At the Commodore Ballroom on Monday, July 22

Not to get too referential, but like a liar at a witch trial, Courtney Love looks pretty damn good for her age. Considering how much craziness the former Mrs. Kurt Cobain has been through over the course of her colourful life, it was hard to walk away from a sold-out Commodore Monday thinking anything other than she’s holding up better than anyone has a right to.

Evidently you can get away with abusing half the pharmaceuticals in the western world, drunkenly attacking Madonna with your makeup bag, and smoking Marlboro Lights like Philip Morris is going out of style. You know the babbling, out-of-it mess that’s popped up everywhere from Spin profiles to the Patty Schemel biopic Hit So Hard? That version of Love was nowhere to be seen over the course of a career-spanning hour-and-a-half solo set.

Instead, the wildly polarizing alternative icon was very much in the moment. Once, that is, she got over looking like someone who not only was bored to be there, but had shown up simply for the paycheque.

The former Hole singer received a royal welcome, which was fitting considering that the most popular T-shirt at the merch table featured a Sex Pistols–style picture of her face surrounded by the words “God Save the Queen—of Rock & Roll”. Evidently not giving a shit that Vancouver is a smoke-free city, Love strolled out with a Marlboro Light in hand, and then kicked things off with “Plump”. As they would for the entire evening, the fans in the pit gave the singer no shortage of help, screaming along with every lyric.

The night initially seemed like it was going to fall flat before it ever got going. Dressed in black leather pants, black boots, and a black cutout top, Love was content to stand at centre stage, one leg cocked on a monitor, for the first 15 minutes. Despite some entertaining early moments—which included Love shredding the bouquet of red roses she’d arrived on-stage with, then tossing the shrapnel into the audience—it was a classic portrait of someone phoning it in. When, three songs in (a cover of Fleetwood Mac’s “Gold Dust Woman”), Love repeatedly howled the lines “shadow of a woman”, it was hard not to pick up on the irony.

And things didn’t exactly take flight right after that, with a thudding version of “Pacific Coast Highway”. In fact, it was right around then that one started to wonder what the hell went so very wrong.

Looking at the enraptured crowd—a bizarre mixture of North Van preps, stink-squiggle Phish fans, drunken U.K. lager louts, dolled-up drag queens, and a guy who brought to mind Morrissey reborn as Ducky from Pretty in Pink—it was like watching a bunch of hard-core Love disciples living a dream come true. Fourteen years is an eternity, and that’s how long it’s been since Hole last played Vancouver. Having waited forever for the singer’s return, nothing was going to stop the masses from having a great time.

Looking at the stage, however, it was hard not to feel a little sad. When the city last saw Love—at Thunderbird Stadium back in ’99—she was at the height of her considerable powers with Hole, a band whose greatness will never be conveyed by mere words. Fuck Eddie Vedder, Mark Arm, Chris Cornell, and even Kurt Cobain—no one from the early-’90s grunge boom was more insanely captivating than Love. She wasn’t a singer, she was a goddamn rock goddess. Even on those nights when she was also a complete trainwreck, that did nothing to upset the on-stage chemistry between her Hole bandmates: guitarist Eric Erlandson, locomotive drummer Patty Schemel, and bassist Melissa Auf der Maur.

What did we get on this night? That would be Love backed by a nondescript band of plodding hired guns who looked like they’d been plucked from a Bonnaroo hippie jam band, a Fireball Freakout rockabilly festival at the old Pic Pub, and a pre-gender reassignment Against Me!

Bucking long odds, though, this somehow eventually worked in Love’s favour. When the Commodore practically exploded after a lethal rendition of “Violet”, the singer seemed to snap alive, perhaps aware that she was going to have to carry the show by herself.

From there, we got vintage Love: smart, funny, caustic, and in surprisingly great voice. Between-song highlights had her leading the room in repeated chants of “One, two, three: Fuck you!!!”, followed by “Wasn’t that fun—don’t you want to say that to your mom?” After noting that she was having to use a teleprompter to remember what chords to play, she claimed to have stolen it from Axl Rose, and then sneered: “That’s right—granny needs a teleprompter.” And she bitched out someone for stealing a rose she’d handed to someone else in the crowd, spitting: “It’s wasn’t meant for you. All right, fuck it—it’s your karma.”

Love barrelled though a back half of the night that included “Malibu”, “Jennifer’s Body”, and a set-closing “Miss World”, which sounded every bit as fresh as it did back when grunge ruled the charts and flannel was considered essential concert wear.

The night’s most telling moment? That came during the encore, in “Doll Parts”. If you were paying attention, you might have noticed she rolled her eyes heavenward and smirked while singing the lines “Someday you will ache like I ache,” the message being that no one will ever know the trouble she’s seen.

No shit. At that moment—for which she’d changed into a vintage-looking red slip and bejewelled flapper-era orange top—it was hard not to feel that, despite all she’s been through, she looked pretty fucking good for her age.