Alongside Nicki Minaj, Taylor Swift and Beyonce, Rihanna sits atop the modern Mount Rushmore of American pop songstresses. But unlike the obsessively manicured images of her competition, there’s always been an ineffable realness to Rihanna—a steamy brashness that hasn’t waned in her inevitable, steady rise to stardom.

On Friday, at the SAP Center, she emerged to a tsunami of piercing squeals while striding to an isolated platform. She wore a veiled hood, a silk one-piece and beige suede boots that stopped at her hip bones, then opened with the plodding piano ballad, “Stay.” Standing alone with a microphone, she let her pleads breathe with subtle rock-back shoulder-shakes, then frayed the edges of her powerhouse crescendo with an unafraid desperation.

She boarded a plexiglass catwalk that descended from the rafters, stomping, shimmying and striding like a panther while she pulled off the line “Sex with me/So amazing”—her dripping charisma leaving no other conceivable possibility.

She’s the most stunning human being I’ve ever seen. She smolders unceasingly with a naughtiness that feels somehow important—like a duchess in a wet T-shirt contest. Just a lilt of her shoulder, or a bite of her lip or a wave of her bold eyebrows packs a metric ton of nuclear lust.

And sure, her looks suit the Instagram era, but Rihanna proved she could have been any number of artists on an all-white stage with a live band, a chromey jumbotron square and swirling purple and peach lights.

She showcased her sneering side with “Bitch, Better Have My Money,” curling her upper lip and spitting hard bars over rat-a-tatting snares with legitimate menace. She bounced through “Live Your Life,” strutted to “Run This Town,” warbled “Take Care” and skipped through “All of the Lights,” tacitly gloating at her starry resume of featured hooks on the biggest hits of mega-rappers.

She reminded us of her career-solidifying international hit, “Umbrella,” before getting stitched into a nude bodysuit and diving into “Desperado,” an outlaw rock cut that would perfectly score the opening credits of a James Bond flick.

On “Rude Boy,” she wielded her sexuality like a two-handed broadsword in a confrontational challenge to a prospective lover. And in a diamond-studded black lace romper, she paired body-rolling and swivel-twerking with the pitter-patter of deconstructed dancehall drums on “Work” as she slurred through the choppy hook that melts into incoherent catchiness.

She proved she could have been an airy EDM diva when she back-to-backed “Love In A Hopeless Place” and “Where Have You Been.” Then she channelled electro-soulfulness over the deep robo-huffs and wood-on-wood clacks of “Needed Me,” before pivoting into show-stopping songstress mode—requesting that everyone activate their phone lights, which lit up the entire stadium with the blue light of a full moon as she uncorked her dreamy ode, “Diamonds.”

She thanked us for being “so fucking lit,” then belted “FourFiveSeconds,” the McCartney-melodized minimalist ditty about surviving work weeks. She embodied a Janis-Joplin-adjacent energy and scraped depths of longing during the hypnotic neo-motown ballad “Love on the Brain.” Finally, she slung the mic stand behind her neck and purred “Kiss It Better”—imbuing the rough yearn for make-up sex with a galactic gravity.

To close, her band riffed something funky and she walked around the stage, blowing kisses to fans for minutes—completing her transformation from post-human demigod to grateful lady who is very good at her job. She faux-conducted her musicians, gave a couple concluding shimmies then hit the dab twice before descending into the floor.

Her crackling intensity could have thrived in any era. She combines effortless eroticism with transcendent talent and the vibe of your friend’s older sister who lets you smoke her pot—reveling in her messiness as she lays our most primal longings unapologetically bare.