Music heals. Sound-tracking our waking lives, musicians create auditory medicine. The dosages needed vary from patient to patient, community to community, but the results are consistent. Exiting-war experimentalism of the seventies, terroristic emotional rage of the aughts, and post-pandemic swingin’-pop parties of the new roaring twenties: Music is ever present in shaping the perspectives of life’s most difficult hardships and joyous celebrations. These examples, of course, are those that guide our general population — a broad scope. Yet, at the individual-level, music functions identically.
Whether it’s a personalized playlist curated for the birthing of a child, an album listening party with your best friend and co-stan, the selection of songs to be played in honor of a life we lost, or the mixtapes made by your sixth grade girlfriend, music associates itself to the occurrences of our lives and enables the betterment of our understandings and relations to how our cog works in the machine. My undergraduate capstone — Something About Space Dude: An Auto-Ethnographic Study on Queer Identity Formation — was inspired, supplemented, and elevated by music: from my own identity playlist, to my research participants; Beyoncé’s Renaissance to Ray Bull’s Take Me For A Ride. Further, this blog, inspired by that capstone, began with my experience at Miley Cyrus’s Bangerz World Tour, and my relation to Hannah Montana’s double life — rather, secret life.
At six years old, I stole my sister’s Lizzie McGuire Movie CD. At eight, my father introduced me to Eminem’s FACK in the Burger King drive-through. At age ten, I went to my first concert: Taylor Swift’s Speak Now Tour. At eleven, I bought my own iHome radio to have non-stop music playing in my room. At age twelve, I began learning to play the trumpet. At fourteen, I auditioned for and received a supporting-lead in my first musical. At fifteen, I met my favorite band: Oh Wonder. On my seventeenth birthday, Kesha told me happy birthday during her Rainbow Tour. At eighteen, I made my mother weep as I honored ethnic-caregivers by singing A Very Good Day for my final stage show. At nineteen, I received and learned how to play the didgeridoo. At age twenty, I attended my first music festival; My second at age twenty-two; And my third at age twenty-three.
Age twenty three; My golden year. Aside from discovering and indulging my passion for writing, learning that true love isn’t always everlasting, and reflecting on the disparities and celebrations of my life thus far, my golden year has afforded me the most brilliant of musical experiences so far. But that story can’t be told quite yet.
My relationship to music — in general and in the specificities of my taste — is complex and evolutionary. I recognize how it iMpaCts my understanding of the world, how it melds to my experience, how my sexuality is celebrated, and how my gender is represented. My affinity with the sounds, lyrics, composition, and dynamicity directly alter the ways in which I move through life. I am educated in part by each musical experience I have — performance, consumption, creation, in concert, or at a festival. Music is not only part of my culture, or part of others’ cultures, music itself is cultural.
What I have learned is this: music is an escape. Every instance I’ve named thus far is evidential to this conclusion, but one experience — rather, three experiences — have assisted most in my understanding of music’s facilitation of escapism.
Lollapalooza, Chicago, 2021 (Age: 20)
My first trip to Lollapalooza was in the summer of 2021 — the first post-covid music festival. That year, I was twenty, single, a college student, but most of all, I was finally free: My contact with my parents was dwindling; My friends, siblings, and non-traditional family members solidified their support in me; I solidified my support in myself. As I was preparing to enter my third year of college — the year that I was meant to graduate, and the year that I decided to task myself completing an entirely separate yet additional degree — it was announced that Miley Cyrus would headline. While I would love to attribute my first Lollapalooza to a celebration of myself, my support system, or my decision to study my own passions, I cannot. The sole reason I went to Lollapalooza in 2021, was for Miley Cyrus.
Artists that tour as infrequently as Miley Cyrus have a unique role in how I understand escapism. Rather than soundtracking an instance or scenario, I believe my experiences and associations to her and her music are more in line with the function of a theme song; That is to say, her music begins each chapter of my life.
In 2006, when I was just five years old, Miley Cyrus debuted as Hannah Montana. The years prior we may consider my prologue. Miley’s music, by way of Hannah, contributed to my understanding of self. Best of Both Worlds, the show’s theme song aided my understanding of a secret life — whether pop-stardom, religious ineptitude, or my love of the same sex. Hannah showed me that putting on a front – a falsity – is sometimes necessary. The show continued until 2011, holding Miley under Disney regulations until January 1st, 2013. This was Miley’s first theme in my life.
