Sticking to core basics and refined techniques, the country music veteran exhibited an appealing relatability in both his songs and personality. McGraw didn’t come across as superior to any of the fans who packed the venue to the rafters. Flashing a permanent smile, the singer-guitarist adhered to a modest approach devoid of preachiness and most of the trite trappings associated with modern country. Namely, pop, glitz and pretense, along with the polish that coats his own studio work and that of many of his Nashville-based peers.

The combination of McGraw’s even-keeled nature, work ethic and fit physique almost made everything look too easy. He wore the same simple outfit — boots, black cowboy hat, skin-tight T-shirt, form-fitting blue jeans secured at the waist with a gold belt buckle — for the duration, untucking his top only at the conclusion of the 100-minute set. He walked or glided, never jogged or ran, and sang with one hand nonchalantly placed on his hip. The Louisiana native took his time delivering lyrics and phrasing lines to match the arrangements. Despite mounting his first arena tour in seven years, he chose to bypass pyrotechnics and fancy staging.

Which put the focus on him. Early in the performance, McGraw told the crowd it could ignore him since his backing band would be the best it would ever hear. Not quite, but the eight-piece ensemble proved very capable. It instilled a majority of songs with sturdy rock overtones and welcome traits — layered textures, Southern-styled grit, bluesy pep, fuller volume — that they lack on record. Prone to spreading his arms and dipping to one side like a kid who imagines he’s flying, McGraw fed off that energy and the walls of sound that emerged when the group’s instrumental configuration shifted to a five- or six-guitar front.

Risking excessive sentimentality, the singer also drew inspiration from his equally famous wife, singer Faith Hill, whose face cropped up on the backdrop screens during two songs. For all the well-meaning intent of seeing vintage footage of the happy couple amid “One Bad Habit,” McGraw registered his most powerful statement about family when speaking — not singing — and praising his spouse for helping raise “three independent, strong-willed, smart young women who have agency over themselves and their bodies.”

Other than growing older, seemingly little has changed for McGraw since he started dominating the country charts in the mid-’90s, married Hill and graduated to superstar status. His commercial and critical accomplishments —  among them 47 No. 1 hits, three Grammy Awards and the honor of owning the most-played radio song (“Something Like That”) across all formats in the ‘00s — kept him in the mainstream conversation. Artists three decades removed from their initial breakthrough don’t usually manage that feat. While the 57-year-old now releases albums at a slightly slower clip, he continues to generate hits with reliable consistency.

Credit McGraw, too, for expanding his visibility by pursuing other entertainment ventures. In 2019, his name graced the covers of two best-selling books. His forays into acting run deeper. After a breakthrough role in “Friday Night Lights” (2004), McGraw appeared in numerous films and television shows, most notably as the character of James Dutton on “Yellowstone” and its “1883” spinoff. Earlier this month, Netflix announced that McGraw will star as a champion bull rider in an upcoming drama series.

On Friday, the singer mentioned his acting roles and showed a short highlight reel of “1883” as a precursor to “The Cowboy in Me.” The breadth of the tune, which McGraw revisited and stripped down for “Yellowstone,” conjured big-sky vistas and wide-open plains. He and his band transmitted similar rustic landscapes on the bluegrass-infused “Just to See You Smile,” which adopted a traditional train-song rhythm and transformed it into a dynamic that suited the relaxed pace of a top-down cruise down a two-lane desert road.

For McGraw and company, the quality of the ride, rather than the speed of the journey or how good you look going somewhere, assumed the greatest importance. Restrictive to an extent, his music would have benefitted from added variation and departures from its established comfort zone. Multiple songs drew from formulaic patterns. The dreamy “Watch the Wind Blow By” tread an adult-contemporary path that closely paralleled known ‘70s soul classics. “All I Want Is a Life” and “Shotgun Rider” sacrificed any potential spark to stock predictability.

Fortunately, in combination with his band’s steady support, McGraw’s pleasant, relatively smooth baritone and emotional sincerity largely compensated for compositional shortcomings. As did his indifference to perfection. Granted, McGraw reached highs in his faithful cover of “Tiny Dancer” that Elton John stopped attempting before he retired from the stage. Still, his voice tended to wavered or slip into overly nasal territory on occasion.

Those minor flaws actually served him well, particularly when narratives angled toward mature themes or contained specific details pertaining to decidedly human elements. Yes, McGraw understood rollicking fun. The rowdy “Truck Yeah” paired a thumping beat with an anthemic chorus. Sent up with vibrant fiddle-piano exchanges, “I Like It, I Love It” emitted roadhouse vibes. A bleacher-stomping and hand-clapping “Felt Good on My Lips” gushed with joyous release. Yet unlike the bro-country generation that succeeded him and commandeered the charts, McGraw realized lasting pleasure and purpose involve more than alcohol, parties and riding around with pretty girls in pickups.

Whether expressing concern over the distracted driving of a loved one (“Highway Don’t Care,” featuring piped-in backing vocals from Taylor Swift), reflecting on how to better himself (“Standing Room Only”) or embracing a carpe diem mentality in the face of approaching demise (“Live Like You Were Dying”), the singer zeroed in on fundamental principles that matter most: compassion, reason, respect, acceptance, forgiveness, responsibility. Or, in a word, decency.

As much as he yearned to pass himself off as a hellraiser, McGraw faced no choice other than to admit he was a “Real Good Man” — a conclusion further implied by the innocence of “Something Like That” and wisdom of “Red Ragtop.” Such goodness peaked on “Humble and Kind.” The minor-key power ballad found the singer dispensing the sort of golden-rule guidance children are taught early on as well as a few selfless tenets to practice as a grown-up.

In our current climate, we’d do well to heed the advice.

Setlist from the United Center May 31:

“Truck Yeah”

“Southern Voice”

“All I Want Is a Life”

“Tiny Dancer” (Elton John cover)

“Just to See You Smile”

“Over and Over” (Nelly cover) to “Shotgun Rider”

“One Bad Habit”

“Watch the Wind Blow By”

“Something Like That”

“Where the Green Grass Grows”

“Standing Room Only”

“Red Ragtop”

“Highway Don’t Care”

“I Like It, I Love It”

“Felt Good on My Lips”

“Real Good Man”

Encore

“The Cowboy in Me”

“Humble and Kind”

“Live Like You Were Dying”

For 70 minutes, Bird, bassist Alan Hampton and drummer Ted Poor operated as if they had just rolled up to a friend’s house in a van and set up in a large living room. Casual and comfortable, cozy and relaxed, displaying no concern over the video cameras filming the event. Hardly caring about a handful of false starts that helped underline the in-the-moment nature of the endeavor. With limited space to move on a compact platform and no real distances between them, they played within arm’s length of one another — close enough that they could both hear and feel the vibrations of their instruments.

Relatedly, the trio treated the iconic Uptown room as an invisible fourth member. Clear, close-up acoustics allowed notes to fully decay and transformed pregnant pauses into the equivalent of strummed chords. Fans, who gained admission by winning a ticket lottery, seemed aware of their fortune of witnessing up-close an artist who normally appears at much larger venues. They remained silent and, in a pleasant twist from contemporary mores, generally refrained from pulling out phones and watching everything through a six-inch screen.

The only drawbacks? The necessary exclusivity. As with any unique and small-scale show, let alone one headlined by a critically acclaimed and Grammy-nominated artist, few people got the opportunity to attend. A shame, given the musicianship, chemistry and earnestness on display. (Bird also appears Friday at Old Town School of Folk Music for a sold-out Chicago Humanities Festival performance and conversation.) And the relatively brief length, primarily a consequence of the night’s back-to-back schedule. However, leaving everyone wanting more never goes out of style — akin to many of the standards Bird interpreted during the concert.

On paper, the shows functioned as an album-release party for Bird’s “Sunday Morning Put-On,” a low-key tribute to midcentury small-group jazz and the Great American Songbook. Yet the occasion held deeper meaning in that it brought Bird’s storied relationship with Chicago full circle.

Despite relocating to California nearly a decade ago, Bird grew up in Lake Forest, graduated from Northwestern University and spent his younger adult years in the city. While in his 20s, he resided in an apartment-hotel building in Edgewater. There, Bird spent countless late Saturday evenings listening to “Blues Before Sunrise” on WBEZ, soaking up the wisdom of old 78RPM records spun by deejay Steve Cushing.

When that radio show ended at the tired hour of four in the morning, he went to bed before waking to the late Dick Buckley’s golden-age jazz show on the same station. Bird, who fuses a multitude of elements into his own work, credits his exposure to those programs as a massive influence on his repertoire and craft. He also cut his teeth in tiny local clubs covering some of the songs he heard on WBEZ.

