I'm Kristina. I'm a junior at Marquette University in Milwaukee, WI studying public relations and sociology. I'm inspired by people, literature, music, and fashion. This is basically my mood board.
At no moment did Drake seem more adored than the 20-plus minute stretch in which he hovered over the audience in a lucite doughnut, complimenting individual audience members over the instrumental for “305 to My City.” “I’m not the type to stay in my own zone,” he said as he climbed the ramp, launching into the parade of praise he’s experimented with in earlier tours. Between call outs—”I see you in the jean shirt blowing kisses at me,” “Those are the nicest legs I’ve seen since I’ve been in New York”—he barely stopped to breathe. If there is a case for Drake’s flow, his unflappable presence, this is it. The night ended with “Started from the Bottom” and “All Me,” with nearly 20,000 people wailing:Cause myself just told myself: “You’re the motherfucking man, you don’t need no help.” You come to a Drake concert to love Drake, but also to “make some noise for yourself.”