On June 3rd, 2013 — my cat’s date of birth — Miley released We Can’t Stop, the pop-anthem of breaking free from sexual constraints, experimenting with party drugs, and reveling in young-adult-maturity. I was in the car with my mom when we first heard the song. Ryan Seacrest introduced it, discussing its record-breaking video that had been released only 12 hours prior. I loved the song and Tammy hated it. Upon arriving home, the only thing I sought out to do was watch the music video, and I orgasmed when I did. The video was filmed pseudo-documentary style, showing Miley at a house party with a freshly cut, bleached, and styled pixie-cut. She showcased a range of bodies, from ones that looked like hers, to those of larger stature like Amazon Ashley, and those of smaller stature like little-person Hollis Jane. The video was abstract with realism-style cake smashing, flying cash, french-fry skulls, twerking, tongues, and making out with baby dolls. The abstracity though was merely a distraction: the video was released to show Miley’s newfound freedom, her intent to live by her own rules, and her unwillingness to conform.
Months later, she highlighted these very same concepts with the video for heartbreak-ballad, Wrecking Ball — another record-breaker. With the help of a very public breakup, Miley’s nudity, licking of construction equipment, pain, and tears worked in tandem to showcase an entirely different facet to her freedom: bodily autonomy and sexual liberation.
Bangerz (Album) quickly followed Wrecking Ball and dove even deeper to the themes of freedom, heartbreak, and reinvention. The following year, she toured in support of it. Attending that tour, accompanied only by my homophobic father and enlightening best friend, was the best musical experience I have had to date. That concert, as well as Bangerz (Album) created the second theme of my life: Independent, self-actualized, unapologetic, reinvention. These themes would liberate me from the burden of my parent’s expectations, prompt my fascination with bleach blonde hair and overgrown roots, and give foundation to the idea that the only opinions that matter in regards to my life, are my own.
It wasn’t until the end of 2020 that this chapter would close, with the release of Miley’s seventh studio album, Plastic Hearts. This album, the performances, and live album that came with it furthered the idea of a self-actualized being; Naturally, people change, but that does not suggest inauthenticity. Rather, this album and this chapter of my life demands that displaying, discussing, and dissecting the ever-changing self is, in fact, the only way to broadcast authenticity. The reason I went to my first music festival was to witness the celebration of authenticity by means of Miley’s performance, inclusive of all iterations of her previous identities.
Miley’s thematic iMpaCt on my life continues.
As I mentioned, during that Lollapalooza I was single. As luck would have it, Miley headlined the festival on its opening night. When my group arrived at Grant Park — shortly after 11am, when the gates opened — we hydrated, ate our only meal of that day, and made our ways to the T-Mobile stage, where Miley was due in just 9 hours. Arriving at the stage, we put our hands on the barricade and began our long day’s wait. Sets began and fans arrived. In the early afternoon, we introduced ourselves to the group of Miley fans next to us: Manny, Jasmine, and another girl whose name has slipped my memory. Manny just so happened to match my level of smiler-ship, of stan-dom, of absolute admiration and respect for Miley Cyrus. After all, he was wearing an ‘In Miley We Trust’ shirt from the Bangerz World Tour. Our friendship and connection to these other smilers was delightful, but Playboi Carti’s set — directly preceding Miley’s — ruined that for us. Between mosh pits, heat stroke, and generalized uncomfortability, our group was separated from theirs and after our group was split, we retreated to the side of the crowd to claim a safer spot for Miley’s set. Seeing her live once again altered the path of my life moving forward. My authenticity mirrors hers.
Being the sole reason for my attendance that year, my group watched her entire performance until the park lights came on, and the hundred-thousand patrons began to flood the streets of Chicago. We made our way to the subway, where the density of people reflected that of the festival. This stop of the subway had lines flooding onto the street, lines waiting to cross through the ticket booth, a shoulder-to-shoulder platform, and trains that could hardly fit an additional body or two. Yet, somehow, whether by fate or divinity, after waiting in the lines to enter the platform, our group spotted Manny’s, sitting next-to-board on the platform. We edged our way over, gooped about Miley, and awaited a train to arrive; Hopefully, one that would fit both of our three-person groups.
