At Sydney’s Qudos Bank Arena, the night opens in restraint rather than spectacle. Freya Ridings steps onstage first with a deliberately minimal setup, accompanied only by her husband Ewan Phillips on guitar and two backing singers. Against the arena’s vastness, the arrangement feels intentional. Her voice carries the weight, pulling the room inward as songs land with a quiet intensity that rewards attention rather than demanding it. It’s a measured opening that steadies the evening, proving that intimacy can exist even at this scale, and you get the impression that even greater things await her.
When OneRepublic take the stage, the air in the arena changes, focus snapping into place almost instantly. Everyone is leaning forward. Led by Ryan Tedder, alongside Zach Filkins, Drew Brown, Brian Willett, Brent Kutzle and Eddie Fisher, OneRepublic move with the assurance of artists who have long since stopped needing to prove they belong here.
Tedder’s presence carries an added narrative weight. He is acutely aware of the mythology of pop, how careers hinge on moments, and he talks openly about it. Mid-set, he reflects on how the first song that truly breaks through can define a life in music, namechecking Olivia Dean and noting that Man I Need will always matter in ways charts cannot measure. It is the kind of aside that reframes success not as inevitability, but as fragile timing. He weaves this perspective throughout the night, his between-song banter unusually generous, curious, and genuinely entertaining. At one point, he admits that when OneRepublic first started, his backup plan was songwriting for others, then casually lists names like Adele, Taylor Swift, Rosalía and Ed Sheeran, for whom he has written songs he mentions, almost offhand, that he worked on new music with Empire of the Sun earlier today.
The songwriting stories deepen rather than distract. Tedder recounts being asked by Beyoncé to write a song, teaming up with Evan Bogart fresh from the success of Rihanna’s SOS. They imagined that they were writing it from Beyonce’s perspective, for Jay-Z, at first they imagined an angel, abandoned it for being too corny, and landed instead on the image of a halo. And the rest is history. OneRepublic then lean fully into that lineage, covering Halo and Bleeding Love, the latter another Tedder co-write, this time for Leona Lewis, and the arena responds not with novelty-driven surprise but with recognition of how deeply these songs have embedded themselves in pop memory. He jokes about considering doing some Tate McRae covers before conceding that a guy his age might not pull that off, a moment of self-awareness that lands warmly.
Australia, too, is folded into the band’s internal map. Tedder talks about his love for the country and his ongoing failure to master the accent. During Good Life, he swaps “my friends in New York” for “my friends in Sydney”, an easy but effective recalibration of belonging. Later, he shares that Something I Need was sparked during a night in The Rocks, written emotionally here, then finished pragmatically in New York City. These details tether global hits back to specific streets and moments, shrinking the distance between arena and city.
There are flashes of playful ritual. Tedder kicks three rugby balls into the crowd, a tradition that began in Ireland. Apologize arrives without fanfare, bathed in red light, its familiarity doing the heavy lifting. When Tedder announces he is about to do “some crazy shit” and jokes about covering a Travis Scott album next in the set, but he is just joking and instead the band dive into a new song, I Need Your Love. He notes that 120,000 new songs are uploaded to Spotify every day, and that his philosophy is to play new material live and watch what happens, even though it makes him very nervous. It is a rare admission of vulnerability at this scale, and the crowd listens closely.
The mood lifts again with the jaunty I Ain’t Worried, voices rising instinctively. A brief video interlude follows, fans speaking directly to camera about what OneRepublic’s music has meant to them. They call the songs therapy, a lifeline. It’s genuinely moving moment and it lands with quiet force, underlining the role music plays not as distraction, but as infrastructure for living.
During Sunshine, Tedder films himself using a camera on a selfie stick, folding the crowd into the moment. Zach Filkins delivers an impressive guitar solo before the night surges into its final run: Counting Stars, I Don’t Wanna Wait, Calling (Lose My Mind), If I Lose Myself. The evening closes with a mass singalong of Oasis’ Wonderwall, an ending that feels less ironic than communal, thousands of voices finding a shared register.
The show leaves me slightly gobsmacked, not only by how many hits Tedder has had a hand in, but by how clearly he understands their emotional mechanics. And by the sense that, improbably, there are still more to come.
Images Deb Pelser
The tour moves to Lake Macquarie, Brisbane, Melbourne and Perth next, tickets HERE.
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