By Sydney Sengal
When I first started listening to Chappell Roan, she had just recently released her first debut album The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess a few months prior. She infiltrated the walls of my apartment during Christmas break. We blared her music videos in the living room, listened with headphones in our bedrooms, and sang along on car radios. We gravitated towards her poppy, girl-ish style and her fight to break boundaries for gay artists.
We jumped to action and scrambled for tickets when Chappell released the tour dates. We chose the concert closest to us. The Jones Assembly in Oklahoma City on February 26th. “Pink Pony Club” themed. (her concert themes are based onsongs on the album!) The day couldn’t come faster.
The doors opened, and we began to trickle in. By the time we got to the front, my friends slipped into the venue. My roommate had gotten my tickets mixed up with another one of our group members, so it became cemented to me that the majority of my pre-concert would be spent breaking into a sweat and biting my fingernails off.
Once we all got inside and claimed our spot in a section on the far right, I turned to my friends with a frustrated frown. I couldn’t see the stage from where we stood. A group of figures drew a thickset line between me and Chappell Roan.
I threw away my good character and snaked myself away from my group and through the compacted crowd. My friend trailed along behind me. Once finding a decent spot, we sighed in relief. Despite dismissing obvious concert etiquette, I had gotten myself to the front. My good view of the stage counteracted my previous guilt. Some mother and daughter stood next to me chatting amongst themselves. We introduced ourselves and gabbed about our joint excitement.
Chappell Roan’s concerts showcase local drag queens as her opening act. This night, we gave space to queens Bosston, Pagan Holiday, and Salem Moon. The crowd roared and the walls vibrated with each theatrical performance. They expressed their utmost gratitude for the opportunity.
Chappell pranced on the stage after I had already impatiently downed a couple of tequila sours. Her presence illuminated the venue with the help of stage lights—the reflections of her glittery, pink bodysuit made her sparkle with every move. Her red curly hair bounced with personality. She skipped gracefully and danced effortlessly. Her guitarist, bassist, and drummer only amplified her sound. She sang as if she could die tomorrow.
Her song “Feminomenon”, the first song of her set, animated the crowd. We turned into an assembly of waving hands, jumping feet, and screaming voices. I grabbed onto my friend’s sleeve as we dramatically fell into each other’s arms in sobs. The Chappell Roan, 3-feet away from my friend and me. We probably looked like obsessive losers.
“Casual” brought a softness to Chappell’s performance. We swayed our hands and many of us cried.
“Guilty Pleasure” made us dance. (I cried, too.)
“HOT TO GO!” made me accidentally hit a girl next to me while doing the hand motions. She was pissed at me for the rest of the night.
“Kaleidoscope” made us cry again.
I fell into deep limerence the more I saw of Roan’s stage presence. She held herself confidently even while she played some flimsy-sounding keyboard. She made a keyboard sound like an full-fledged orchestra.
The venue swelled from the breaths of a thousand meretriciously pink cowboy hats yelling pop song lyrics. I never thought I could cry to songs about gay sex and hating men! Someone next to me even compared it to a Holy church.
My friend drunkenly DMed Chappell Roan on Instagram after the concert asking for her to come hang out with us in our creepy Barbarian-esque Airbnb. She beamed confidently to us,
“She is for sure going to come! We’re cool enough, right?”
To our utter surprise, we did not get a response.