A riot of red, sequins catching the light like a thousand tiny supernovas—Chappell Roan doesn’t enter the stage so much as explode into it, mid-motion, already a spectacle before the first note lands. “Femininomenon” isn’t a song tonight; it’s a commandment, a neon-pink decree. The bass rattles ribs, the crowd surges forward, and somewhere in the chaos, a feather boa becomes a victim of its own fabulousness, trampled underfoot, sacrificed to the queer pop gods. No time to mourn it. The room is already moving, a singular body gyrating under Roan’s choreography, bodies orbiting her magnetic pull.
It’s theatrical, yes, but never artificial—she’s not playing a part, she is the part. Every high kick, every hair toss, every exaggerated wink feels like a knowing nod to the camp tradition she gleefully inhabits. She is a high-drama reverend in a sequined ministry, preaching the gospel of self-liberation to a congregation that already knows the words. No sermon needed. When “Naked in Manhattan” drops, there’s no pause for reflection, no beat to catch your breath—just a flicker of Roan’s grin, a quicksilver smirk that says, ‘You thought I’d let up? Sweetheart, no.’
The thing about a Chappell Roan show is that it never settles. There is no time for reflection because reflection is for later, when you’re lying awake in bed still feeling the confetti in your hair, still hearing the bassline reverberate somewhere in your bones. Right now, it’s “HOT TO GO!” and the room is on fire. Roan is leading the crowd like a deranged aerobics instructor, limbs flailing, teaching the masses a routine that none of us will ever get quite right but who cares? It’s not about precision; it’s about participation. Every single person here is in on the joke, in on the joy, in on the absolute absurdity of a choreographed dance break in a Brixton sweatbox. It is, in a word, perfect.
A thought: How does she make it all feel so personal? This room holds thousands, but somehow, it feels intimate, like she’s performing directly to you, like she’s dared you to let go of your inhibitions and just be. Maybe it’s the way she moves—one moment electric, limbs sharp and staccato, the next liquid, undulating through “Red Wine Supernova” like she’s moving through some deep, cosmic dreamscape. The crowd sways, lulled into a collective trance, and for a moment, the energy shifts from riotous to reverent.
But then—snap. “Good Luck, Babe!” slaps the room awake. Roan doesn’t let emotions settle for too long; she wields them like a switchblade, slicing through any moment that dares to linger. The song is a send-off, a raised middle finger wrapped in velvet gloves, and the crowd is right there with her, screaming every word like a battle cry. If heartbreak was ever going to be fun, it would sound like this—biting, anthemic, triumphant. Somewhere in the crowd, a man in a pink cowboy hat is crying and dancing at the same time. He gets it.
There is only one way this night ends, and we all know it. When the first notes of “Pink Pony Club” hit, the reaction is Pavlovian. Limbs flail, voices crack, bodies crash into each other in an ecstatic, glitter-covered mess. It’s not just a song; it’s a manifesto, a neon-lit declaration of joy, and by the time Roan hits the final chorus, she doesn’t even have to sing it—thousands of voices do it for her. This isn’t just a concert anymore. It’s a coronation.
And then, just like that, she’s gone. No drawn-out goodbyes, no lingering on stage, just a flash of Roan’s knowing grin and an exit as sudden as her arrival. The lights stay up, but no one moves. There’s something hanging in the air, something electric, something that won’t fade just because the music has stopped. The crowd finally begins to spill out into the Brixton night, mascara streaked, sweat-soaked, high on whatever just happened. Someone turns to their friend and breathes, “What the fuck was that?”
Exactly.
Words & photos – Richard Isaac
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