AURORA (Aurora Aksnes) graces the stage at the Hordern Pavilion tonight, and the air feels electric. With an aura that’s anything but earthly, the Norwegian artist uses her music as a megaphone for change—championing climate activism, LGBTQIA+ rights, and the power of self-love.
Every note she hits feels personal, global, and deeply transformative. Fans across the world agree—she currently pulls in more than 20 million monthly Spotify listeners and boasts over 3.3 billion streams. She’s proof that an artist can be both visionary and grounded, her lyrics walking the line between fantasy and fierce social commentary.
The crowd tonight is a mix of generations—parents holding their kids by the hand. Girls in long, frilly dresses, their hair crowned with garlands. Paying homage to Aurora’s aesthetic.
The lights dim, and the Hordern Pavilion is swallowed whole by a soft, electric blue haze. On the TV screen behind the stage, a video of Aurora flickers like a glitch in reality, a prelude to her arrival. Then, she’s there—like she’s been conjured, floating across the stage with a dreamlike detachment, the kind that feels both angelic and rebellious. The audience seems to hold its collective breath.
Her first two songs are delivered without any talking in the break. And then, grinning and squinting into the darkness like she’s searching for old friends. “Hello, you lovely bastards,” she says, and the room erupts.
She shields her eyes, trying to spot some girls that she says she met in a bar last night. “I gave them free tickets. Are you here?” Somewhere in the back, there’s a scream of recognition. The girls made it, and tonight, they’re part of the myth she’s building onstage.
Aurora’s connection to her audience isn’t some prefabricated showbiz routine. It’s feral, messy, tender. She pulls you in, makes you feel like you’re the only one listening even as the whole room sways along. She brings up the infamous Triple J interview from a few years ago—the one where she casually discussed masturbation, her frankness making Australian radio squirm in the best way. She acknowledges that she is now known for masturbation in Australia and the crowd cheers for that too.
But Aurora isn’t just here for punchlines or sweet nothings. The setlist has an ache running through it, a thread of vulnerability that’s impossible to ignore. She pauses between songs, talking about the state of the world—how it’s all unraveling and how everyone’s just trying to hold it together.
The show doesn’t feel like escapism. It feels like a gathering of survivors, sharing in the relief of knowing someone else feels it too.
AURORA’s tour moves to Melbourne and Brisbane next. Go HERE for tickets.
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