I Went to a Katy Perry Show So You Don’t Have To

There are a few kinds of live music experiences. There are the shows you stumble into on a Tuesday night at a dive bar, where the band is playing their hearts out for a handful of locals and two confused tourists. There are the festival sets, where the music is half the point and the other half is whether you can find shade and overpriced fries. And then there are the arena pop spectacles—the ones that promise fireworks, dancers, ten costume changes, and the kind of production budget that could fund a small European nation for a month.

Katy Perry firmly belongs to that third category. So when the chance came to see her Las Vegas residency, I thought: why not? Let’s see what all the fuss is about. What I discovered was a show so aggressively choreographed, so relentlessly designed for Instagram, and so bizarrely committed to its cartoonish vision that I left both dazzled and slightly concerned for humanity. Consider this your report from the frontlines.

The Pre-Show Hype

The audience looked exactly like you’d imagine: a mix of millennial women reliving their teenage years, groups of gay men in glittering outfits, bewildered parents with sugared-up kids, and a smattering of ironic hipsters there for the “experience.” I slotted somewhere between categories two and three. The air buzzed with bubblegum pop nostalgia.

Merch tables sold everything from pastel hoodies to lollipop-shaped keychains. A nine-dollar bottle of water mocked me from the concession stand. By the time the lights dimmed, I had already heard “Teenage Dream” blasting over the PA system twice. Subtle foreshadowing: we would hear it again.

Act One: A Giant Toilet (Yes, Really)

When the curtain finally lifted, the stage revealed an oversized bathroom set straight out of a fever dream. Imagine if Pee-wee’s Playhouse had a baby with Candy Land. Oversized toothbrushes, a rubber ducky the size of a car, and yes—a massive toilet.

Katy Perry entered the stage in a sparkly red-and-white dress shaped like a can of soda. She promptly announced to the audience that she was a “doll” in a surreal, toy-like world. This set the tone for the rest of the evening: absurd, over-the-top, and leaning hard into camp.

She launched into “E.T.” with dancers dressed as plungers. At first I thought I had inhaled too much dry ice, but no—this was really happening.

Costume Changes Galore

Say what you will about Perry, but the woman commits to a theme. Each act came with a new outfit more cartoonish than the last. There was a dress made of mushrooms, a sparkly purple cowgirl ensemble, and at one point, a giant foam hand costume.

The costumes were dazzling, ridiculous, and unapologetically tacky. They reminded me of drag performances in the best way possible: an art form where exaggeration is not a bug but the entire point.

The Music (Remember That?)

Somewhere beneath the spectacle, Katy Perry sang. And to her credit, she sang well—though the vocals sometimes got buried under backing tracks and pyrotechnics. The setlist leaned heavily on her biggest hits: “California Gurls,” “Roar,” “Dark Horse,” and, inevitably, “Firework.”

Hearing these songs live reminded me just how many pop anthems Perry has cranked out over the years. Whether you like them or not, they’re engineered to get stuck in your head. By the third chorus of “Hot N Cold,” even the dads in the crowd were reluctantly bobbing their heads.

But here’s the thing: live pop shows aren’t really about the music. They’re about the moment. About being in a giant room with thousands of people screaming the same lyrics. Perry understands this. The music provided the soundtrack, but the real star was the spectacle.

The Spectacle

Let’s talk about the production, because it deserves its own category. Every song had a visual gimmick. During “I Kissed a Girl,” flames shot out of the stage. During “Teenage Dream,” giant candy hearts descended from the ceiling. At one point, Perry rode a giant snail across the stage while singing “Smile.” Yes, a snail.

The sheer weirdness of the visuals kept me entertained, even when I wasn’t particularly moved by the music. It was like watching a Broadway show written by someone who had just downed six Red Bulls and a bag of Skittles.

The Audience Energy

This was not a passive crowd. People screamed, danced, cried, and filmed everything on their phones. Entire rows erupted when “Last Friday Night” kicked in, as if the song itself was a portal back to 2011.

What struck me most was how multigenerational the audience was. Kids who grew up on Perry’s bubblegum era sat next to thirty-somethings who partied to her tracks in college. Pop music, for all its critics, has staying power.

The Cringe Factor

But here’s the downside: not everything landed. Some of the scripted banter felt awkward, especially when Perry leaned into exaggerated baby talk with the audience. The toilet gag, funny at first, got old quickly. And while camp is delightful in moderation, the relentless kitsch sometimes felt like it was trying too hard.

There were also moments where the production overwhelmed the actual performance. Fireworks are fun, but when you’re too busy dodging confetti cannons to notice the singing, something’s off balance.

The Emotional Peak

Despite the cartoon absurdity, there was one moment of genuine emotion. Toward the end, Perry sang “Firework” against a backdrop of rainbow lights. She encouraged the audience to scream the chorus together, and for a few minutes, the cynicism melted. Thousands of strangers sang in unison, arms raised, voices cracking.

Say what you want about her music—it created a collective release. And maybe that’s what arena pop is really about: not the artistry, but the communal catharsis.

Final Verdict

So, was it worth it? Honestly—yes and no. If you’re a die-hard Katy Perry fan, the show is a candy-coated fever dream worth every penny. If you’re a casual observer, it’s entertaining in a “what did I just watch?” kind of way.

But if you’re hoping for a deeply moving artistic experience, you might leave feeling empty. The show is spectacle first, substance second. And while it’s a lot of fun in the moment, it doesn’t linger the way a great concert should.

Why I Went (So You Don’t Have To)

Not everyone wants to spend two hours watching a pop star ride a giant snail. Not everyone wants to drop $15 on popcorn shaped like candy canes. And not everyone has the tolerance for an onslaught of glitter, lasers, and toilet jokes.

I endured it all so you could get the highlights without the sensory overload. Here’s the takeaway: Katy Perry’s show is weird, loud, and unapologetically kitschy. It’s the kind of thing you might enjoy once, but probably don’t need to see twice.

So unless you’re a superfan, you can skip it. Consider yourself spared.