Dialing back his signature quirkiness, and stripping songs down for trio arrangements, the 50-year-old vocalist conveyed that fare — standards famously covered by Frank Sinatra, Chet Baker, Miles Davis, Nat King Cole, Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan and other giants — with enchanting sincerity and nuanced depth. Rather than sound retro, or attempt to merely recreate the past with facsimile versions, Bird came across as classic and modern, respectful and original.

With rare exception, he bypassed the loops that inform a majority of his own material. He leaned on acoustically based rhythms, improvised directions and brilliantly adapted his violin to suit parts that traditionally called for horns. Bird accomplished comparable feats with his voice. Tender and heartfelt, his deliveries captured the hope, yearning and infatuation nestled at the center of the love-struck narratives.

Wearing a sport coat and jeans, his face adorned with his familiar five o’clock shadow, Bird sang as if he had written the lyrics or lived the experiences. He frequently squinted and closed his eyes, and tilted his torso to the side, his head a bit reluctant to follow the lead of his shoulders. The spontaneous actions and animated looks underscored the seriousness of his approach and adoration for the music. Yes, he whistled, too. But that hallmark skill ceded to vocal techniques that seldom emerge in his folk, pop and rock-based material.

Crooning with an expressive sensitivity and self-examination that recalled Sinatra’s saloon songs, Bird dove head-first into the melancholic admissions of “I Fall in Love Too Easily” and pained circumstances of “I Cover the Waterfront.” His clean, beautiful violin tones mirrored the aching elegance of his controlled singing and formed twilight melodies that snaked in and out of the band’s spare architecture. Whether shaping a lush ballad or vamping on a romping blues, the trio conjured senses of wonder, possibility and delight.

All the better for dreamy escapades such as “My Ideal,” during which Poor’s soft vibraphone strikes gave Bird’s swooning fantasy an added atmospheric dimension. Affection and wishfulness similarly washed over “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To,” reimagined by Bird and company as a lullaby with a kick. The trio opted for more delicacy on the blissful “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was,” whose delayed pace and faintly brushed drums evoked the tick-tocking mechanisms of an analog clock you implore to move faster so that time impossibly manages to speed up.

Goosed by Poor’s pliable wrists and ability to instantly shift tempos, the trio proved just as seasoned at tackling a few upbeat numbers. It streaked through an invigorating version of Lester Young’s “Gigantic Blues,” complete with freelance exchanges between percussion and stand-up bass. Bird swayed and stepped to a lively “Sweet Lorraine” and, in professing his desire for the namesake woman, extended a prevalent motif: romance, and the spectrum of highs and lows that result from that emotional state.

Slightly deviating from the planned setlist, the group sandwiched three originals — including the humorous and reflexive “Why?,” a nearly 25-year-old cut that dates back to his first band, Bowl of Fire — amid the jazz classics. Only “Armchairs,” with its tangle of complex wordplay and ebb-and-flow momentum, stuck out as an interloper. It also marked the lone instance of Bird trading the violin for a guitar. The way things were going, he didn’t need to make the substitution. And he probably knew it.

“We are so lucky we get to do this,” Bird stated, emphasizing the last word. Ain’t that the truth. Whatever it takes, well-known artists need to do “this” far more often.

Setlist for the early show at Green Mill on May 29:
“Softly, as in a Morning Sunrise” (Romberg and Hammerstein cover)
“I Fall in Love Too Easily” (Styne and Cahn cover)
“Caravan” (Duke Ellington cover)
“I Didn’t Know What Time It Was” (Rodgers and Hart cover)
“My Ideal” (Whiting, Chase and Robin cover)
“Why?”
“Sweet Lorraine” (Burwell and Parish cover)
“Gigantic Blues” (Lester Young cover)
“You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To” (Cole Porter cover)
“I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face” (Loewe and Lerner cover)
“Bloodless”
“Armchairs”
“I Cover the Waterfront” (Green and Heyman cover)

Bob Gendron is a freelance critic.

While this summer will unfold without last year’s multi-day Taylor Swift and Beyoncé extravaganzas, plenty of fantastic shows should keep you busy through Labor Day.

Melt-Banana: The recent death of Chicago-based recording engineer Steve Albini triggered outpourings that mentioned many of the staple artists with whom he worked — as well as a few smaller albeit influential names tied to his estimable indie cred. Melt-Banana escaped many of those tributes. Yet Albini’s stamp on the Japanese noise-rock band’s 1995 touchstone “Scratch or Stitch” remains a high point of his legacy. Never more than a cult-favorite concern, Melt-Banana has survived on the fringes for more than three decades. Though the duo seldom tours, the wild-eyed intensity of their near-mythic live performances needs to be experienced to be believed. The equivalent of a runaway bullet train plowing into a station at full speed, Melt-Banana headlines a fantastic experimental music bill that extends to local heroes the Flying Luttenbachers and Baltimore tricksters Tomato Flower. 7:30 p.m. June 1 at Bottom Lounge, 1375 W. Lake Ave.; tickets $25 (17+) at bottomlounge.com

Khruangbin: How does a band that primarily deals in instrumental music inspired by international ‘60s and ‘70s styles, and that cannot be placed in an obvious category, graduate to playing a three-night residency at a mid-sized venue? Akin to the evasiveness suggested by its chameleon-like sounds, there’s no easy explanation for the upward trajectory of Khruangbin. The Texas trio, whose name means “engine fly” in Thai, reimagines the possibilities of the deceptively simple guitar-bass-drums configuration on material that touches on everything from laid-back reggae and low-key funk to dreamy psychedelia and surf rock. Such stylistic breadth, as well as the group’s penchant for conjuring full-on mood states within seconds of starting a song, points to its status as the 21st-century version of a hip jazz outfit. 6:30 p.m. June 7-9 at Salt Shed, 1357 N. Elston Ave.; tickets from $100 at saltshedchicago.com

Robert Plant and Alison Krauss: Talk to the people around you at a concert and you’ll probably hear a familiar refrain: They’re at the show because they feel musicians of a certain ilk are an endangered species and don’t want to regret missing out by waiting until the next time — especially if next time never comes. When they first collaborated in 2007, Robert Plant and Alison Krauss offered no guarantees of a tour — let alone a lasting partnership that to date has produced two stellar records and a bonus leg of a tour that follows a memorable 2022 run. As he nears his 76th birthday, Plant stays steadfast in avoiding Led Zeppelin nostalgia. The vocalist’s stance might not summon your inner guitar hero, but the alchemy you’ll likely hear from this pairing will feel more organic, warm and mysterious. 7 p.m. June 12 at Ravinia, 418 Sheridan Road, Highland Park; tickets start at $67. at ravinia.org

Mdou Moctar: Most of the American media attention concerning global turmoil centers on Gaza, Ukraine and Haiti. Led by its namesake guitarist, Mdou Moctar loudly reminds everyone that such a world view is narrow and that Nigeria —and specifically, the country’s Tuareg people — continues to face unthinkable struggles. The ensemble’s bold new “Funeral for Justice” LP explicitly addresses the constitutional crises, colonial repression and environmental crimes hastened by Western super powers. A virtuoso who built parts of his first guitar from bicycle brake wires, Moctar uses his instrument to speak a universal language that dissolves any barriers between French, Tamasheq and English. A more vibrant, vital, hypnotic rock ‘n’ roll band will not cross these paths this summer. (Mdou Moctar plays a sold-out gig at Empty Bottle on June 17.) 8 p.m. June 18 at Thalia Hall, 1807 S. Allport St.; tickets start at $25 (17+) at thaliahallchicago.com/shows

Iron & Wine: The long, bushy, salt-and-pepper beard worn by Iron & Wine leader Sam Beam functions as a visual parallel to the lived-in nature of the singer-songwriter’s introspective folk-rock fare. Those tunes span nearly 25 years and fill a succession of strong studio albums — including the new “Light Verse,” a lighthearted affair that reaffirms Beam’s strengths as the kind of calming, balanced narrator to whom you’d trust the reading of a lengthy audiobook. No strangers to teaming with string support, Iron & Wine opted for a different collaborative approach for its summer outing. The South Carolina-based group will pair with Manual Cinema, the Chicago collective known for mind-altering shadow puppetry and innovative theatricality. Look for the company to augment Iron & Wine’s compelling storytelling with immersive flair. 8 p.m. July 8 at Salt Shed, 1357 N. Elston Ave.; tickets from $46.50 (17+) at saltshedchicago.com