Waiting on that platform, boarding the train, and riding to our hotels is quite pedestrian. Finding friends, sexual partners, or a romance at a festival is also quite pedestrian. Yet, when it comes to being queer, the pedestrian becomes remarkable. Prior to my freedom, I would have never been allowed to attend a music festival, let alone one that is over 500 miles away. Prior to my freedom, meeting strangers, finding sexual partners, or queer romance candidly was majorly unheard of. So when Manny and I exchanged phone numbers, we became remarkable.
That night, after showering at my hotel, I walked fifteen minutes in nighttime Chicago, over to Manny’s hotel. We spent the next four nights together; Kissing, getting to know each other, cuddling, separating in the morning, meeting at the park, and reconvening each night. As the festival ended, so did we. These days we are nothing more than online mutuals, but our respect for each other holds strong. Miley Cyrus had once again aided in my queerness. Though my first Lollapalooza was where I dressed the most feminine, the most out of my comfort zone, Miley inspired me not to hide my presentation. Though my group was not as keen on my time spent with Manny, Miley inspired my understanding that my opinions were the important ones in that scenario. And though I had been a strict-bottom for years at that point, Miley Cyrus afforded the renaissance of my top-era.
In my freedom, my first Lollapalooza afforded me two of the experiences that so many young queers miss out on: candid connection and naturalized change. These escapes of connection and change were omitted from my youth, yet I am grateful that I am able to employ them now, when I deem them necessary.
Lollapalooza, Chicago, 2023 (Age: 22)
I went to Lollapalooza for the second time in 2023. At the time, I was twenty-two, had just graduated from the University of Kansas with dual degrees in Speech-Language-Hearing Sciences and Women, Gender, & Sexuality Studies, and had been with my boyfriend at the time, Tyler, for just over three months. The lineup that year was a bit fag-ier; With Billie Eilish, Lana Del Rey, Rina Sawayama, and Jessie Reyez among my must-sees. And though I loved so many of the artists on that year’s lineup, there wasn’t one specific artist that drew me to the festival like Miley did previously. Instead, I was returning with a different motivation, a different intent: allowing the previous year’s candid connections and naturalized change to exude from my being when in Grant Park.
I no longer needed to learn the importance of candid connections or naturalized change; I needed to exemplify them.
With one member of 2021’s group, Kayla, having moved across the country, this year’s group would need to be a bit different. Luckily for me, I had already begun working on convincing Alyx to join in our trek to Chicago. It took months and months of laborious and intense conversation to not only convince Alyx that it was worth it, but that it would change her life.
My only evidence? It changed mine.
Alongside convincing Alyx, when I began dating Tyler in May of 2023, I mentioned the experience of my first Lollapalooza and how I would be returning that year. It was immediately apparent that Tyler wanted to come too, and with some financial convincing, he joined the crew. And just like that, with many persuasive conversations had, many dollars spent, and many discussions of excitement for such an array of artists, our festival group had been reinvented: Sam, Myself, Tyler, and Alyx.
Sam and I fulfilled the role of being the Lolla-Veterans within our group. We coached Alyx and Tyler on the layout of the park, the size of the crowds, the importance of hydration, how to commute to and from our AirBNB, and most importantly: what to wear. Between the fashion-show that is Coachella and the queer blood running through our veins, we each knew that our styles would be vital to the enjoyment of the festival. My first go-round was out of my comfort zone: crop tops, mesh, embroidered flowers, ripped overalls, and a distressed Miley merch shirt. This year, not looking to impress anyone except my boyfriend, I dressed casually – that is to say, how I would typically dress when spending my day outside: ribbed tank tops, ripped jeans, shorts, my Marc Jacobs X Miley Cyrus X Marilyn Minter Pro-Choice tee (as a call back to my LollaGenesis), and ironically, a graphic tee of Lana Del Rey’s Interview Magazine cover where she dawns a bedazzled mesh covid-mask.
Only two days after wearing that LDR shirt, I tested positive for covid.
