One of Kanye West’s most notable interview moments of the last few years is when he describes what it means to “be a fan of Kanye West”.

According to him to admire someone of his size is to in turn to value your own creative worth, because his vision, his self-belief and influence are so enormous, you begin to internalise those things and learn to believe in yourself by proxy.

As the quote goes, to be a fan of Kanye West is to be a fan of yourself. Fun concept!

I don’t disagree with this angle, and appreciate that Kanye has shifted culture so monumentally that to pay attention feels like some kind of ad hoc self-help device or caffeine hit (or steroid treatment?)

There is a different contender for that role for me, however, when I think of the way public personalities imbue us with a deeper understanding of our own legitimacy.

Thinking back to when I was just a sweet little bumpkin, slaying all the competition in my denim ensembles, I was very much aware of (miss) Kylie (Ann) Minogue (OBE), just like every single Australian millennial was as the clock eventually ticked over to the year 2000.

I have vivid memories of hearing her songs on the way to swimming practice as my mum drove us there after school, or seeing her music videos on Rage during the early hours of the morning; but there was always something that inhibited me from becoming a fan during those formative years.

Measuring my journey to super fandom reveals that it correlated with my tentative acceptance of queerness

In short: my third eye hadn’t opened! Shocking to think about considering how devoted I am now. There was a gloriousness to her presence then, her voice and style of articulation, a degree of unspoken power and sexiness that felt completely alien to my worldly understanding as pre-teen, so unsure of who I wanted to be yet, or what I liked.

I’ve been thinking about our princess a lot, given that she recently turned 51, and headlined Glastonbury after missing out on the slot due to her battle with breast cancer 14 years ago.

Measuring my journey to super fandom reveals, interestingly, that it almost directly correlated with my tentative realisation and acceptance of queerness. As I began to accept the parts of my personality that had previously been unexpressed – a girlishness, an outlandishness, a hesitant then completely enthusiastic relationship to aesthetics, to sincerity and whole-heartedness, an appreciation of oiled up muscle queens in jock-straps – my understanding of Kylie began to grow also.

Her embrace of those things are so unapologetic that it becomes infectious. It doesn’t take a brain genius to recognise that Kylie is very deliberately camp, (and often accidentally camp) in that specifically Australian way that defies expectation or meaning. It’s impossible to immerse yourself into her discography and energy and to feel any sort of shame about femininity, or those delightfully freeing influences we tend to associate with gay public figures. It’s often difficult to do that without being mocked or derided.

To be a Kylie fan is to be a fan of moments of public cheesiness and joie de vivre and yes, yourself!

In my godly and completely honest opinion, earnestness is a vulnerable emotion, and, after praying at the church of Marianne Williamson, I am forced to defend the right to be a hideous cornball. It’s not morally pure to be so, as some seem to think or some kind of holy antidote to irony as many might have us believe. It can be saccharine when taken in large doses (suss the poptimists online who claim that Marvel movie feminism is going to save us all from imperialism).

Kylie embodies non-performative sincerity to me in a way that little else does – demonstrating the bravery and discipline required to keep a straight face, and to be gentle and unassuming even if it costs you clout. If you pay close enough attention, you can see this sensibility becoming clear all throughout her music, lyrics, and style choices. It never feels too pointed or calculated, or like a grab for attention or fame, as much as it exemplifies a thoughtful and honest expression of feeling.

The current alumni of pop music have made bank off the creation of self-empowerment anthems, that champion exceptionalism and the importance of CBT style self-mythology. But there’s a different tactic that I see outlined in Kylie’s music that feels markedly different, even if the production is often similar.

There’s never any disingenuousness or cunning pandering to LGBT fans, just bold public displays of emotion and affirmation. It’s almost like DBT in bite-sized, four minute pieces. This is most obvious in under-appreciated singles such as “Put Yourself in My Place” and “Breathe” as it is in “Love at First Sight”.

Her decision to take creatives risks – whether it meant expiring diva house, trip-hop, indie rock, RnB or electroclash – received confused reviews upon release, only to be celebrated 15 years later. Even when a line in a song falls flat, or a look seems totally out of place, you can’t help but “stan” because the delivery is always completely authentic.

It’s never cynical and never feels calculated, which is an admirable road to take as the cultural climate becomes increasingly nihilistic.

• Jonno Revanche is a writer and photographer based in Sydney and Adelaide