Redd Kross: Raise your hand if you started a band in junior high or high school — or knew someone who did. You’re in good company. Now, leave your hand up if your former peer(s) kept their garage dream alive for 45 years. That distinction alone makes Redd Kross a unique success, and one that later this year will be relayed through a documentary film (“Born Innocent”) and memoir (“Now You’re One of Us”). Family squabbles and contrarian opinions aside, brothers Jeff and Steven McDonald fan the punk-rock-meets-power-pop flame and even get assistance from Pearl Jam/Red Hot Chili Peppers alum Josh Klinghoffer on Redd Kross’ forthcoming self-titled double album. Joyful, catchy, triumphant, silly: Everything the band you imagined beginning as a teenager would be, and then some. 8 p.m. July 16 at Lincoln Hall, 2424 N. Lincoln Ave.; tickets $25 (18+) lh-st.com

George Strait and Chris Stapleton: To quote Beyoncé, this ain’t Texas. But icon George Strait will do his darndest to ensure everyone in the vicinity of Soldier Field will enjoy a healthy taste of the Lone Star State’s cowboy culture, Western swing traditions and “pure country” roots at the best high-profile double bill of the summer. A foolproof entertainer and nuanced vocalist, Strait touts a bulletproof resume that includes 60 No. 1 hits, 33 platinum albums and the feat for presiding over the largest crowd at a North American indoor concert. (Strait is on track to break the latter record in June.) If anyone can precede such a legend without seeming small, it’s contemporary outlaw Chris Stapleton. The Kentucky-born troubadour packs molasses-thick drawl, red-dirt grit and sturdy soulfulness into songs that eschew cheap pop devices and cut deep into the subconscious where, like his unhurried melodies, they can linger for days. 5:45 p.m. July 20 at Soldier Field, 1410 S. Museum Campus Drive; tickets from $59 at ticketmaster.com

Green Day, Smashing Pumpkins and Rancid: The only unknown surrounding this well-curated assembly of early ‘90s rock juggernauts is why it’s in town for just one night. It doesn’t matter whether you’re old enough to remember when Green Day’s “Dookie” turned the Bay Area punks from relatively unknown pranksters into commercial sensations. Or when the band’s “American Idiot” stunned everyone with ambitious arrangements, serious chops and sociopolitical messages. Each landmark celebrates significant anniversaries (30th and 20th, respectively) in 2024. Songs from both records will dominate the set. Closer to home, the show marks the local debut of new Smashing Pumpkins guitarist Kiki Wong. She bested 10,000 applicants for the job and wasn’t yet born when ringleader Billy Corgan formed the group in 1988, the same year Wrigley Field got lights. 5:30 p.m. Aug. 13 at Wrigley Field, 1060 W. Addison St.; tickets from $169 at mlb.com

Missy Elliott: Occasionally, you’ll encounter a fact and shake your head in disbelief. Exhibit A: Missy Elliott never embarked on a headlining tour. Despite a groundbreaking career in which the rapper helped shape the sounds and styles of pop, hip-hop and R&B for a solid decade, the recent Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductee failed to demonstrate how she gets her freak on at arena stages. Well, time to work it. Nearly two decades removed from her last studio LP, Misdemeanor will oversee a cosmic presentation dubbed “Out of This World — The Missy Elliott Experience.” Familiar collaborators Busta Rhymes, Timbaland and Ciara are along for the ride. 7 p.m. Aug. 22 and 23 at Allstate Arena, 6920 N. Mannheim Road, Rosemont; tickets from $79.50 at ticketmaster.com

Pink: Give Pink credit for truth in advertising. Few artists could live up to the promise of a tour named Summer Carnival. For Pink, it’s old hat. The vocalist has descended from rafters, performed daredevil acrobatics and proven she could hang with a Cirque du Soleil troop at area arenas and Wrigley Field. Yet she’s never enjoyed a canvas as big as Soldier Field. (Note to Pink: A giant ski jump was constructed over the stadium colonnades as recently as 1954. Just a suggestion!) Add to Pink’s spectacle an opener in the form of Sheryl Crow and the probability of a still-charged environment around the Museum Campus; the Democratic National Convention wraps two nights earlier. Talk about the circus coming to town. 6:30 p.m. Aug. 24 at Soldier Field, 1410 S. Museum Campus Drive; tickets from $100 at ticketmaster.com

Bob Gendron is a freelance critic.

Blending the vibes of a designer fashion show, uninhibited exercise class and anything-goes girl’s weekend, the uneven 90-minute concert prized movement, liberation and flesh. An extended sequence during which Megan Thee Stallion hand-picked fans to twerk in front of the sold-out crowd to a partial cover of Bankroll Freddie’s “Pop It” put into perspective the priorities she placed on physicality, looseness and positive body image.

She led by example, habitually flexing her toned legs and highlighting her curves via suggestive poses, hip thrusts and low-to-the-ground stances. Megan Thee Stallion’s shape-hugging outfits — a mix of sheer bodysuits, strap-and-lace tops, bikini-style bottoms and stylish boots — and the video team’s close-up camera shots ensured her figure remained in clear view.

Her rap skills, authoritative and cohesive on many of her studio cuts, suffered though in the live environment. Megan Thee Stallion allowed pre-recorded backing tracks to handle the heavy lifting. She would begin to rap and suddenly pause, frequently amid the same verse, producing a flow that came across as choppy and interrupted. The approach caused strings of words to land as interjections instead of whole sentences. Coupled with the questionable decision to forgo any real instrumentalists, the erratic microphone control occasionally made it appear as if Megan Thee Stallion karaoked rather than performed her songs.

The sound system did her no favors. Dominated by rafters-vibrating bass drops and booming echoes, the rhythms and beats drowned out her vocals on a regular basis. The acoustic shortfalls further blurred the lines on transitions from one song to another. Slight changes to the 29-year-old’s deliveries, and different projections or color schemes involved with visual treatments, offered the surest clues when she moved onto the next track. She had a tendency to cut out entire verses and whittle select songs down to snippets.

(Representatives from the tour contacted the Tribune after this review was first published to say that technical difficulties contributed to unevenness in sound quality during the concert. The backing music was pre-recorded; Megan Thee Stallion’s vocal performance was live.)

The Houston native — born Megan Jovon Ruth Pete — has never headlined a tour before, despite her standing as a commercial force for the past five years. Her Hot Girl Summer trek, which launched last Tuesday, represents the last major hurdle for a rapper who has accomplished nearly every other significant mainstream feat since attracting attention in the late 2010s on social media for her freestyle posts.

Such successes extend to Megan Thee Stallion signing a content deal with Netflix, becoming a Revlon ambassador, serving as a judge for a voguing competition series and surfacing in films and television shows. Her musical achievements are legion, encompassing acclaimed mixtapes, No. 1 songs, Top 5 albums and collaborations with a litany of contemporary pop and hip-hop superstars — Beyonce, Cardi B, Chance the Rapper, Dua Lipa, Nicki Mianj and Ariana Grande included. In addition to four Grammy Awards, Megan Thee Stallion earned accolades from the likes of BET, Billboard, MTV, the NAACP and Variety. She seemingly is also widely known for being the victim of a high-profile shooting in July 2020. The harrowing incident, in which the rapper got shot in the feet by rapper Tory Lanez, turned Megan Thee Stallion into a target for internet trolls who mocked her, trivialized the violence and caused her additional trauma.

Tellingly, the rapper proved her most compelling when focused on haters, users and former associates. Drawing on a considerable battle-rap arsenal, she tore enemies down with deft wordplay, fierce attitude, savage boasts and rapid-fire pace. While a problematic feed muted the start of the concert-opening “Hiss,” Megan Thee Stallion adopted the guise of a coiled snake primed to strike even when her vocals remained inaudible. She brought similar swagger and pent-up vengeance to the creeping “What’s New,” stormy “Plan B” and trunk-rattling “Boa,” a smart dis track whose onomatopoeic refrain wagged akin to a teasing index finger in the face of unnamed adversaries.

Accompanied by a swarm of eight female dancers that followed her around and engaged in choreographed routines, Megan Thee Stallion devoted an equal amount of time to carnal pleasures. Parading, sashaying, stepping, prancing, bouncing, constantly twerking: She embraced independence and exhibited outsized inner and outer confidence, flipping the scripts on male-fantasy scenarios that treat women as subservient, and that dominated hip hop for decades.

The sexually explicit and humorously exaggerated narratives of the funky “Big Ole Freak,” uptempo “Freak Nasty,” hard-punching “Captain Hook” and shadowboxing “Sex Talk” found Megan Thee Stallion in command and satisfying her desires. She increased the steamy temperature on “Eat It” — imaginatively sent up with her crew using towels as props, along with on-screen graphics of lips and tongues — and “WAP,” catchy NSFW anthems centered on female anatomy and why it deserves to be celebrated.

