In the sea of Chappell Roan fans at Boston Calling ’24, I witnessed something beautiful: Queer joy, unabashed femininity, and a sort of collective sensual power.
Stream: “Good Luck, Babe!” – Chappell Roan
If you have been following the rise (no fall in sight) of the Midwest Princess, Chappell Roan, you’ve probably seen the drone footage of her Boston Calling performance.
The video shocked me for two reasons. One: It was abundantly clear that Chappell Roan brought in more fans to watch her set than the headliner, Ed Sheeran. And two: I was in that crowd. A tiny blip in the front left, with absolutely no idea how many people were standing behind me.
After seeing Royel Otis at a neighboring stage, my friend Kate and I snuck into the horde chanting “Chappell, Chappell, Chappell.” All day, Kate and I joked about how obvious it was to spot the Chappell Roan fans. The lingerie, bows, ribbons, high femme makeup, bright blue eyeshadow (guilty), glittering leotard-like bodysuits and beaded shorts, pink cowboy hats, and pink bandanas for waving in the air when Chappell Roan said, “Where are my girls?” We screamed ourselves silly at her soft, purring, “There you are…”
Jumping around in my slutty pink top, I felt kinship with my inner child, fan-girling over One Direction. Chappell Roan —with her drag queen stage presence, red and black costume, rock and roll bandmates, and her painted face — inspires that sort of fanaticism. And I feel compelled to spread the good news.
Baby, do you like this beat (na-na, na-na, na)
I made it so you’d dance with me (na-na, na-na, na)
It’s like a hundred ninety-nine degrees (na-na, na-na, na)
When you’re doing it with me, doing it with me
I took my last sip of water and adjusted my Red Sox ball cap. They’d taken my canister of sunscreen at the gate, and the sun was pinking up my shoulders. I watched every arm moving across the crowd, like a ripple. Everyone joined in for the “HOT TO GO” choreography, spelling out the letters like YMCA, despite being packed in like sardines.
H-O-T-T-O-G-O
You can take me hot to go
There was an older man standing next to me in the crowd, not dancing. We were brushing shoulders, his bald head bare and boiled like an egg. He had a press pass but I was too busy singing along to ask him who he worked for. The man took a few photos, watched the crowd, and pulled out a notepad. I didn’t see what he was scratching down, but he was smiling. I swear he laughed as I screamed along to “Naked in Manhattan.”
Touch me, baby, put your lips on mine
Could go to hell, but we’ll probably be fine
I know you want it, baby, you can have it
Oh, I’ve never done it, naked in Manhattan
We chanted (“TOUCH ME TOUCH ME TOUCH ME TOUCH ME”), shameless. It was freeing, standing next to a man that could have been my grandfather, and being witnessed. All the while I was witnessing something beautiful myself: queer joy, unabashed femininity, and a sort of collective sensual power. The crowd looked on in awe when Chappell wrapped herself seductively in a black boa, so distinctly Rocky Horror. She sang “Picture You” while stroking a dirty blond wig placed cleverly atop the mic stand, the perfect prop.
Do you picture me like I picture you?
Am I in the frame from your point of view?
Do you feel the same? I’m too scared to say
Half of the things I do
When I picture you
I can say confidently that I was not the only one with chills from Roan’s soft, yearning vocals. She didn’t talk much, but stayed in character with her blinking Betty Boop eyes staring out, sipping from her blue water bottle straw. All Chappell had to do was say “hello Boston Calling” and we became giggling schoolgirls. We were in the palm of her hand and she was so gentle with us.
And all of the bisexuals in the crowd blushed (guilty) when Roan sang “Good Luck, Babe!“
Ooh, and when you wake up
next to him in the middle of the night
With your head in your hands,
you’re nothing more than his wife
And when you think about me
all of those years ago
You’re standing face to face
with “I told you so”
An apt reminder heading into Pride Month. An equally apt reminder of Chappell Roan’s undeniable range, humming the notes I knew I couldn’t hit.
The performance ended in a haze of slight disbelief and total reverence.
It was sweltering and the crowd wasn’t budging, so I sat down in the grass right where we’d been standing. Kate took her shoes off, dug her feet in, and we plotted our journey to the water refill station. We sat there, ears ringing and I briefly thought about leaving. It’s not like anybody could top that. The old man and his notepad were gone, but I pulled my phone out of my bag, opened up the notes app, and started writing this.
On the bus ride back to New York from Boston, Kate and I were talking about music. She asked me something I’d never thought about: if my relationship to certain artists changed when I realized I was queer. I said no, I just finally understood why I was so obsessed with them in the first place. I’m not saying you need to be gay to have a Chappell Roan obsession, straight women do it all the time. I’m just saying that I am proud to share a community with anyone so immensely talented.
Chappell Roan is passionate about giving back to the community, so for Pride Month please consider paying a visit to her charity page here!
— —
:: connect with Chappell Roan here ::
:: read more of Atwood‘s Chappell Roan coverage! ::
Watch: “HOT TO GO!” – Chappell Roan
— — — —
Connect to Chappell Roan on
Facebook, Twitter, TikTok, Instagram
Discover new music on Atwood Magazine
© Alive Coverage
© Alive Coverage:: Stream Chappell Roan ::
