irty years after her first arena tour, a live performance by Madonna is still an event, a pilgrimmage for generations of the faithful.

And so on Saturday night, they came to Miami’s AmericanAirlines Arena to worship, a parade of supplicants in search of transformation, regeneration and a party. They came in old Madonna tour T-shirts and new (“Bitch I’m Madonna), gray hair and gay hair, a parade of women defying the 56-degree chill in taut leather pants, and men in impossibly skinny jeans. There were nuns and cheerleaders,  even a random Pagliacci.  Everywhere the community documented its glee with the selfie.

And Madonna did not disappoint, her arrival (at a relatively punctual 10:25 p.m.) coming in a slow descent from the ceiling in a cage, landing among a menacing battalion of bare-chested soldiers. She exited her enclosure in flowing black and red robes to the tune of a new song, “Iconic,” as the video, featuring an angry Mike Tyson, unfurled on a massive video screen that ran the length of the stage.

It was a tone that would rule the evening: Plenty of theater, fashion and energy, and less skin than we are used to seeing from Madonna.

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