Filtered through a lens some may consider vulgar and obscene, Megan Thee Stallion’s messages empowered and energized. She viewed money, property and luxury goods — customarily the purview of the opposite sex, especially in hip hop — with the same feminine-minded perspective as she did self-worth and identity. Her brief interactions with the audience — grabbing phones to take a selfie, expressing disbelief at receiving gifts, inviting “hottie” fans of different shapes and sizes up to dance — hinted at a mutual understanding that dissolved barriers that normally exist between celebrities and regular folks.

The rapper also stayed identifiable by not dwarfing herself with excessive spectacle. Anchored by a stage based around a ring rimmed by an outer walkway and framed by a few projection columns, the production skewed basic — particularly for an arena event helmed by a younger artist. Aside from some fireballs, a ceiling-descending lighting contraption and a confetti shower, Megan Thee Stallion relied on her bold charisma, body tissue-rippling maneuvers and pliable ensemble. And she knows the all-eyes-on-her magnetism that can stem from playfully sipping water through a straw.

Not enough, however, to fully compensate for her inconsistent raps and hit-and-miss cadence. Another signature attribute missing in action: Megan Thee Stallion’s insertions and asides, the  “baow,” “mwah,”  “hmmm” and “skrrt” language-as-sound effects that punctuate her lines and inject brash flavor. Perhaps they will emerge and her weaknesses dissipate as she logs more shows. For now, at least she’s not lacking self-assuredness or motivation.

“Lookin’ in the mirror like, ‘Damn, I don’t brag enough,’” she spat on “Thot (Expletive).” You go, girl. After all, hip hop never thrived on modesty.

Update: This story has been changed with a note about sound technical issues. 

Setlist from the United Center in Chicago on May 17:

“Hiss”

“Ungrateful”

“Thot (Expletive)”

“Freak Nasty”

“Megan’s Piano”

“Gift & A Curse”

“Hot Girl”

“Kitty Kat”

“Cobra”

“Plan B”

“Cognac Queen”

“Big Ole Freak”

“Girls in the Hood”

“Boa”

“Sex Talk”

“Eat It”

“What’s New”

“Captain Hook”

“Southside Forever Freestyle”

“Pop It” (Bankroll Freddie cover)

“NDA”

“Wanna Be” (Glorilla cover)

“WAP” (Cardi B cover)

“Don’t Stop”

“Stalli Freestyle”

“Cash (Expletive)”

“Body”

“Savage”

With little left to prove except its contemporary relevance 55 years after forming in Britain, the group stuck to its hallmark techniques and zeroed in on what mattered: the music, and its iron-clad bond with the heavy-metal community. While many artists spout what the crowd wants to hear, then repeat the same banter in every city, Judas Priest spent scant time on talk and devoted its nearly non-stop 105-minute set to the proverbial walk.

In sound and vision, words and attitude, the quintet embodied the liberating release and unifying spirit of second-wave metal. For Judas Priest, that meant leaning into the sheer power of its craft, the outsider mentality of its lyrics and the occasional theatricality sparked by the pairing. The straightforward, hammer-down approach came across as both unapologetic and vintage — not to mention endangered in a modern era prone to solo stars and pricey, one-upmanship productions.

Led by vocalist Rob Halford, the band forged a thrilling assault that projected a defiant toughness that could withstand or defeat the challenges outlined in many of its narratives. Rugged, resilient and rebellious, the songs’ temperaments traced a direct line to the band’s origins in the industrial wastelands of Birmingham, England. As did the well-controlled aural cacophony that evoked all manner of steel manufacturing: pounded anvils, loud stamping machines and fire-stoked furnaces included.

Those parallels further assumed a visual form during “You’ve Got Another Thing Comin’,” a declarative anthem accompanied by black-and-white historical footage of workers laboring at a factory. And they adopted loaded meaning amid the back-and-forth sway of “Breaking the Law,” with Halford screeching “you don’t know what it’s like” akin to a desperate dreamer intent on doing anything to escape their soul-crushing circumstances.

Misfits, outsiders and blue-collar types standing throughout the venue understood exactly what he meant. Then again, Judas Priest has been speaking to and for those individuals since Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin were at their mid-’70s peak. Seldom concerned with mainstream trappings, Judas Priest’s dalliance with commercial fame in the ‘80s happened on its own terms.

Though the band never broke up — a feat that places it in rare company with the Rolling Stones and other select lifers — Halford’s exit in the early ‘90s triggered the start of a forgettable period that alienated everyone but diehards. The singer’s 2004 return led to a second-act renaissance that long ago surpassed the merit, longevity and productivity associated with most reunions.

Released in early March, the band’s 19th album, “Invisible Shield,” extends a run of strong studio LPs marred only by the conceptual “Nostradamus” (2008). It follows the group’s 2022 induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame; a pandemic-delayed 50th anniversary trek; and a bare-all Halford autobiography (“Confess”). Ironically, those positive developments owe to the type of lineup changes that often spell the end of bands.

In 2011, longtime member K.K. Downing suddenly quit over internal disagreements. In 2018, fellow guitarist Glenn Tipton, retired from live performance after the burden of dealing with Parkinson’s disease grew too difficult to bear. In their shoes stepped the relatively unknown Richie Faulkner and producer-musician Andy Sneap, respectively.

While purists may chafe at the replacements, each instrumentalist held up their end of the bargain from flanked positions on Wednesday. Rather than simply replicate passages, Faulkner and Sneap played with expressive license. The six-string fireworks that packed the spaces between the verses and chorus — pinched harmonics, squealing tritones, traded solos, doubled-up leads — erupted with a sharpness that matched the jaggedness of the main riffs.

While the latest recruits lacked the tight chemistry of their predecessors, Judas Priest’s rhythm section hurt for nothing. Bassist Ian Hill, the band’s longest-tenured member, stood in the shadows and operated as a silent lynchpin. Picking up on the resultant vibrations, he ensured the arrangements — even those that aimed at the jugular (the blitzing “Panic Attack,” the deep cut “Saints in Hell”) — remained tethered to a discernible groove. Hill’s partner, drummer Scott Travis, went another level beyond.

Entering his 35th year in the group, Travis put on a clinic. His combination of balance, solidity, timekeeping, force and steadiness bestowed Judas Priest with unshakable foundations and punchy dynamics. Travis’ four limbs navigated his double-bass kit with virtuosic ease. Cool and restrained, he avoided unnecessary flash such as splashy fills or busy cymbal crashes.

At times, the sustained crack of Travis’ drums resembled that of holes being bored into thick sheet metal. During a cover of Fleetwood Mac’s “The Green Manalishi (With the Two Prong Crown),” the rumbling percussive transformed into a fleet of approaching steamrollers.

If Travis’ rolling thunder served as the rails on which the band rode, Halford’s multi-octave deliveries functioned as the high-speed train barreling down on tormentors and detractors. Unsurprisingly, the 72-year-old vocalist — who, with his big, fluffy white beard and shaved head could’ve passed for a character who walked right out of a Herman Melville novel — no longer possesses the near-infinite range of his glory days.

Yes, Halford hit shrieking highs and glass-shattering notes. But he limited their frequency and length, and received obvious assistance from reverb, echoes and loops. No matter. Few singers manage to cover as much territory. Fewer still strike a more commanding on-stage presence than the nicknamed Metal God, whose constant caged-lion pacing, demonstrative body language and cheerleading of his colleagues and crowd all ranked second to his impressive wardrobe.

Clad in black leather pants, boots and gloves, and cycling through an array of waist- and knee-length leather jackets dripping with studs, chains and tassels, Halford exemplified the heavy-metal biker demeanor Judas Priest practically invented. In addition to complementing the look of his mates, his clothing — which also included a floor-length denim battle vest that would’ve been ridiculous on anyone else — mirrored the fortitude and grit of the material.

Rotating through the roles of necromancer (the eerie “Love Bites”), exorcist (the vicious “Devil’s Child”) and pursuant (the sleek “Turbo Lover”) with resolute authority, the singer later found the fountain of youth while chronicling the triumphs of a heroic cyborg. Reaching upper-frequency extremes from a crouched stance, Halford and company’s unyielding rendition of “Painkiller” renewed the case for the song’s standing as the greatest metal composition of the past three-plus decades.

After that kind of exertion, who could blame the singer for sitting for a spell? Returning to the stage on a Harley-Davidson, riding crop in hand, Halford straddled the bike during the first half of “Hell Bent for Leather” before throwing one leg over the side and dismounting.

