Words by Freya Bennett // photographs by Briarna Dal Col
Some moments in life feel charmed, just asking to be bottled up and saved for a day when nostalgia calls. Riding the train into the city with my 7-year-old daughter, Aurora—named in part after the artist we were going to see—was one of those moments.
I’ve been lucky enough to interview AURORA twice, and her kindness and warmth stood out each time. During our first chat, my then five-year-old daughter Aurora (Rory) joined me, and AURORA made her feel so special, calling them ‘name sisters’ and sharing stories of pretending to be an elf as a child. Our second chat, Rory was at school, but I’d since had another baby girl. AURORA remained just as warm and encouraging as I juggled baby and laptop mid-interview, sharing how much she loved my kids being involved.
While I’ve chatted with AURORA via Zoom twice, I’ve never actually seen her in concert (our gorgeous Kara Zosha reviewed her last show in Aus), and let me tell you, this sleep-deprived mum of two was pumped to have a night out (even if it was while still parenting).
At Richmond station, we followed the throngs of concertgoers clad in bohemian, fairy-like attire, very much dressed for the occasion. The evening was warm, so the walk to Margaret Court Arena was pleasant, Rory unable to stop talking as her excitement bubbled over. Having not yet been to MCA, I was pleasantly surprised with how lovely the layout was, our seats were easy to find and we had a perfect view of the stage.
As the lights dimmed, Rory and I tightened our sweaty grip, swallowed by the rising roar of (a record breaking) 7,062 voices . On the screen, a towering image of AURORA flickered to life, her presence magnified before she arrived on the stage. Her band appeared first, their silhouettes met with cheers. Then, from side stage, AURORA emerged—small in stature but immense in presence.
After her opener of Churchyard, the Norwegian pop-alt artist immediately blessed us with her infamous humour claiming how much fun she’s been having in Australia, “I ate so much cake I nearly shat myself!” Rory, having just learnt the true meaning of the word shit, was delighted.
Next came one of my all time favourite songs The River, delivered in a goosebump-inducing a cappella rendition alongside her band. I welled up—only to laugh at how, within five minutes, AURORA can confess to nearly shitting herself and then deliver something so breathtakingly beautiful it left me in tears.
AURORA’s voice is a force—brilliant and commanding, yet tender and ethereal when it needs to be. It embodies feminine power in its purest form, a reminder that strength isn’t just in volume or force, but in softness too. And the world needs softness. She delivers her message not from above, but beside us, like a guiding hand. “Music can tell people things in a way that a mother can. Not a teacher, or a preacher, from above and down but right there next to you, just like a mother,” she shared in our last chat.
AURORA dedicated her next song Soulless Creature to those who like to cry a lot because “It’s hard to be an emotional bastard in this world!”. The energy of the night continued to grow with All is Soft Inside and A Soul with No King.
When her band started playing Queendom, she confessed to forgetting that she put it on the setlist: “We haven’t played Queendom in a little while, sorry about that,”, before blowing me away with a song I wasn’t as familiar with and one that resonated deeply in my mother’s heart.
AURORA’s banter continued when she mentioned that she’s agreed to have babies with an audience member (who must have been holding a sign that said, have my babies). She quipped, “I don’t know how, but we will make it work.” Then, without hesitation, she added, “I’ve been trying to make a baby with myself for years—‘cause it feels nice.”
When the Darkness Dresses Lightly felt like a call to action. Her anger palpable yet productive; AURORA has always channelled her activist energy into her music, while still having great warmth and empathy in her presence. Something so hard to marry when the fear of what we are doing to this planet overwhelms us.
Peaking in energy with her song Starvation, I felt like I’d taken my 7-year-old to a techno rave. And I loved it. The energy was incredible, as she belted the powerful lyrics: Why do we have to die, for us to see the light?
Runaway is arguably AURORA’s most famous song—written when she was just 11 or 12 and later cited by Billie Eilish as a key inspiration for pursuing music. It was the first song I heard when a dear friend introduced me to her music. The entire crowd rose with emotion, their voices uniting to fill the stadium.
Dedicated to hope—everything this hope-punk writer was after—AURORA closed her set with another one of my favorite songs, The Seed. And I didn’t regret making Rory learn the lyrics to the chorus as I turned to see her proudly singing, “You cannot eat money, oh no!”
AURORA left the stage, and I explained encores to Rory—how if we kept clapping, she would return. Then we noticed the roof had opened, and the stars had joined the crowd. When she came back, she launched into the irresistible Cure For Me and then pointed toward the sky, asking if we had noticed they’d opened the roof for us to be with the birds—”but also so the birds can poop on us.”
Then came a much-needed pep talk—soft, warm, and full of generosity. It landed gently, like a friend reassuring you in the dark. “It’s not your fault if the world doesn’t understand you! It’s fucking cool to be different!” She then apologised for burping into the microphone. She is us. We are her. When she speaks briefly about the hardness in the world right now, she shares a sentiment so beautiful that I will keep it in my heart whenever I feel like I am not doing enough or question why things feel so heavy: “It’s such an extreme sport to be human in this world.”
As only AURORA could, she beautifully lightened the mood, sharing, “Sweat is running down my thighs, and it feels like you pee yourself. I have one drop on each side!” Before her final song, Invisible Wounds—which she sang to her sister every night despite being across the world because “sound travels”—she reminded us to let our friends be there for us: “Give your friends the honour of being there for you.” And with one final, perfectly timed remark, she closed the night: “Then we can all go home and think about what we’ve done.”
As we stepped back into the night, Rory’s hand still in mine, I knew we’d carry the magic of this evening forever. Rory fell asleep in the taxi home with a smile on her face.
