It was gray and raining at Forest Hills Stadium, the outdoor music venue in Queens, but nevertheless the lesbians had assembled. They had come from San Francisco, from Salt Lake City, from Tampa and Bed-Stuy to attend All Things Go, a D.C.-based music festival that launched in New York for the first time in September with a brilliant strategy to stand apart from other fests: Make it for the gay girls. The artists were mostly confessional singer-songwriter pop, mostly women, mostly queer, and mostly at that strange level of midsize fame that makes fans feel especially close with and protective of their idols. It was a less crunchy Lilith Fair for a flashier, draggier generation of femmes and themmes. It was, as the band Muna called it in giant letters onstage, LESBOPALOOZA.
The main character of the weekend was Chappell Roan, and she wasn’t even there. The 26-year-old overnight star faced an internet pile-on in the week leading up to the festival after telling The Guardian that she didn’t “feel pressured to endorse someone” in the U.S. presidential election, expressing discontent with “both sides.” Some called it a display of white privilege and a sign that we shouldn’t be looking to pop stars for eloquent political opinions, but many on the left supported her stance. The day before the festival began, Roan announced that she was dropping out, citing the mounting stress of being in the public eye and a need to “prioritize my mental health.”
Aspiring concert photographer and queer teen Keeley Milner and her parents were traveling to the festival from Utah and on a layover delay in the Charlotte airport when they saw the news. “I just sobbed,” she said. “My mom looked at me like somebody died.”
Everywhere you turned that Saturday, when she was meant to perform, you saw a Chappell Roan fan. They powdered their faces white and painted them sparkly, dyed their hair red, paired hot-pink or red cowboy boots with bejeweled fishnets, and styled corsets over vintage lace dresses. Some wore mermaid-teal skirts, country-western hot pants, or minidresses festooned with hearts and stars. Seventeen-year-old Winter was lined up early with her mother and stood out in a movie-quality sea-monster ensemble inspired by Roan’s “Casual” music video. It took her two hours to apply. “It’s my first time doing body paint and prosthetics, so I was nervous,” she said, gesturing to her gills. Despite all her effort, Winter still thought Roan should take as much time off as needed. “Take care of yourself — No. 1 priority, all the time,” she told me.
Roan’s openness about mental health on social media is sort of a contradiction: It establishes both boundaries and an intimate candor and honesty. That tension was top of mind for student Lin Wu, 19, who had traveled to the show from Louisville, Kentucky, with their partner first and foremost for Muna. The group, like Roan, has also released a statement recently on social media telling certain fans to cut out “truly scary” behavior, including cyberstalking, hacking, and bullying their loved ones. “My partner and I will joke when we’re listening to the trio’s podcast, Gayotic, ‘Going on a walk with my three best friends!’ In some ways, I think that it can kind of make it weird, feeling like I know them, even though I don’t,” Wu said. “It’s important to hear how some perceptions that we think are harmless actually feel to the artists.”
Over by the food vendors and restrooms, 26-year-old med student Emily Norris drew attention for her recreation of Roan’s Divine-inspired “Tiny Desk” look, uncannily accurate right down to the intentional lipstick smudge on her teeth. Norris was admittedly upset when she learned while en route to the Syracuse airport that Roan wouldn’t be here but said she’s more frustrated with fans than with Roan. “I personally find fan behavior very embarrassing. Of course I respect Chappell. I consume her music, but I don’t really look to celebrities for their opinions on everything. I’m my own person,” she told me. “I think people take celebrities so seriously, and it’s concerning. We need to tone it down … She said she’s literally just some random bitch.” Her friend and fellow med student Jared Bowen-Kauth, 25, chimed in, “We’re random bitches too!”
When Roan’s time slot rolled around, Queens of the Dancefloor, a local drag party, essentially led a sing-along to the artist’s greatest hits. “This is some Yo Gabba Gabba! shit,” said Alex Remnick, clown makeup rain-smeared all over their face, gesturing to two people onstage shimmying around in eggplant and pickle Spirit Halloween–style costumes. In truth, they weren’t so much performing coordinated routines to Roan’s music as they were just trying to pump up the crowd, like hype dancers at a bat mitzvah (that’s a compliment).
Day one ended on a double act of queer euphoria: Muna went onstage with Super Bowl–halftime levels of swagger before slowing things down for an acoustic-country cover of Roan’s “Good Luck, Babe!” Then came Gen Z’s own lesbian final boss, Reneé Rapp, who punctuated her songs by yelling things like, “New York, raise a hand if you got a bitch that you don’t like!” and “Gay people, how you feeling? Straight people, how you feeling? I don’t care!” The Saturday came full circle when she brought out the first act of the day (and her rumored girlfriend), Towa Bird, to play horny slow-jam guitar on “Tummy Hurts,” capping it off with a kiss that the crowd was still buzzing about on the festival’s much rainier day two.
Juliana Nador (30, dressed in an Ethel Cain–esque outfit) and Kimmy Gould (27, dressed in Janelle Monáe–inspired menswear) camped out all Sunday, sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor of the covered area waiting for their faves to perform. “When we were growing up in the 2000s, there was nothing — no representation. It makes me emotional because I could have used that. I wish I’d seen myself sooner. I have younger queer sisters, so I really am grateful that they have that,” said Nador, laughing at herself for tearing up.
The second day started with Nashville-based alt-pop act Annie DiRusso, who wore a bright-yellow rain poncho “in solidarity.” Philly punk band Mannequin Pussy (“We’re Chappell Roan!”) got the crowd on the floor head-banging, which meant wet hair flinging water everywhere. By the time Julien Baker came on at 5:15 p.m., concertgoers’ flared denim and baggy cargo pants were soaked up to their ankles. A couple of free spirits danced in the rain, sans ponchos, sweeping their legs through the puddles.
The rain stopped after dark, in time for the remaining, waterlogged crowd to go wild for a celebratory set from Monáe. Between costume changes and horn-section interludes, she toasted the fans, the queer kids, and perhaps the most unifying identity of all at ATG.
Monáe: “Where are the theater kids tonight?”
Crowd: [Loud gay shrieking.]
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