Just as expected. Judas Priest executed the signature move countless times in the past. Yet akin to the band’s unwavering commitment to blending heaviness with melody, some traditions never grow old.

Bob Gendron is a freelance critic.

Setlist from the Rosemont Theatre May 1:

“Panic Attack”
“You’ve Got Another Thing Comin’”
“Rapid Fire”
“Breaking the Law”
“Lightning Strike”
“Love Bites”
“Devil’s Child”
“Saints in Hell”
“Crown of Horns”
“Sinner”
“Turbo Lover”
“Invincible Shield”
“Victim of Changes”
“The Green Manalishi (With the Two Prong Crown)” (Fleetwood Mac cover)
“Painkiller”

Encore
“Electric Eye”
“Hell Bent for Leather”
“Living After Midnight”

Apart from ice-cold stares and hard scans that accompanied some of her aggressive material, Minaj appeared to be in a jovial mood for most of the 140-minute event. The Queen of Rap cycled through multiple personas, organized mini-sets around loose themes and, by and large, demonstrated that her skills as a rapper still rank among the top echelon. Her aptitude as a balladeer and sense of pacing failed to match that elevated standard. Woefully so.

Accompanied by a drummer and keyboardist, Minaj performed the bulk of the show with a dance ensemble that added to the visual bling. A three-tier stage with a tall multi-screen backdrop, catwalk and dizzying array of lights matched the glam of the outfits seen throughout the audience. Dry-ice fog, fireballs, sparks, lasers and numerous props accentuated an atmosphere that suggested a cross between bougie nightclub and theme park attraction.

Or, in Minaj’s eyes, Gag City — the alternate moniker for her current Pink Friday 2 tour. The name comes from the LGBTQ+ term “gag,” which means to be awestruck. Her costumes alone gave such an impression. Metallic breastplate, formal gown, revealing bodysuit, cheerleader apparel, pink dress, robe, hooded jacket: Paired with various wigs and high-heeled boots, Minaj wore them all with sass and style.

Of course, changing into all those clothes required time and transitions. Though brief interludes are customary at arena and stadium shows, the four video-based breaks that allowed Minaj opportunities to strut her around as a fashion icon felt overly protracted. For the first half of the concert, anyway, Minaj’s engaging flow and slippery phrasing defeated those obstacles.

She kept rescuing the momentum that built from the outset on “I’m the Best.” The opening autobiographical declaration contained a blend of brashness, boldness and hubris that infused the songs Minaj sounded the most persuasive presenting — and epitomized the take-on-all-comers identity the rapper most naturally adopted. The very approach that transformed her into an international phenomenon.

During the past 15 years, few artists have dominated popular culture and influenced trends like Minaj. The Trinidadian native’s commercial feats encompass multiple firsts and reported global sales of more than 100 million units (singles, albums and features). Recognizing that her name often translates into automatic success, plenty of famous artists — Drake, Doja Cat, Post Malone, Rihanna, Ariana Grande, Lil Wayne, Ye, Madonna and Elton John among them — have sought out Minaj for collaborations.

Often one of the only women in a field crowded with men, she has won or been nominated for nearly every type of major music award imaginable. Minaj belongs to an exclusive club of musicians who count eight videos that have been streamed more than one billion times each. In addition to television and film appearances, her branding reach extends to an entrepreneurial portfolio with fragrances, snacks, clothing and accessories.

The 41-year-old rapper also maintains a robust social media presence — Minaj boasts a staggering 229 million followers on Instagram — that helps account for her ability to stay relevant amid a pop landscape that changes by the day. As does her outspokenness, which includes highly publicized feuds with hip hop contemporaries.

“You either love me or (expletive) hate me, right?” Minaj asked Wednesday, drawing attention to her polarizing reputation and hinting at the bad-girl guise she seemingly loves to embrace. Physically, Minaj used body language to project toughness, infallibility and royalty. Sonically, the rapper unloaded on enemies and wannabes with diss tracks (“FTCU,” “Beep Beep”), torrents of clever one-liners (“Barbie Dangerous,” “Big Difference”) and battle-ready braggadocio (“Win Again”).

Minaj’s forceful tones, animated deliveries and alter-ego accents translated her intent as well as the meaning of the words. Her control — she seamlessly shifted from patient, slow elocution to rapid-fire clips in a blink, machine-gunning syllables in manners that created their own rhythms — backed up her talk. The technique compensated for the fact she seldom played songs in their entirety. Covering up for an over-reliance on backing tracks proved more difficult.

However determined to stake out her territory, Minaj also indulged in risque fun and conveyed it with a wink. She struck suggestive poses on the synth-heavy “Pink Birthday.” Male members of her dance team sported cowboy hats and holster belts for the sexual “Cowgirl.” Minaj leaned on recognizable samples from Rick James and Sir Mix-a-Lot hits, respectively, to send up the exaggerated raunch of “Super Freaky Girl” and “Anaconda.”

And she shared the spotlight and provided a surprise by duetting with Chicago rapper G Herbo on “Chi-Raq.” Not to be outdone, the local singer-songwriter joined Minaj on “Favorite” and “Want Some More” — the first time the pair performed those songs together on stage. Further impact, slam and sneer arrived with the warrior-minded “Chun-Li,” trap-laden “Red Ruby Da Sleeze” and tribal pound of “Monster.” If Minaj would have only retained that sharp focus and attack.

Instead, she morphed into a singer during a solo stretch that attempted emotional vulnerability but landed on formula and blandness. “Right Thru Me” and “Save Me” came across as anonymous pop lacking grit and charisma. Abbreviated renditions of “Here I Am” and “Let Me Calm Down” fared just slightly better. Then things really nose-dived.

When Minaj departed for another anticipated interlude, R&B vocalist Monica (who opened the show) filled what amounted to a nearly half-hour intermission. The head-scratching decision to pause that far into the concert drained the energy. The prolonged setup of a prop that resembled an illuminated monorail car sapped any spirit that remained. Note to Minaj: If something causes that long of a delay, it doesn’t belong onstage. Refer to the unofficial Spinal Tap rule.

At least Minaj would re-emerge and race to a breathless finish, right? Not exactly. The rapper drifted, detouring into a monologue during which she spouted armchair psychology and motivational platitudes. Well-intended, maybe. But did everyone then deserve to endure tone-deaf fans holding Minaj’s microphone and singing the chorus of “The Night Is Still Young”?

Besides, that song’s sentiment no longer applied. By the time the rapper recalibrated her direction via the electro-pulsing bounce of “Starships” and hybrid hip-hop of the celebratory “Everybody,” midnight on a school night beckoned.

Setlist from the United Center April 24:
Part 1
“I’m the Best”
“Barbie Dangerous”
“FTCU”
“Beep Beep”
“Hard White”
“Press Play”
“Win Again”
“Chi-Raq”
“Big Difference”
“Beez in the Trap”
“Pink Birthday”
“Feeling Myself”
“Favorite”
“Want Some More”
“Cowgirl”
“RNB”
“High School”
“Needle”
“Chun-Li”
“Red Ruby Da Sleeze”
“Barbie World”
“Roman’s Revenge”
“Monster” (Ye cover)
“Fallin 4 U”
“Right Thru Me”
“Save Me”
“Here I Am”
“Let Me Calm Down”

Part 2
“Super Freaky Girl”
“Anaconda”
“Super Bass”
“The Night Is Still Young”
“Moment 4 Life”
“Starships”
“Everybody”

However, given Phish was not even one minute into the third of its sold-out four-night stand at the $2.3 billion dome — expressly devised to push sensory boundaries to previously uncharted limits — one couldn’t help wonder how seriously the group would take its own instruction. Turns out Anastasio and company still place their hallmark interplay above everything.

At once playful and serious, Phish’s brilliantly unpredictable music led and complemented a non-stop parade of dizzying graphics, abstract patterns, distant universes and panoramic projections made possible by the Sphere, where the band took over from an opening residency by U2. The optical extravaganza erupted on nearly four acres worth of 16k LED screen wrapped behind, above and around the members’ positions on a minimalist oval stage.

Among the generated scenery that dropped the crowd into manipulated environments: Soap bubbles that grew in size, headed for the audience and acted as if they might swallow anyone in their path (“Tube”). A hilly meadow with trees and blowing grasses, which illuminated with alternating bright and pastel colors according to the band’s pace (“Pillow Jets”). A calming perch atop a forested peak shrouded in fog (“Mountains in the Mist”).