Tyler’s dress resembled mine, in the sense that he wore his usual clothing as well. Sam – the other veteran – took a mixed approach, combining the casual and heat-resistant with the fashionable and free-ing. Alyx, being the most-anxious of our group for this new experience, delayed her shopping until she no longer could. Just days before leaving, her and I would go shopping for a few pieces that have now defined themselves as staples within her closet. Needless to say, we all looked great, and we all beat the heat as best we could.
Alyx’s anxieties would ease after our first day at the park; The unknown can no longer be feared once it is known. After exploring the park, seeing Finish Ticket, grabbing lunch, hydrating, listening to Spacey Jane and Men I Trust, we made our way over to T-Mobile stage, where we watched Portugal. The Man as we awaited Billie Eilish’s headlining set. The night prior, Billie had debuted black hair with red roots on Instagram, a sign of an incoming change and potential for new music. Alyx had been a fan of Billie since early-on, having seen her in a tiny venue, a performance arena, and now, headlining the second largest festival in America. Sam, Tyler, and I were all fans too, but perhaps not to the extent Alyx was.
While we awaited Billie’s performance we prayed for the debut performance of What Was I Made For, the chart-topping track from the enormously popular Barbie movie. Her performance was jaw-dropping and inspiring. The crowd erupted for tracks like Xanny, Oxytocin, and Happier Than Ever. Communal catharsis occurred for idontwannabeyouanymore, TV, and when our prayers were answered for the debut performance of What Was I Made For. While I ventured through the full range of emotions that her set brought upon us, only one track would bring me to tears.
Only eight months earlier, my cousin, Sagan, had died. I recognize how that wound may never heal, but at the time, it still felt fresh [even today, it still does]. The eight-hours-long drive to Chicago resembled the three-hours-long drive we would take to see the Shires: flat-land, cornfields, two-lane highways, and plenty of time to ponder. By the time we arrived in Chicago, I felt as though Sagan was spiritually alongside us. So, on the first day of the festival, when Billie performed Everything I Wanted, I properly lost my shit. The song details the struggle of living with a burden, the feelings of isolation, and our inevitable deaths. Sagan, who understood the burden of growing up queer amongst uber-religious relatives, understood the complexity of both physical and mental isolation, and who had already met her untimely death, stood alongside me as Billie crooned. I sang and I wept. I danced and I wept. I felt and I wept.
On our commute to the AirBNB, I logged onto Venmo to send Sam the money for the bits and bobs she had paid for me that day. Though I had not logged onto Venmo that day, and though I had never once Venmo’d Sagan for anything, when I was choosing whom to pay, Sagan’s name was at the top of my recommendations. Tears welled in my eyes once again. I told my group of the experiences I just described, and they were equally as moved as I was. Without Sagan, I may have never achieved everything I wanted. With her, having known her, I have no doubt that I can.
The days that followed – at least in my experience – were less emotional. I helped Tyler meet one of his favorite artists, Annie DiRusso, baked in the sun with Sabrina Carpenter, felt Jessie Reyez’ vibrations in my bones, and was overjoyed to see an awe-stricken Alyx watching her favorite band headline.
On the final day, nestled in the cocktail lounge of Bud Light Stage, my life would change twice over. First, I told Alyx and Sam that I would be telling Tyler ‘I love you’ for the first time during Lana Del Rey’s set – and they loved the idea. When I told him just a few hours later, he said it right back, as Sam and Alyx shot me approving yet disgusted looks. Tyler and I broke up three months later.
Moreso, my life was changed by the other occurrence in that cocktail lounge: Alyx told me her real name.
For nearly a decade, I had known Alyx to have a non-binary gender. In fact, she may have been the first non-binary person I was aware of, if not, knew personally. We had discussed transness and transing genders on a number of occasions, but she had not yet identified as a trans-person. That final day at Lollapalooza, Alyx let me into one of the most intimate facets of her life: she is trans, and her name is Alyx. I proceeded to change her contact names in my phone as I congratulated her on arriving at this pivotal moment of identification. In the weeks, months, now year that has followed, I feel as though I finally know my best friend. The confidence, security, beauty, and sincerity that now floods out of her presence is indescribable. The change that has occurred, and continues to occur, is gorgeous and absolutely incredible. My pride for her has never been stronger.
