have rights” refrain. The song itself might be mid but Pink has serious form when it comes to political activism and, as she notes, being told to “Shut up and sing” – her protest-song mode goes back to the Bush years with Dear Mr President.

The show has been dogged by a drifting drizzle all night. With minor apparent adjustments to the choreography, Pink and her tight-knit crew take it in stride, handing towels back and forth to wipe off faces and instruments. At the end of the show, it’s time for the acrobatics to return. As the chorus of So What takes off, so does she: she flies around the arena on a four-anchor wire rig, somersaulting through the rain and barely missing a beat, occasionally perching on steel columns in the crowd like Peter Pan. I am literally cackling with glee. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever seen at a stadium show. Harry Styles should be doing that. Dave Grohl should be doing that. I should be doing that.

I read somewhere that Pink still does the flying bit after all these years to allow fans who’ve paid good money to see her to actually see her. Whether or not this is the case, the effect is still somehow intimate and powerful. She is not, as the kids like to declare about any female celebrity these days, “mother”; she’s not camp or arch enough for that. She is whoever we need to see reflected back at us: confidante and comforter, superstar and friendly neighbour, construct and real person. As we trudge out into the rain in our thousands, the exhilaration and warmth linger.