The Queen of Pop Will Thrill Again. And Again. And Again.

What does it mean to be a 56-year-old woman in 2025? Surely a whole lot of things.

But to one particular five-foot Australian on the evening of April 5, 2025, it means catwalk-strutting across a stage in a skin-tight, azure blue, minidress with matching pants, to the consummate delight of some 19,500 screaming fans on the second consecutive sold-out show at New York City’s Madison Square Garden arena.

Standing among these fans, I feel confident I’ve never seen more sequins in my life. I also feel confident that this is the first time in many weeks—amid the horrors of the daily news cycle—that I’m experiencing unapologetic, brazen joy. 

“Lights, camera, action,” the antipodean princess croons. Screw the news. This is Kylie Minogue’s world—and boy, am I lucky to be in it.

An Endless Earworm

In the interest of journalistic integrity, I should stipulate up front that I’m not a Kylie superfan.

My appreciation for her and her music has ebbed and flowed since one afternoon, circa 2001. I was sitting in my best friend Lucy’s bedroom. We were both 12 years old and she’d just returned from an Australian family vacation. We were listening to her boombox when the exotically synthy yet undeniably poppy beat of ‘Spinning Around’ filled the air.

“I love Kylie,” Lucy swooned. Ever the obedient pre-teen bestie, I immediately did too. No questions asked.

I’d grown up in Switzerland, something of a cultural hinterland, so Lucy swiftly brought me up to speed. She introduced me to the Australian soap opera “Neighbours,” in which Kylie had her first break; to her co-star and duet partner (and brief love interest) Jason Donovan; to the Locomotion—the release of which predated both Lucy’s and my births, but under whose spell we nonetheless fell. 

A year later, there was “Can’t Get You Out of My Head.” And let me tell you, I still can’t. Most earworms come and go. Almost a quarter of a century after it first hit airwaves, the neo-disco, nonsensical genius of that bridge— “la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la”—still visits me on most days, just as it will visit you later today. You’re welcome.

Unexpected Nostalgia

Over the past two decades, like a dependable friend, Kylie has occasionally faded into the background, but I’ve never forgotten about her. Why? Well, I think I have radio to thank for that.

When I’m listening to Absolute 80s—my station of choice—I love the unexpected nostalgia of “I-haven’t-heard-this-for-ages.” The surprising joy of being instantly transported to another time and place when a tune blindsides you while cooking dinner on an otherwise uneventful Tuesday. Tracks by Kylie do this so well. 

On that Saturday night in early April, standing high up in the bleachers, I knew exactly what songs I might be about to hear, and yet they still somehow managed to catch me off guard. The breathlessness of ‘In Your Eyes,’ of ‘Love at First Sight’ and—of course—of ‘All the Lovers.’ 

I was swept up in the bliss of the Kylie bubble: a microcosm of glitter and glamor and glee; a universe of disco balls and confetti and megawatt smiles that entirely belied the bleakness of the real world. This was therapy.

In Deep Awe

During the encore of ‘Padam Padam’ I realized I felt not only weightless and joyful, but also in deep awe of Kylie herself. 

I spend so much of my day as a writer contemplating the parameters by which all different types of women feel forced to live in order to be socially accepted. Kylie, though, has staked out her own path. As she enters the second half of her fifties as a woman who’s never been married and never had children—it’s landed her in a place where she is the highest selling Australian-born solo artist of all time. Where she once earned $4 million for a one-night performance at the opening of the Atlantis Hotel in Dubai. Where she is a fashion icon and a gay icon (apparently, the collective noun for gay men in Sydney is known as a “Minogue” of gays).

Some might dismiss her as corny or kitschy; I consider her a gift.

She’s also a businesswoman—having launched fashion and fragrances and wine and water—and she’s earned an entry in the “Guinness Book of World Records” for the most consecutive decades with a No.1 on the UK albums chart for any female artist. She’s also a breast cancer survivor who’s been honored for raising awareness of  the disease. Indeed, it was Kylie who encouraged me to get into the habit of prodding my own boobs every few weeks.

Even when all of her accolades and honors are stripped away, there’s something remarkable about Kylie: a musical patron saint of love and celebration. A little bit silly, a little bit self-deprecating, a little bit bizarre, as perhaps most recently demonstrated when she chose to appear in the Netflix comedy “The Residence” as an exaggerated version of … herself. Some might dismiss her as corny or kitschy; I consider her a gift.

Because it’s precisely this corny kitsch that makes her profound—especially in an age of souped-up fame and constant political posturing and grandstanding. 

With Kylie, what you see is what you get. Through the decades, through her reinventions, through her studio albums and through her sold out arenas. Kylie Minogue delivers again and again, and for me, at least for a few marvelous minutes, that really is the only thing that matters.