Spending the Evening in Beyoncé’s Country

I’ve been to over 200 concerts in my life and there is something magical about being in a crowd of people waving cell phone flashlights, swaying back-and-forth together amid a sea of appreciation, singing along to songs that resonate deeply with everyone in the audience — it takes you to another place. I’m eternally grateful to musicians who share their art with us and bring us joy, especially in uncertain times. Beyoncé is that artist for me. 

Especially right now, as Beyonce’s “Cowboy Carter” tour makes its way back to the U.S. from Paris to wrap up an incredible three-month run. I thought it would be pretty hard to top her “Renaissance” tour and album, but Cowboy Carter — Beyoncé’s eighth studio album — is a culmination of nearly three decades of honing her craft, expanding her mind, and honoring her integrity. It’s like Beyoncé decided that she was going to do whatever she wanted to do after years of grinding, cultivating a deeply loyal fandom, and experimenting with new ideas. 

In the past few years, Beyoncé has been focused on the reclamation of Black music that has been co-opted by white Americans, who have subsequently attempted to remove Black people from the origin stories. The reactions to this album have been nothing short of vile misogynoir, and with every award she has won for her “country” album, people have been revealing their deep-seated hatred of African Americans. If nothing else, Cowboy Carter exposed a lot of people to the exact reason why she made the album in the first place. In 2016, I wrote about the reactions to her performance with The Chicks at the Country Music Awards and how the erasure of Black women from country music has been an ongoing problem:

Well, the truth is that Black women have been performing country music and rock ‘n’ roll since the inception of both genres, but, as is often the case, have found themselves routinely erased from the annals of country and rock music folklore.

This summer’s “Cowboy Carter” tour serves as a wake-up call to those who think country music belongs to white Americans. Beyoncé makes clear that she has never abandoned her Southern roots and, though she has been ridiculed for having too thick of a Southern accent and been told she has no right to make country music, Texas is certainly in the building.

I had the opportunity to see one of the five shows she did in late May, during her mini-residency in New Jersey. I drove over 90 minutes through traffic from Philadelphia, paid $40 for parking, and endured an evening-long downpour in my sturdy poncho to enjoy one of the greatest performers to step onstage. It was a treat to myself, a single mom who has devoted most of the past year to help get my son into college while busting my ass to keep a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. Despite the inevitable Mom Guilt that strikes at the worst times, deep down I knew I deserved this.

I’ve been watching Beyoncé evolve as a performer over the past two decades, having gone to her tours since her Destiny’s Child days. The behind-the-scenes films she’s made about her shows give a clear sense of the meticulous attention she pays to every detail, and the way her vision and ambition manifest in these otherworldly productions — you see why she is widely regarded as the “best.” You’re in for a production that is worth every penny, even in the rain — which does little to damper her performance, or the enthusiasm of the crowd. (It poured during “Formation,” too — and that was my favorite concert, and I’ve seen Prince four times!)

Having just seen Beyoncé’s “Renaissance” tour two summers earlier in Amsterdam, I was ambivalent about seeing her again so soon. Especially since I have been struggling with hyper-consumption when we’re witnessing the genocide in Gaza and the kidnapping of citizens in our own nation. How could I reconcile spending money to see a billionaire when we are supposed to be “eating the rich”? While I’ve long accepted that I can critique capitalism as the monstrosity it is, speak to Beyoncé’s complicity in it, and still enjoy her as a talented artist, I was deeply conflicted buying a ticket when our nation is on the precipice of complete collapse due to the completely unhinged behaviors of the current administration. 

But then I saw clips from the Los Angeles shows, and I couldn’t resist the sight of Bey performing with her eldest daughter, Blue Ivy, and tenderly embracing her younger daughter, Rumi. Just as the crowd was, I was warmed by the sight of Rumi’s precocious waves and giggles, and the way Bey tended to her, with her loving maternal hugs and proud smiles. 

And the fan devotion at Beyoncé shows is unparalleled. Fans are deeply committed to understanding the assignment. The Beyhive showed up and showed out: This tour, that assignment was a rodeo vibe: “Come on down to the hoedown and let’s have us a good ole time!” The rain did not stop attendees from dressing the part — there’s nothing like the pleasure of walking past bona fide New Yorkers in full cowboy and cowgirl attire, from the animal prints to the cowboy hats and boots with spurs. It was as if everyone received the same memo and no one was willing to mess up the aesthetic. 

I was admittedly concerned the show was going to be “Renaissance” redux; which is not to say that “Renaissance” wasn’t a wonderful time — it was.  But Beyoncé tends to repeat some of the songs and sets from show-to-show. Word on the street is that Beyoncé has produced a trilogy of albums including Renaissance (Act I), Cowboy Carter (Act II), and an unnamed Act III project that has generated much speculation about what genre she will tackle next.

 

Renaissance paid homage to LGBTQ+ musicians and creators who made the disco and house scenes. Even though she stated it wasn’t a “country album,” Cowboy Carter leaned into the genre. I agree with her; though Cowboy Carter contained some of the classic markers of country music (e.g., “Murder Ballad,” “Daughter,” “Honky Tonk,” “Texas Hold ’Em,” and the Tejano ballido, “Flamenco”), it was not constrained by the limitations of genre, which she addresses in the album’s interludes. In fact, the songs on the latter half of the album, which were my favorite tracks, sounded like they belonged on Renaissance. 