During “Tweezer Reprise,” cars tumbled across an empty sky, teasing chaos as they poured down like hail. Throughout “Taste,” layers of metal rings, stacked wedding-cake-style, rotated to reveal iconography and illustrations from an archival Phish CD series. Amid “Sigma Oasis,” plush clouds resembling gigantic mushrooms bloomed as others transformed into the shapes of birds and turtles. (Though some anticipated the numerical date of Saturday’s event would prompt the band to commemorate 420, marijuana’s unofficial holiday went unacknowledged — not surprising since the group thinks big and beyond trite concepts.)

Just the second act to use the Sphere as a boundless sandbox, Phish took a decidedly different approach than U2. In christening the facility last fall and winter, the Irish group opted for extraordinary displays that challenged conceptions of space and suspended disbelief, as well as literal and metaphorical visuals that delivered potent environmental and sociopolitical messages. U2 also stuck with a pre-scripted program at every performance.

Phish pursued improvisational tactics that reflected the emblematic fluidity of its concerts. Less interested in direct interpretation, the band orchestrated the optical spectacles to respond in real time to the music. The daring strategy permitted Anastasio, drummer Jon Fishman, bassist Mike Gordon and keyboardist Page McConnell to stay clear of prescribed routes and fenced-in passages. In short, the production allowed Phish to do what it does best: surrender to the flow and live in the moment.

Phish affirmed its commitment to adventure and exploration by spending almost 40 minutes sussing out the first three songs of the multi-set performance. With its start anchored by freewheeling renditions of two older favorites stemming from 1990 (“Tube” and “Stash”), the ensemble flashed a blend of dexterity, patience and surprise that continues to attract hordes of followers more than four decades after its formation in Burlington, Vermont.

Mirroring previous stands at Madison Square Garden, Phish avoided song repeats and scored each concert with different visuals. Preparation for the run began in July 2023 when creative director Abigail Rosen Holmes started on ideas proposed by the group. While she collaborated with Montreal-based Moment Factory — a multimedia studio specializing in immersive environments — on video presentation and show design, Phish audio engineer Garry Brown oversaw the deployment of the venue’s 167,000-strong loudspeaker system.

Fans unable to trek to the desert got the chance to livestream each performance on the group’s website. Others put their faith in the Phish community. On Saturday, dozens of followers milled around outside the venue holding up an index finger hoping for a “miracle” — an extra ticket, often gifted for free. Some fans already had tickets to one or several of the other shows. Other diehards, including Jessica Ganjon, arrived without knowing their fate. She flew in from Denver without guaranteed admission to any show in the limited run.

Indeed, given Phish’s proclivity for risk-taking performances and audiophile sonics, the brevity of its Sphere engagement seemed bizarre. By comparison, U2 delivered 40 concerts over the course of several months. Dead & Company will present 24 shows beginning in May.

In July, Phish will release its 16th studio album and commence on a 26-date tour. The jaunt swings through Alpine Valley in Wisconsin for a trio of shows late in the month before routing through Noblesville, Indiana, and Grand Rapids, Michigan — each less than a three-hour drive from Chicago. Anastasio arrives earlier. He and his solo ensemble hit the Salt Shed on May 9.

It’s conceivable the 59-year-old still might be smiling from the Vegas rush. As Phish’s de facto leader, Anastasio couldn’t disguise his enthusiasm on Saturday. The bespectacled road warrior hopped in place before a single note struck. Near midnight, as Phish completed the marathon 185-minute show, Anastasio still looked as if he could coax another symphony’s worth of articulate tones, free-form melodies and knife-edged solos from his guitar.

Phish’s license to walk the proverbial tightrope — and tendency to nestle into the thickets of on-the-fly arrangements — can prove overbearing for listeners who prefer concise hooks or conventional structures. To the Phish faithful, the group’s deep-dive excursions and without-a-net acrobatics explain why seeing the band in person is without parallel. That, and the thrilling light displays that designer Chris Kuroda orchestrates to respond to Phish’s whims.

The Sphere’s voluminous canvas and technological capacity helped explode those elements to exponential proportions — particularly since Phish stretched its collective legs on a majority of the material. Pulling from a grab-bag of rock, fusion, boogie and electric jazz, the quartet guided airy escapades filled with bounding tempos, gliding riffs, blissful vibes and subtle yet sudden shifts.

Largely steeped in fusion and funk, songs opened up to elongated jams that encouraged loose-limbed dancing, closed-eyes meditation and mouth-agape awe. Phish conveyed a wide range of emotional states — heroic, optimistic, dramatic, relaxed, anxious, giddy — without uttering a word. When Anastasio stepped to the microphone to sing, or teamed with Gordon or McConnell on a vocal, the phrases were usually brief, choral exclamations or onomatopoeic.

Drifting and expansive, songs’ architecture remained tethered to rhythmic foundations courtesy of Fishman’s steady drum beats and Gordon’s flexible bass lines. They provided a true compass on numerous occasions, most notably during an epic 20-plus-minute reading of “Fuego,” whose complex sprawl threatened to float away into the ether. Here and elsewhere, Phish benefited from selective use of the Sphere’s spatial sonic capabilities.

Without warning, the band isolated a particular instrument in a specific area, panned percussive sounds or added psychedelic accents to the mix. The results created 360-degree sonic vistas that enveloped the mind and body. Low-end frequencies, too, possessed elevated degrees of definition, clarity, depth and decay. Along with Phish’s adaptive visuals and probing tunes, the aural wizardry contributed to an immersive experience that triggered the imagination, entertained fantasy and incited waves of recurring joy.

Consciously or not, Anastasio summed up the future-is-now realities and dynamic sensations in “Golden Age,” singing: “The age of miracles, the age of sound / Well, there’s a Golden Age, comin’ round.” Enjoy it if and while you can.

Bob Gendron is a freelance critic.

Setlist from the Sphere in Las Vegas April 20:

Set I
“Set Your Soul Free”
“Tube”
“Stash”
“Pillow Jets”
“Steam”
“Mountains in the Mist”
“Taste”
“46 Days”

Set II
“Sigma Oasis”
“Fuego” →
“Golden Age” →
“Twist”
“I Am Hydrogen”
“Chalkdust Torture” →
“Say It to Me S.A.N.T.O.S.”

Encore
“A Life Beyond the Dream”
“Tweezer Reprise”

Though she said she was only joking, Mitski’s abstract perspectives and dark inclinations made it impossible to tell. Such duality and uncertainty informed her 90-minute concert, a peculiar and inventive display that blended performance art, avante-garde cabaret and interpretive dance. An adept septet anchored by her longtime producer, Patrick Hyland, followed suit with a similarly diverse sonic palette that ranged from honky tonk to chamber pop.

Offering a refreshing rebuke of now-customary projection screens, Mitski incorporated imaginative lighting, moody colors and a few basic props to frame her singing and pantomiming of 25 songs. Wearing a white dress shirt and ankle-length pants, she spent nearly all her time on a raised circular platform center stage. Pushed toward the rear, and off to the sides, the band members assumed an anonymous disposition.

Intentional or otherwise, that alignment underscored the coldness and cynicism permeating many of the routines, where things did not often appear as they seemed. Mitski’s voice — largely even-keeled and pleasant, clean and direct without resorting to loudness, rooted in an emotive intimacy that fell to husky lows and rose to falsetto highs without calling attention to itself — presented additional deceptive contrasts, particularly in relation to her distraught lyrics.

Ditto the music’s predominantly melodic sweep and organic character, arguably the most accessible aspects of a vocalist whose arrangements eschew obvious structures and whose ability to fill a 3,900-person capacity space for four evenings might surprise some listeners. Large halls remain off-limits to most indie artists who favor similar degrees of complexity, experimentalism and rawness. Mitski’s story remains atypical in an age where shifting industry logistics increasingly favor established, legacy and mainstream-leaning talent.

Equally uncommon is how her fame continues to grow more than a decade after she self-released her debut LP while still studying at Purchase College. Since issuing her third album (“Bury Me at Makeout Creek”) in 2014, Mitski has benefitted from overwhelming critical acclaim and broader exposure, including  an afternoon set at the 2017 Pitchfork Music Festival, which she returned to headline two years ago.

If Mitski’s popularity deviates from the norm, it’s also because she keeps a low profile, compared with stars that are household names. Yet despite the 33-year-old’s hiatus in 2019, aversion to social media and private persona, she cannot evade her fervent following or the public eye.

Former President Barack Obama cited Mitski’s “The Only Heartbreaker” on his 2021 list of favorite songs. Her two most recent records reached the Top 5 of multiple Billboard charts. Mitski’s collaborative song for the film “Everything Everywhere All at Once” landed an Oscar nomination. She finally cracked the Top 40 singles chart last fall with “My Love Mine All Mine,” which initially lit up TikTok and inspired Obama to put it on his latest lineup of picks.

