Bryan Washington
On Sept. 23 and 24, Houston was host to Beyoncé’s brilliance.
Beyoncé began with the operatic, before dipping coolly into a deep trill. Beyoncé vogued with a team of glowing dancers. Beyoncé rapped, as brash and present as your favorite rapper’s favorite rapper. There was no peak—her performance simply escalated, ascending a mountain of precision with no visible climax, and then it ended. But, in many ways, the Renaissance tour, which Beyoncé completed on Oct. 1, was an extension of her overarching ambition: over nearly three decades, she has constantly re- invented herself. Her sound, her presentation, and her audience’s expectations for what a performer can, or should, be or do have risen alongside her. The Renaissance album itself further underlined her prowess’ scope: it is a celebration, among other things, of the Black origins of disco and house music, Black ballroom, vogue, drag. As a result, the life it’s lived—and will continue to live—has taken very different forms from Beyoncé’s previous projects. I’ve heard “Thique” at queer orgies in Oakland, Calif. I’ve heard “Cozy” between cocktails at brunch in L.A. Earlier this year, I listened to “Virgo’s Groove” in the smoking room of a sauna in Osaka, Japan, and every man beside me mumbled the chorus. Lately, I’ve spent more time outside Beyoncé’s and my shared hometown than in, but it wasn’t negotiable that I would be in Houston for this. It simply had to happen. What may have been the most remarkable component, for me, lay within the final moments: as the performers launched into “Pure/Honey,” the penultimate track, the stage was ceded to the dancers to vogue in a bright circle. What may have been the most remarkable component, for me, lay within the final moments: as the performers launched into “Pure/Honey,” the penultimate track, the stage was ceded to the dancers to vogue in a bright circle.
Everyone who’d stood with Beyoncé throughout the night was given a moment. Which was a deafening punctuation mark on a deeply deliberate thesis that the performers and crews had spent nearly three hours constructing: the event was made possible by queerness—and the culture of Black queers across the decades, specifically. Seeing this in a packed stadium felt stunning to the point of elation.
Beyoncé began with the operatic, before dipping coolly into a deep trill. Beyoncé vogued with a team of glowing dancers. Beyoncé rapped, as brash and present as your favorite rapper’s favorite rapper. There was no peak—her performance simply escalated, ascending a mountain of precision with no visible climax, and then it ended. But, in many ways, the Renaissance tour, which Beyoncé completed on Oct. 1, was an extension of her overarching ambition: over nearly three decades, she has constantly re- invented herself. Her sound, her presentation, and her audience’s expectations for what a performer can, or should, be or do have risen alongside her. The Renaissance album itself further underlined her prowess’ scope: it is a celebration, among other things, of the Black origins of disco and house music, Black ballroom, vogue, drag. As a result, the life it’s lived—and will continue to live—has taken very different forms from Beyoncé’s previous projects. I’ve heard “Thique” at queer orgies in Oakland, Calif. I’ve heard “Cozy” between cocktails at brunch in L.A. Earlier this year, I listened to “Virgo’s Groove” in the smoking room of a sauna in Osaka, Japan, and every man beside me mumbled the chorus. Lately, I’ve spent more time outside Beyoncé’s and my shared hometown than in, but it wasn’t negotiable that I would be in Houston for this. It simply had to happen. What may have been the most remarkable component, for me, lay within the final moments: as the performers launched into “Pure/Honey,” the penultimate track, the stage was ceded to the dancers to vogue in a bright circle. What may have been the most remarkable component, for me, lay within the final moments: as the performers launched into “Pure/Honey,” the penultimate track, the stage was ceded to the dancers to vogue in a bright circle.
Everyone who’d stood with Beyoncé throughout the night was given a moment. Which was a deafening punctuation mark on a deeply deliberate thesis that the performers and crews had spent nearly three hours constructing: the event was made possible by queerness—and the culture of Black queers across the decades, specifically. Seeing this in a packed stadium felt stunning to the point of elation.
Because this fantasia, for many folks watching in Houston, dissipated immediately after. Texas is one of the most hostile states in the country for queer people. In the past year, more than 100 bills targeting LGTBQ+ communities were introduced in the Texas legislature, making up over 20% of anti queer legislation that has emerged in state governing bodies across the U.S. There are few areas of public life in the state where its government hasn’t at least attempted to eradicate its queerness from visibility. Maybe this, too, is further evidence of Beyoncé’s excellence: for a few hours, we all were privy to something better. A better way of being. Much talk is made of Beyoncé’s otherworldliness—and her very visible labor allows this—but what’s more extraordinary is that she is entirely human. Calling her performances perfect would, in some ways, belie the many things they achieved. In that stadium, she expanded possibility—an even higher bar, more elusive and foundationshifting. As I left the show both evenings, Houston’s gayborhood, Montrose, felt energetic in a way it simply hadn’t in some time. The streets were packed. The bars vibrated with energy, until security told us all to go home, shepherding folks onto the sidewalk. Eventually, we all split off, and a pair of guys walking beside my boyfriend and me shared our silence for a few blocks before we turned to each other, instinctively, and smiled, and said to get home safe. This, too, felt like an extension of the moment, like the show will continue enveloping us, even still.
Washington is the author, most recently, of Family Meal