In attempting to exemplify candid connections and naturalized change, Alyx was iMpaCted. No, I am not responsible for her transition. I am responsible for fostering an environment in which she felt comfortable to disclose her transition to me. The themes from my first Lollapalooza were important in the realization of my second Lollapalooza, but my second go-round supported an idea that I had stumbled upon just two months earlier while writing my senior capstone: Identity formation – be it gendered or sexed – occurs on an individualized basis, iMpaCted by our environments, our culture, our consumption, our safety, and our communities. For the second time, Lollapalooza provided an escape from the fears of daily-life, allowing for connection and change to occur, making room for our identities to develop further.
Lollapalooza, Chicago, 2024 (Age: 23)
I went to Lollapalooza for the third time, this year. Now, I am twenty-three, an author, and in a relationship with my boyfriend, Jordan. Opposing last year’s faggy lineup was this year’s, packed full of sapphic-delights from Chappell Roan to Renee Rapp, Raye to Faye Webster. Though I liked many artists on this year’s lineup, I was once again motivated by one singular artist: Kesha. Lollapalooza would mark my third time seeing Kesha, and my first-time seeing her since being freed of all ties to her abuser in March of 2024. When I saw Kesha on the lineup, I understood our connection: Our freedoms would meet, combine, and explore brand new territories.
This year, since Tyler and I had broken up, our group would once again change. Alyx, Sam, and I were all keen on going, but none of our partners were. Having been invited to my on-again-off-again-friend’s 24th birthday party the prior fall, I set my sights on having her – Elizabeth – come with us. Since Alyx was better friends with her (and lived just a few blocks away), she was tasked with doing most of the convincing. Luckily, it didn’t take too much. You see, for a while, Elizabeth was everything I wanted to be: vocal, blunt, feisty, funny, beautiful, but most of all, a testament to what being a Scorpio really means. In my jealousy, Elizabeth and I shared many fights on Twitter and a few major disagreements in person. One thing was certain: her attendance to Lollapalooza would permeate our friendship moving forward. By the time tickets were released in March of this year, our foursome had solidified.
Now, with the enlisted aid of new-veteran Alyx, our group would coach Elizabeth on the dos and don’ts of your very first music festival: wristband tightness, the effects of the sun, food diversity, stage preference, and what not to wear. Our group, almost without explicit reference, all decided on a theme for this year’s outfits: Naked & Comfy. Each member of our group was(is) in a relationship, so our nudity was not out of sexualness, but rather, out of comfort. Having dressed quite queer my first year and casual my second, I tasked myself with an important mission, the mission that became the theme of my third festival: Masc4Lolla.
Hard as I may try, I am not exempt from gendering the garments I clothe my body with. Across my three Lollapaloozas, all of my outfits could have been worn by a person of any gender; my clothes, themselves, lack gender. My mission though, was not to gender my clothing; Rather, it was to mirror the dress of the other festival-goers who I personally deemed as masculine. My own gender presentation is masculine, though I do not define myself as a man. The question then became, how do I masculinize my presentation further?
The answer: By having my arms and armpits on full-display. Also… Nikes.
With the help of my co-worker, I got my hands on a Michael Jordan Bulls jersey as well as a Paul Pierce Celtics jersey. The tops for the remaining two days? Ribbed black tanks. In addition to my Nikes, my bottom half was dressed with denim shorts, black shorts with a red racing stripe, black denim jeans strategically ripped to show off my tattoos, and brown pajama pants. My head was adorned with a black baseball cap or a black bandana, with one chunky chain lacing around my neck. My bleach blonde hair only made an appearance on the first day of the festival. My facial hair was unkempt and unshaven. Aside from my voice and fake-tan, an ultra-masculinized version of myself had been resurrected.
My presentation almost wholly opposed the pink-cowboy-hat-wearers in Chappel’s crowd, fag-tastic crop tops within Kesha’s, and the melancholic attire of the viewers of Ethel Cain. Perhaps my Bulls jersey aided in my push to the barricade for Kesha’s set, but still I hoped that my lightning-blonde hair would show her that I was not one of them. I would soon find out that Kesha did know that, but it was clear that the volunteers working her stage did not. On two separate occasions, two male volunteers of her stage came up to me specifically, to ask for a hit of my vape. The bro-code was unbeknownst to me then, and still is now.
