At 71, Cyndi Lauper has still got what it takes

Cyndi Lauper’s life has been more colourful life than most, a fact underlined by an MTV-style montage that kicks off the Sydney leg of her farewell tour. It’s all there: the bold ’80s fashions and multicoloured hair, the global hits, the vibrant music videos, the campaigning for LGBTQ+ and reproductive rights. They’re all crucial elements of Lauper’s enduring appeal, but her distinct, four-octave vocal range and ability to belt out a song like every cell in her body is vibrating has always impressed the most.

It’s a thrill to hear it in action on ’80s classics like and , which deliver a potent nostalgia hit for the crowd, many of whom are decked out in fluoro wigs and fishnet stockings. After the sugar rush opening, Lauper takes the first of many breaks to talk to the audience. By the time the gig is done, there will be about as much chatting as tunes.



While that might be a major strike for most artists, it’s a positive for Lauper, who is equal parts charming and funny, regaling us with engaging tales about her life in her distinct Noo Yawk accent. There’s a roughly chronological run of songs from throughout Lauper’s career, including some choice covers that show off her range and ability to traverse genres: a Mardi Gras in New Orleans-invoking ; Wanda Jackson’s country-rock classic ; and Frankie Laine’s . While there are a few occasions when Lauper, understandably, doesn’t quite hit the high notes like she used to, there are still plenty of moments where she does, like on a thrilling version of and chill-inducing , which may be the best song of the night.

Yes, is saved for last and it’s still a blast to hear 42 years later, but best encapsulates Lauper’s spirit. In a show full of striking set design, the image of Lauper singing what has become a gay anthem, with a fan-blown rainbow scarf dancing above her, is both iconic and poignant, and a perfect example of an artist who’s always poured her heart into her art. If it really is the final time Lauper plays live in Sydney, it’s a wonderful way to go out.

★★★★ We’ve just heard three of his heroes tear through a seething , with Frank Carter himself getting to live his dreams and gleefully sneer and snarl his way through it with both them and an ecstatic crowd - but the fill-in frontman is not happy. Carter, a slight but ferocious cult hero of 21st-century Brit punk (former bands: Gallows, Pure Love, Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes), has on this tour been given the mammoth task of replacing John “Johnny Rotten” Lydon alongside original Pistols Steve Jones, Glen Matlock and Paul Cook. He’s not quite as unhappy as the uninvited Lydon, but Carter nonetheless berates us for booing Jones’ talk of the crowds in Adelaide and Melbourne being better.

So he takes matters into his own hands, wades into the crowd, gets a sizeable circle-pit going and howls from it. It’s a magnificent moment in a gig that’s far more exciting than it has any right to be, but it’s not our fault there’s limited atmosphere for most of it. Curtains are hiding most of the chairs up the sides of the Hordern and the room is perhaps half-full at best.

So while the band, and those who turned up, do everything they can to tear off the roof, there simply isn’t enough energy to do so. Still, these Pistols are firing. They play in full, but not in order, their only proper album, , and while obviously not having the culture-shattering impact it had on its 1977 release, it still thrills relentlessly, largely thanks to Jones’ scorching riffs and Carter’s energy and vocals – the latter adding to a superlative approximation of these past glories rather than being a flat-out imitation of Rotten memories.

And on the subject of handy stage names, mercifully there’s little Vicious about this night’s take on , as stupidly warbled by Sid in , which Carter sings quite sweetly before it kicks off after its first chorus. By the night’s end, Jones is clearly pandering when he says we were the best crowd after all, but we really could have been; a packed-to-the-rafters show or two at, say, the Metro, would have taken this gig to a level that’s still, perhaps unbelievably, within the Sex Pistols’ grasp..