I never counted myself a Madonna fan, so I walked into the Paris Accor Arena with a healthy dose of skepticism. Yet her place in pop history and her reputation for spectacle are impossible to ignore, so I went in ready to see what the fuss was about.
A vague technical hitch stalled the start for more than an hour. At 10:20 p.m. Bob the Drag Queen appeared in the crowd, working it as the night’s ringleader. Ten minutes of buildup later, Madonna finally stepped out to “Nothing Really Matters” from Ray of Light. What followed was a two-hour visual blitz that often felt closer to a futuristic karaoke hall than to a concert.
The Celebration tour rushes through four decades of hits. The 80s standards, “Like a Virgin,” “Like a Prayer,” “Vogue,” “Hung Up,” “La Isla Bonita,” “Into the Groove,” “Holiday,” landed with force, though skipping “Material Girl” was baffling. The 90s cropped up with “Justify My Love” and “Ray of Light,” while the 2000s barely showed and her later EDM experiments got quick nods. Most songs arrived chopped into medleys and spliced with fragments of others. It crams forty years into two hours but bleeds the impact.
Despite the bombardment of classics, much of the night felt programmed instead of alive. The dazzling sets and relentless choreography impressed, but the missing live band left a hollow core, like someone pressing play on a costly playlist.
Several long monologues slowed the rush. These unscripted detours, Madonna speaking plainly about her career and her own legend, were the most gripping moments.
She still leans on provocation. During “Erotica,” she mimed sex with a digital double. Once incendiary, it now plays like a museum relic. Tributes to Prince and Michael Jackson missed their mark, especially a pre-recorded “Billie Jean” and “Like a Virgin” mash-up that kept Madonna herself offstage and silent.
Two passages broke through the polish. “Live to Tell,” paired with images of friends and collaborators lost to AIDS (Robert Mapplethorpe, Anthony Perkins, Freddie Mercury, Keith Haring), carried real weight. Later, an acoustic “I Will Survive,” seemingly free of backing tracks, lit up the arena as thousands of phones flickered in chorus. The spark faded once “La Isla Bonita” returned with full playback.
None of this dimmed Madonna’s pull. She remains a fierce performer, and her dancers, including several of her children, matched her drive. Yet the heavy reliance on prerecorded vocals left little for anyone craving a genuine live show.
The crowd didn’t care. They danced, shouted and wept on cue, proof that Madonna still commands mass euphoria. I simply wasn’t swept along.
Clothed in old glory and brief sparks of sincerity, Celebration reads as a grand echo of a once-revolutionary artist. The night ultimately stood as a lavish monument to a legend still hungry for applause.
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