Mitski’s tender rendition of that ballad on Thursday provided a rare moment of respite amid a flurry of inner turbulence, crippling isolation and existential doubt. Singing beneath a dangling elliptical installation patterned after a mobile hanging over a baby’s crib, she found peace in the spirit and knowledge that, unlike other feelings and issues she explored, her internal love couldn’t be debased, desecrated or appropriated. Her views on relationships, dreams and desires adopted a decidedly more caustic tone.

Referencing abuse (“I Don’t Smoke”), illness (“Thursday Girl”), addiction (“Bug Like an Angel”), estrangement (“Nobody”), oppression (“Everyone”) and loneliness (“The Frost”) in forthright fashion, Mitski’s songs — and her physical manifestations of them — came across as prophetic illustrations of the World Happiness Report announced on Wednesday that documented a general decline in happiness, particularly among young adults. .

In Mitski, adolescents and young adults have a sympathetic vessel. The singer conveyed exasperation, exhaustion and ennui via breathy coos, casual sighs and weary murmurs. She gave every indication of wanting to scream but swallowed hard instead, ingesting the fury and stifling any hope of release. Even when leveraged with hints of dark humor, recurring themes of alienation, heartbreak and desperation forced Mitski to struggle to cope with moving forward. Her wishes to disappear, withdraw or start anew, failed to materialize.

She pleaded for someone to drown her out and wondered how people get through their day (the country-and-western “Love Me More”). Resorted to gluttonous distractions and tiresome labor to keep her from thinking about memories (the jangling “I Don’t Like My Mind”). Sacrificed freedom to be rid of her tortured soul (a claustrophobic “The Deal”). Invited wicked fates as punishment for acts of betrayal and destruction that led to her abandonment ( the jazzy “I’m Your Man”).

Mitski paired the narratives with an array of rehearsed theatrical devices — gestures, poses, dance moves — steeped in sarcasm and farce, sincerity and solemnity. Splaying her legs; tapping her toes; covering her head; wiping sweat from her brow; sticking out her tongue; forming sharp angles with her arms; executing backward somersaults; collapsing during dramatic codas; singing in prone states; contorting her body; strumming an invisible guitar; using open-back chairs, mic stands and a curtain to enhance dimension and scope: Mitski’s visual communication added layers of meaning and depth.

It also frequently established her as the human analog of an animated toy soldier — a living, breathing individual molded into forced positions, a pawn whose outward appearances served as mocking commentaries on consumption, phoniness, inequity and social pressures. Mitski’s practices of crawling on all fours and mimicking a canine during the minimalist “I Bet on Losing Dogs” or cartoonishly knocking her knees, stretching her limbs and screwing a plastic smile on her face for the ironically upbeat “Happy” further suggested a need to pretend, and ignore, in order to survive.

She admitted as much on “Fireworks,” an orchestrated slow-build with a nonchalance that transitioned into feverish rock ‘n’ roll once stubborn avoidance lost out to unavoidable acceptance.

“I start the day lying and end with the truth,” a resigned Mitski sang on the devastating “Working for the Knife.” As for that truth? The sobering realization that life will crush your dreams. Welcome to the machine.

Setlist
“Everyone”
“Buffalo Replaced”
“Working for the Knife”
“The Frost”
“The Deal”
“Valentine, Texas”
“I Bet on Losing Dogs”
“Thursday Girl”
“Geyser”
“I Love Me After You”
“First Love/Late Spring”
“Star”
“Heaven”
“I Don’t Like My Mind”
“Happy”
“My Love Mine All Mine”
“Last Words of a Shooting Star”
“Pink in the Night”
“I’m Your Man”
“I Don’t Smoke”
“Bug Like an Angel”
“Love Me More”
“Fireworks”

Encore
“Nobody”
“Washing Machine Heart”

Touring in support of her “Guts” album, the 21-year-old vocalist brought to light concerns, sentiments and circumstances that largely impact teenage girls and women of all ages. Her inspired and inspiring performance was a combination high-energy concert, scream-therapy session, communal catharsis and stay-up-til-dawn slumber party. It displayed Rodrigo’s maturation from adolescent to young adult — as well as her interest in those who look to her as a role model and peer.

Rodrigo’s ability to relate to the predominantly female crowd transcended the surface connections forged at shows by most superstars. Her repeated calls for fans to yell, sing and enjoy themselves represented a more courageous and sometimes dangerous idea: the permission to be yourself. The sound of thousands of voices shouting every lyric back at her and the look of joy on many faces were indications Rodrigo got another key point across: her apparent normalcy.

For 95 minutes, she made evident her experiences don’t differ much from those of her listeners.

Having transitioned from acting roles on Disney’s “Bizaardvark” and “High School Musical: The Musical: Series” to international pop sensation, Rodrigo ranks alongside other young female artists — Billie Eilish, SZA, Dua Lipa, Phoebe Bridgers, Megan Thee Stallion, Karol G, Taylor Swift included — as proof that in the early 2020s, girls run the world. At least when it comes to record charts, ticket sales and outsized influence.

Two albums into her career, Rodrigo counts multiple No. 1 singles, a pair of No. 1 LPs, three Grammy Awards (and 13 nominations), seven Billboard Music Awards and a Billboard Woman of the Year nod among her feats. She’s also emerged as a conscientious voice. In addition to appearing with President Joe Biden to promote vaccinations, the California native has supported causes that aid homeless kids, hospitalized patients, war victims and individuals with epidermolysis bullosa.

Rodrigo’s activism extends to her own charity, Fund 4 Good, which strives to champion women’s rights. Her outspoken advocacy of reproductive health care and sex education recently landed her management in hot water with states that outlaw abortion.

But those opposed to Rodrigo’s stance won’t mute her messages. Though the megaphone the singer wielded to help broadcast the revenge fantasy “Get Him Back!” — complete with confetti and an unspoken announcement that the deluxe version of “Guts” with bonus tracks lands this Friday — doubled as clever theater, Rodrigo’s empowering statements resonated without supplemental help.

Backed by an all-female band, the singer did a little of everything while running through the majority of her catalog. Play a grand piano and reveal deep thoughts on a sullen ballad? “Drivers License.” Get filmed from below to suggest a violation of privacy before grabbing an electric guitar, banging out chords and jamming on her knees? “Obsessed.” Strip arrangements down to an acoustic guitar framework, casually sit on the stage and transform the arena setting into the kind of close gathering witnessed by besties at a sleepover? “Happier” and “Favorite Crime.”

In the context of modern arena tours, the production adhered to a similar simplicity. Save for a sequence where Rodrigo orbitted half of the venue atop the fold of a crescent moon as stars dangled from the ceiling, the fanciest aspects related to hydraulic platforms, concealed stairs and dry ice fog. The stage, extended with two runways, was framed by a high-definition video screen that transmitted live and pre-recorded content. Basic, albeit proven and effective.

The less to distract from Rodrigo, the better. She limited herself to four outfit changes (preference: crop tops and sparkly shorts or skirts). A dance squadron with mediocre choreographic skills accompanied Rodrigo on a handful of numbers, but the singer outshined everyone with her extroverted personality and animated movements.

Skipping, hopping, crawling, twisting, jogging in place, descending to floor level to slap hands: Rodrigo matched the carbonated fizz of her most upbeat materia. To emphasize certain lines in songs, she used gestures that often disappeared as fast as they arrived. Sticking a finger in her mouth; twirling her hair; rolling her eyes; outstretching her arms; circling her tongue around her lips; mock-saluting: Rodrigo understood how nuance can accent meaning — particularly when words surface at a rapid clip.

At times, they gushed akin to water pouring from a firehose. Rodrigo sang with a balance of hushed delicacy and emotive intensity, dividing time between dramatic ballads and freeing ragers. She eschewed perfection in favor of authenticity, and risked hitting bad notes rather than relying on backing tracks. Borrowing from new-wave, coffeehouse folk and, most prevalently, pop-punk and other hook-heavy styles popular in the ‘90s — an era that notably predates her existence — the singer’s music would’ve benefited from a more capable band but didn’t try to push boundaries. Her subject matter, however, ventured places few mainstream talents explore.

Frustration, desperation, bitterness, disloyalty, envy, self-doubt, angst: Rodrigo addressed issues tied to painful coming-of-age processes with devastating insight, unsparing vulnerability and the occasional well-suited profanity. She conveyed them via female perspectives that underlined the nagging insecurities, compromised decisions and hollowed-out feelings young girls face.