Kesha’s set began with a flash of the word FREEDOM on the screen, and my stomach dropped as she strutted on stage. Her set featured re-mixed versions of her tracks, so as to not give her abuser any adornment. She held up a bloody, plastic anatomical heart during the introduction to Cannibal before launching it into the crowd. Her launch though, could only have been as good as my own. The plastic heart lofted into the air was going to fall in front of the barricade, mere inches from me. On its descent, the heart grazed my hand, leaving behind the blood in its wake. Later, Kesha would almost choose me to point at for the final line of Your Love Is My Drug, “I like your beard”, but the transphobic man to my left had a few inches of growth on me. And when she finished her set, we made direct eye contact as she pointed to me, and threw her guitar pick. Unfortunately, whether because of Kesha’s aim, the wind, or the pick’s weightlessness, it went in the complete opposite direction.
Nevertheless, nearly seven years after Kesha wished me a happy birthday during the deepest trenches of our abuses, our freedoms were finally merged.
When our group reconveined that night, Elizabeth and Alyx mentioned their venture into the Perry’s Stage – the stage set aside solely for EDM artists. The two of them had an amazing experience during Zedd’s set that neither of them expected. The environment at that stage and the lack of judgment for those who inhabited it, was more than enough to pique my interest. The following days, I would drift from stage to stage as I watched the artists I favored, and when there was a lull, I would find myself at Perry’s.
What Alyx and Elizabeth said was undoubtedly correct: the patrons of that stage were there to feel the music, to be with their groups, and to have a good time. They had no judgment for any other person in their vicinity – whether at that stage or in the broader park. Perhaps I was further benefited by my attire, as most of the masculine people at Perry’s stage were wearing jerseys or other forms of tank tops. I visited Perry’s sober, drunk, and high, but the vibe never shifted; Perry’s was the most welcoming stage I had been a part of. As EDM music would suggest, the crowd was there to dance, jump, and have the time of their lives – and that we did. The men’s urinals were a communal space of sharing blow – both the white powder and the creamy, job type – as well as other intoxicatives, rehydration, and piss parties. Though I only partook in the dancing and drinking, I found safety in a space I would typically fear.
Jordan, my boyfriend, would not be the typical inhabitant of that space either – he listens to classic and modern dad-rock. Yet, while I was at Perry’s Stage, I constantly thought to myself, “Act how Jordan would”. Jordan is bisexual, a man, and presents traditionally masculine. My embodiment needed to resemble his. These thoughts only brought about more thoughts of him. Since meeting in the middle of June, we had spent nearly every day and night together, and my 5.5 day trip to Chicago was the longest we have been apart. My first Lollapalooza saw my first and only ‘Lolla Boyfriend’. My second Lollapalooza I was with my boyfriend and we made remarks about the other beautiful men we saw. During my third Lollapalooza, and though I saw more dicks in the span of three days at the Perry’s urinals than I have maybe seen in my life, the only man I could think about, was Jordan. I hardly noticed the other jersey-wearers that I would normally drool over; I took videos of Kesha’s homoerotic male dancers not for my own pleasure, but for his; I had no concern for how attractive other festival-goers thought I was; And I didn’t so much as think about how popular the Grindr and Sniffies homepages were at the park. Perhaps this too was benefited by my masculine presentation; due to our societal associations, masculinity blurs the lines of queerness.
The blurring of my queerness is further highlighted by the privileges that masculinity brought upon me. Walking through dense crowds in masculine attire afforded me a privilege I often overlook: Everyone will move out of the way for a tall, masculine being moving quickly. I had no trouble crossing from one side of the park to the other, or making our way out of the park and to the trains in record time. I was treated respectfully by everyone I interacted with, regardless of their gender. I did not fear that the three women in my group would be harassed when in my presence.
My third trip to Lollapalooza was centered upon this theme: Masculinity enables privilege. So now, I must question:
Have I made masculinity Queer By Extension?