H alfway through their set, Muna address the elephant in the stadium. They sing every word in unison. They sway together, too, gently rocking from side to side in the purple and pink light. They plant one foot in front of the other and cup the microphone in their hands.
They hold the high note long, like a diva, as the crowd erupts. I look to my left and see two young women crying. No one, myself included, seemed to expect this young musician in camo pants to be able to belt like Patti LaBelle. In the course of a single summer, she went from living relatively anonymously to being stalked, harassed, and forcibly kissed by strangers, then subjected to multiple internet pile-ons for everything from her initial refusal to endorse a presidential candidate to attempting to set boundaries with her fans.
We want our queer pop stars whom we feel so seen by to see us, too. Finally, there was the Muna of it all. S o, how does it feel to have predicted the future? So then why does this moment feel so different? Mainstream lesbian artists in the Nineties existed along a very narrow sonic spectrum, spanning from outlaw country to roots rock, with little room in between. Still, when I pressed a few of my queer pals on the biggest difference between the two moments, no one brought up genre diversity.
They talked about the vibes instead. The vibe has shifted from caution to confidence, restraint to revelry. Now, queer pop stars get to say the previously unspoken part out loud. Even Etheridge is getting in on the fun. To put it bluntly, the songs are hornier and happier now. She sees a mix of identities in the audience. Several of them tell me they are straight.
A lesbian nearby overhears my conversation and flags me down. It is now. The ground started to rumble and we popped out early.