For all the merit of Rodrigo’s detail-rich songs about early heartaches (the accusatory slow-build of “Deja Vu”) and uncaring exes (the synthesized drift of “Traitor,” the acerbic bombast of “Good 4 U”), her embrace of broader topics demonstrated her evolution as a person and artist. Rodrigo acknowledged as much.

Before performing the soul-probing “Teenage Dream,” she said that approximately two years ago she saw “growing up [as] the scariest, worst thing in the world.” Now, she admitted, she feels she knows herself better. Her latest work reflected that heightened awareness and spoke to complex themes that went beyond age categorizations.

The emptiness, anger and dread that arise from being exploited like a cheap product amid the noir “Vampire.” The self-flagellation that happens when you know you’ve been had and the embarrassment that ensues when you examine your behavior, chronicled in the winking “Love Is Embarrassing.” The contradictory justifications associated with rationalizing a hook-up with a former lover, sent up through the bounce of the humorous “Bad Idea Right?” Rodrigo relayed the situations and moods with confidence and empathy, operating as if she read the minds of everyone in those positions.

She went even further on the falsetto-laden “Pretty Isn’t Pretty,” tackling body-image expectations and cultural pressures advanced by social media, pharma advertisements and fashion industry with lingering sadness and loathing. But Rodrigo refused to let herself, or her followers, fall under the thumb of anyone or anything.

Enter Rodrigo as the “All-American Bitch,” a sarcastic tear-down of the double standards, ludicrous assumptions and impossible demands placed on women for centuries. As the singer belted out the probable generational anthem, she paused for everyone to think of an irritant and encouraged them to vent their grievances with a collective scream.

The essence of Rodrigo’s enabling messages registered loud and clear: We are women, hear us roar.

Setlist

“Bad Idea Right?”
“Ballad of a Homeschooled Girl”
“Vampire”
“Traitor”
“Drivers License”
“Teenage Dream”
“Pretty Isn’t Pretty”
“Love Is Embarrassing”
“Making the Bed”
“Logical”
“Enough for You”
“Lacy”
“Jealousy, Jealousy”
“Can’t Catch Me Now”
“Happier”
“Favorite Crime”
“Deja Vu”
“The Grudge”
“Brutal”
“Obsessed”
“All-American Bitch”

Encore
“Good 4 U”
“Get Him Back!”

Just days removed from seeing his criminal case against men accused of stealing the band’s lyric sheets dismissed by the court, an unruffled vocalist Don Henley all but explicitly admitted the Eagles are dinosaurs. He highlighted the Eagles’ spartan stage setup, straightforward production and dearth of choreography. Resembling a banker in his vest and button-down shirt, Henley described the collective as “just a bunch of guys with guitars,” before acknowledging it “may be anachronistic, but it works.”

The candid moment revealed a rare self-effacing side of the famously solemn Henley. As the last co-founding member involved with the Eagles, the singer-drummer-guitarist also expressed gratitude for more than five decades of support and instilled the event — part of the band’s farewell tour — with a hint of finality. Cue the standing ovation.

After the brief emotional display, it was back to business. For the Eagles, that meant delivering one instantly recognizable song after another for 120 minutes without added effects or obvious mistakes. Doing so required assigning lead vocals to songs identified with deceased co-founder Glenn Frey to his son, Deacon, and country star Vince Gill, who joined in 2017 and handled every part as if he’d been in the group since day one. And it necessitated a professionalism and seriousness interrupted only by a few scheduled comic-relief spots from singer-guitarist Joe Walsh.

Calculated, and too staid for their own good? Definitely. But the Eagles arrived having put in the hard work, nailing the blended multi-part harmonies crucial to many of the tunes and playing with a technical acumen that valued each note. The quintet operated as the equivalent of a leveling device that finds any imbalances. And the Eagles ensured the crowd could experience it all — the spaciousness, the separation, the small details such as fingers delicately moving on a fretboard or hands gently cradling a shaker — by dialing in a crisp, transparent sound at a venue where acoustics frequently get compromised.

Then there were the songs, textbook examples of country-rock craftsmanship and organic architecture that the Eagles often made appear effortless. The hungover mood of “Tequila Sunrise,” dirt-road escapism of “Already Gone,” funky skedaddle of “Life in the Fast Lane,” melancholic ache of “Desperado.” Songs with identifiable lyrics, easy-going tempos, breezy rise-and-fall vocal patterns and lingering melodies didn’t rouse many in the crowd out of their seats but had them mouthing the words and swaying their heads — just as they would in the car if the Eagles came on the radio.

Never mind that the group’s most recent studio effort (“Long Road Out of Eden,” 2007) stands as the only all-original album the Eagles released since their initial 1980 breakup. Or that the newest song the collective performed on Friday dated to Michael Jordan’s rookie season.

Continuing to inspire strong opinions on both sides of the fence, the Eagles acknowledge what their fans want: nostalgia and classics. Unlike generational peers, they no longer concern themselves with recording half-baked new material in a bid to prove relevance. Credit the Eagles, too, for honesty in branding. Named The Long Goodbye, their current tour plans to stretch through 2025 and seems built to allow for leniency in terms of return visits. This is a band, after all, that realizes the music industry is at heart a business and that people will pay for what they love.

Independent of the fancy awards and commercial achievements that include dibs on two of three biggest-selling albums in American history, the most enduring aspect of the Eagles’ legacy arguably pertains to commerce. The group permanently changed concert economics when in 1994 it became the first artist to charge $100 for a ticket to its reunion tour. (By comparison, the Rolling Stones capped prices at $50. It was a different era.)

Initially derided by experts who believed the amount would lead to backlash and empty seats, the strategy triumphed. Its historical impact continues to resonate. The hefty prices associated with today’s big-name shows — and the escalated importance society places on musicians and their entertainment — connect to that once-controversial decision.

Fast-forward 30 years, and Henley’s and bassist-vocalist Timothy B. Schmit’s hair is grayer but the songs largely remain the same. Ditto Henley’s voice which, aside from losing a bit of altitude in the higher end and evincing a slight nasal quality, exhibited smoothness, control and depth. The goofy charm and rubber-faced expressions of their other longtime and fellow 76-year-old cohort, Walsh, similarly possessed a familiar ring. Even the four auxiliary support musicians, all in their respective roles since at least 2001, contributed to a consistency and dependability that reign as Eagles trademarks.

Other than Henley threatening to crack a smile more than once, the biggest surprise related to Walsh disclosing he spent part of his early childhood in Evanston. With the Eagles, you know what you’re going to get. Though the conservative approach rubbed up against unspoken rock ‘n’ roll rules and lacked liveliness, it fit the music’s polite character and perfectionist-oriented arrangements. To loosen things, Walsh offered the quirky “Life’s Been Good” and talk box-accompanied “Rocky Mountain Way” from his solo career. Per usual, the  whir and whine of his reedy voice ranked a distant second to his bluesy guitar licks.

Deacon Frey stepped into his father’s shoes on the windswept “Take It Easy” and relaxed “Peaceful Easy Feeling.” He sang with sturdiness, clarity  and purpose, but fared better as a harmony vocalist and rhythm guitarist — duties that dissolved the obvious timbral differences between him and his dad. Schmit turned in the evening’s only threadbare lead vocal on the adult-contemporary ballad “I Can’t Tell You Why” whose title ironically served as the answer to the question of how the track entered into the set over superior fare such as “The Long Run,” “Victim of Love” or “Best of My Love.”

Indeed, if the Eagles imparted a lesson for younger generations of bands on Friday, it concerned the importance of elevating songs above personal interests or skills. Granted, Walsh impressed with a fiery guitar solo on an extended reading of “In the City” and Henley kept steady time behind the drum kit while pushing his voice into falsetto regions. Neither called attention to themselves or showed up their mates.

Rather, the group’s successes drew on a collective principle that stressed less “me,” more “us.” Like the Eagles themselves, an analog concept in a digital world.

Setlist from the United Center March 8:

“Seven Bridges Road” (Steve Young cover)

“Take It Easy”

“One of These Nights”

“Lyin’ Eyes”

“Take It to the Limit”

“Witchy Woman”

“Peaceful Easy Feeling”

“Tequila Sunrise”

“In the City”

“I Can’t Tell You Why”

“New Kid in Town”

“Life’s Been Good”

“Already Gone”

“The Boys of Summer”

“Funk #49” (James Gang cover)

“Life in the Fast Lane”

Encore

“Hotel California”

“Rocky Mountain Way”

“Desperado”

“Heartache Tonight”