The closer I got to my seat, the more intense the commitment to the part. Everyone was kind to each other, exchanging compliments (“Okay, hair!” “Yes, boots!”), helping each other find seats and take pictures. My hair was teal blue, so I received a lot of compliments. And because I have a social media presence, a few people approached me to tell me they follow me, thank me for my work—a couple people even asked for selfies. This is one reason I don’t mind going to concerts alone — I’m almost always guaranteed to encounter people who know me.

The show made me feel like I’d been transported to a futuristic hoedown where race, gender, age, and sexual identity don’t matter — it was all about Queen Bey. There is community at Beyoncé’s concerts, the kind of community forged by a confluence of unwavering commitment to one’s musical idol, wanting to see a Black woman win against all racist odds, and a general appreciation for great music and top-notch entertainment.

I sat right at the edge of the extended portion of the stage, among the Beyhive, within 25 to 50 feet from Beyoncé and the dancers much of the time. That’s how I like to experience concerts — I want to see you sweat, roll your eyes at a crew member who messes up, and slyly smile at someone in the audience with a sign that makes you happy. This is when I mention that I am marked safe from Beyoncé pointing to me and singing, “She ain’t no divaaaaa,” which was a concern of mine, I’m not going to lie. 

A young man with immaculate deep brown skin was sitting next to me wearing an outfit that was giving “Queer Cowboys in Space” — silver and rhinestones, hat and boots, make-up on point. He was locked and loaded. He said that this was his first Beyoncé concert — he was only 20 years old. As I told him, “Oh, you’re in for a treat!” I realized that the first time I saw her perform, he wasn’t even alive. The beauty of having such a lengthy career is that she brings people together across generations, which is the kind of bonding we need now, maybe more than ever before. 

Beyoncé’s microphone was on! She gives you two-and-a-half hours of live singing, energetic dancing, and visuals that craft a narrative that pulls you into the story she’s weaving to not only educate you but to make you feel like you’re a part of the overall experience. She doesn’t point the microphone to the crowd most of the time to cover for her inability to carry the notes and she doesn’t rely on her dancers to do the majority of the work — she’s right there in the middle of everything, giving you the performance you hoped for. She also steps back and gives Blue Ivy an opportunity to shine — and shine she does.

Blue Ivy is a star and I loved the moments when Bey remained in the background, looking at her baby own the stage with the adoring gaze only a mother knows. During the Renaissance tour, Blue joined her as a background dancer and it touched me, as a mom who often travels and has to leave my baby behind due to my obligations.With Cowboy Carter, Blue has graduated to the background dancer level that is so immersive, you forget it’s her, while Rumi makes a beautiful cameo during “Protector,” the song Beyoncé wrote about her. Rumi is clearly overwhelmed by the crowd but has warmed up to the idea of being the center of attention. At times, she looked around like, “Mom, wait … who are you, really?” Bring your daughter to work takes on an entirely new meaning when your mother is Beyoncé.

The rain electrified Beyoncé. Having seen her perform in pouring rain twice, there is something that takes over her when she’s performing in the rain that is unlike seeing her in other conditions. It’s like she communes with the deities in charge of rainfall and allows them to use her — she transforms, and I don’t mean into Sasha Fierce, but into someone whose connection with the elements elevates her artistry. While I worried about her safety and those of the dancers, especially when she was flying across the crowd on high-wires and electrical contraptions, I knew she’d pull it off and turn it up a few notches if for no other reason than the aesthetic being immaculate.

Beyoncé performs most of the songs from Cowboy Carter —no matter what the project is, her fanbase is plugged in and will rock with every single song, even the weaker ones like “Spaghetti” (girl, stop rapping) or the ones that can shift the entire mood like her cover of “Blackbird”. She is the kind of artist that compels you to follow wherever she leads and I’m still processing what that means more broadly. Celebrity worship is deeply problematic for society, and there are some elements of her fandom that raise my eyebrows and the occasional alarm. What I hope is that, going forward, she remains committed to amplifying the culturally consciousness reclamation of Black artistic artifacts and creations and that The Hive remains focused more on that than on attacking anyone with criticisms of her work. If Act III is a rock album, which many hope it will be, I just ask her to give us a few years to save up our coins for the show. Because I’m gonna go. I know I am. Dammit.

As a proud Gen Xer who grew up when Prince, Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, and Madonna dominated the charts and raised the bar not only for recording artists but for concert performers, I sometimes surprise myself by how much I tout the magic of Beyoncé. Come on, Prince? MJ? And yet, here she is, having carved out her own lane and made it so that no one ever speaks of her as the “so-and-so of our generation.” I’m glad that I made the final decision to go because I would have hated to miss yet another historic musical moment to share with my grandkids when I tell them, “Guess what? Beyoncé never pointed at me and said, ‘She ain’t no diva!’”