“I’ve had these songs taken away from me,” declares Kesha partway through her set. As an artist, that’s been the crux of her career for an uncomfortably long time, strongarmed into abusive contracts (in more ways than one) that have been in the public eye since 2014. That’s quite literally more than half her career, and the fact that, even after all of that, the villain of the piece Dr Luke is still treated as a respected industry figure deserves all the scorn from onlookers that it’s gotten. But evidently, the desire to move past that takes precedence. It has for years, honestly, but with Kesha now as an independent artist, freedom and expression are the clear and present goals.
And for someone like Kesha—best known as pop’s trashy, glam-punk party girl of the late 2000s and early 2010s—that just makes sense. In the UK especially, she’s had surprisingly few extensive tours, and looks like an attempt to rectify that. The pageantry is fierce; the tempos are hard and aggressive; the messages of self-acceptance and sexual liberation are plastered all over. In a venue like Manchester’s Aviva Studios that’s known predominantly for its art installations, a personal vision like this fits right in. It’s an arena-class show that, should it be in an arena, would miss the point entirely.
Before that, however, there’s Sizzy Rocket, or if you want to be a bit meaner, the American remake of Charli XCX. And just like a lot of American remakes, you’re quick to realise how much of the genuine article is lost in translation. The vibe is supposed to be raunchy and messy and explicit, but it feels too rehearsed to get there. None of this ever flies off the handle in the way that Sizzy Rocket wants to convey; for the venom-flecked statement of intent that opener That Bitch is meant to represent, the sluggish trap-pop feels to focus-grouped to get anywhere. Quicker, harder house cuts like LILAC and BLUR fare better, though even that’s just out of instinct. Ultimately, the only things about Sizzy Rocket that actually prove memorable are her enthusiasm, her red leather jacket with two sets of shoulder pads, and her keytar cover of Peaches’ Boys Wanna Be Her. That last one’s actually pretty cool.
At the end of the day, though, the opener on a tour like this kinda just has to submit, ‘cause there’s no way they’re getting over the unassailable monolith of Kesha at full power. That could be true any time, frankly, but especially now. As she rises from the stage, holding a mannequin head modelled after her old self to symbolise the death of the past, her imperiousness goes without saying. “We do not stand abuse in my house,” she declares, a twofold blow to industry practices she’s personally weathered, and the wider climate in general. TiK ToK is a barnstormer of an opener as it is, but is only indicative of a greater timbre of steadfastness when its opening line is changed to “Wake up in the morning like ‘fuck P. Diddy’”.
From there, you can basically just rattle off individual moments and it’d be apparent how great this is. The fact it’s split into four acts with themes and quasi-narratives is indicative of greater purpose than what you may expect from something called the Tits Out Tour. In each, there are outfit changes and dancers with distinct choreography routines; it’s got that ‘big pop show’ feel down to a T. And yet, it’s all still rather grounded and, appropriately for Kesha, a little punk. Songs have had their production stripped out and reproduced, representative of this new era of independence grabbed by the lapels. Thus, the Eurodance build of Warrior feels more triumphant, and its gurgling drop more vicious. Later, Blow is repurposed and rocked-up, not to a fantastic degree, but the image of Kesha handling the guitar roars herself does a lot for it.
The prevalence of mashups, too, gives this a much more kinetic, fast-paced feel. Never is there is a missed cue or an out-of-step cut; it’s all perfectly executed, but at the same time, hits with a rawness that almost feels bespoke in how its carried out. Arena-ready in size as it may be, it’s a club set in exectuion, through and through. Particularly in the second act where the grime of Kesha’s catalogue is allowed to fester, there’s an extra snarl offered to these moments. Take It Off finds its pulsations doused in filth, while Cannibal sees Kesha brandishing a knife to pretend-stab and slice her dancers. It’s the clearest visualisation of her rockstar ethos that’s been there from the beginning—much more transgressive and volatile than your typical pop songstress.
Not to say that side is totally absent, mind. In her repertoire, Kesha still has a plethora of pure bangers ready to be inflated for live dominance. And while there is versatility in that, the blaring Y2K-pop of Joyride or a sugar-coated Die Young will set dopamine receptors ablaze just as much as anything else tonight. It’s all fundamental to the brighter portions of Kesha’s set, where Yippee-Ki-Yay and Red Flag are more outwardly playful, yet still solid in pop structuring as anything. (Though, to level the singular big criticism of this show, Timber being torn up and slowed down for a pithy breather moment is not it.)
It’s in the finale where it all comes together the most, however. It’s got the most tangible theme of any of these acts, that being the cleanse. Cathedral is a startlingly sparse number given the high-octane hour that’s preceded it, but Kesha atop the stage’s pyramid is a sight that grounds its importance. Praying, meanwhile, hits just as hard as it did announcing a hitherto-uncertain comeback in 2017. For one of the only times tonight, Kesha is alone onstage, delivering the bar-none vocal showcase of the night (any remaining accusations of a dependency on AutoTune to work couldn’t feel less founded), and spending every second rejuvented. As she says herself, “singing that song hits different when you’re a free fucking woman”. With a closing pair of Your Love Is My Drug and We R Who We R both flushed with euphoric gratitude and togetherness, the current exuberance of Kesha feels anything but fleeting or put-on. This is an artist celebrating liberation in her own way, and in joyous, monumentous fashion.
Words by Luke Nuttall
