THE TRA$HY MIDWE$TERNER CONVENTION
Despite the accolades that the two coasts of the United States get, it’s undeniable that Missouri has been the leading export of up-and-coming talent in recent times (here’s a hint: two Lollapallooza main-stage phenoms that garnered unfathomable crowd sizes within the past two years were both Show-Me State natives.) As a born-and-raised Missouri smokeshow myself, I can complain with utmost authority that the Midwest has been horrifically neglected by major names in the music industry for years. If one wants any chance of seeing their favorite artist live in the Midwest, there are two ends of the notoriety spectrum that you better pray the performer falls into.
Starving artists love the Midwest. Head to any charming rundown theater in the “historic downtown” district of any given city in the Great Plains and you will find a plethora of tour posters for undiscovered talent. As long as their music hasn’t been thrust into the spotlight by a short-form content creator yet, there’s a high probability that you will be able to see your favorite niche artist for under $50, with a favorable likelihood of being at the barricade as well. As fate seems to have it, and if you’re pretentious enough, this always happens about one to two years before they inevitably blow up. When I was freshly 17 years old, I saw TV Girl and Jordana in a grimy, outdated venue in Kansas for just $25. They were mere months away from one of their songs going viral on TikTok and moving into the clutches of the music festival circuit. Luckily for me, they were still just hungry enough that they were paying mind to the Midwest and giving it their all in that sticky college bar with questionable stage visibility.
Amongst plentiful bounds of dairy-based delicacies and sprawling farmland, the Midwest is also full of football stadiums. When an artist has made it big enough to embark on a stadium tour, they tend to throw a bone or two to middle America. Of course, for one to afford the financial risk of such a large-scale tour, they are usually performers who have been resting comfortably at the top of the charts for several years now, so you will be fighting with thousands of other fans in your area for a ticket. Add in the Live Nation and Ticketmaster monopoly that has been ravaging the entertainment industry, and you’ve got better odds sitting out in the stadium parking lot holding a tin can on string to your ear if you don’t feel like shelling out $200 for nosebleeds or braving the presale wars. But hey, it was so nice of them to come to your city!
If there is anything I can choose to emphasize most within this, it’s that there is a reason this region is referred to as the “flyover states”. Performers have certainly taken this sentiment quite literally as I’ve grown up. Despite the fact that I am fortunate enough to be from a major Midwestern city, I still find myself holding my breath as I check the dates when a popular artist announces a tour. When a performer enters that upper one percent of fame in which the tour can become a multimillion-dollar profit endeavor, there is a common misconception that the Midwest is simply Chicago, Minneapolis, and maybe Detroit. Oh, were you hoping that the arena tour would come to a city near you? Too bad! Have fun driving eight hours or paying top dollar for a plane ticket to that one-night-only event three states away! It’s not like America is a country that is almost 4,000,000 square miles of expansive unique regions and geographies that notably don’t utilize affordable high-speed railways! Sure, go ahead and skip the Midwest and add four more dates to those Los Angeles and New York City shows, I’ll come to you! (I must make it known that I do understand the population metrics of these major cities compared to Midwestern ones. But my main gripe is that they get dates, period.)
For a multitude of reasons that continue to astound me as someone from there, Missouri has garnered a great deal of attention over the past few years. If you're more all-American, the Kansas City Chiefs and a certain nuptial development is a blaringingly obvious reason (and yes, “Kansas” City is in Missouri). But if you’re gay and into brutally honest queer women with gorgeous curly hair and nasty amounts of talent, you know exactly why Missouri is on the rise for exporting musical superstars.
Chappell Roan was my first reckoning, both in the entertainment sense as well as the embarrassingly intense celebrity crush realm. Not only did she summon the Midwestern gays (the backbone of America, by the way), she bewitched everyone. The wonderful widespread hysteria of “Hot to Go!” was a hallmark of 2024, and knowing it spawned from Springfield, Missouri (the armpit of the Ozarks if we’re not counting the charming sh*thole that is Branson), absolutely perplexed me. I was a preschool teacher during her acute rise to fame, and the speed at which the children had memorized lyrics covertly discussing sapphic love was absolutely hilarious. It didn’t matter how quickly I attempted to lower the volume as she announced that “no one’s touched me there in a damn hot minute,” the kids were always two steps ahead.
But then, at a perfectly aligned time in my life, a shining light for Midwestern queers with lax attitudes towards recreational drug use and questionable manners began to shine down. As a passé bisexual who discovered a deep-rooted talent for partying in college, I felt true representation when “CRANK” hit the timeline.
Despite my newer affinity for her, Slayyyter has always been on my radar. Since 2019, and years before getting cheated on during brat summer fully converted me into a hyperpop club rat, I always felt an inclination towards "Daddy AF" deep within me. “Purrr!” was the obvious next step years down the line, when I officially began my journey as an infinitely energetic party girl and truly felt the lyrics. So when “CRANK” was teased last year, when I was of legal drinking age and a baby raver/dance club enthusiast, my time had come. I was f*cking ready.
At least in my world, there was a tectonic shift when WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA was finally released. I credit the four original singles (“BEAT UP CHANEL$,” “CRANK,” “DANCE,” and “OLD TECHNOLOGY”) for providing me the warmth I needed to survive an uncharacteristic Floridian cold snap during my final spring break before graduation. Despite the sugary white beaches and flaring sunshine, it never rose above 60 degrees for our “warm” spring getaway that was intended to be our last hurrah. Fortunately for the drinking superpowers that aggressively electronic hyperpop gives you, we had slammed enough mimosas, screwdrivers, and tequila Red Bulls to have an alcohol blanket comparable to a mink fur coat, with not one hangover the entire week. We had been riding “CRANK” into the ground for months, and to have three more singles, a trio of prior albums, and knowledge that the full work would be out in a week's time… We were wired, destructive, and ready to become disgustingly rowdy versions of ourselves. I’ll never forget us being the only people up and down the beach for miles who were brave enough to play in the icy waves, skimpy thong bikinis and all.
As a novice but passionate devotee, I anxiously awaited the announcement of the tour that I knew was sure to follow suit. So the day that dates were first dropped on her Instagram and I saw not one Missouri show, quite frankly, I was pissed.
I’m positive that if you look hard enough, you can still find my whiny comment about “no Missouri dates heartbreak emoji” under the original post. One of the songs was called “$T. LOSER” for f*cks sake, and you mean to tell me there was nothing in St. Louis? The place where it was written? The mecca, the muse, the Missouri hotspot? Nothing? Well fret not, because one thing you must understand about Slayyyter is that she infuses an incredible amount of intent within her work, and especially WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA. In just a little over a week as I scrolled through instagram, I saw a familiar post with a key addition present: Three new tour dates in St. Louis.
The day my roommate scored us GA tickets under $100 for the second night, I was anxiously sitting in class waiting to get the text that decided my fate for how enjoyable late July would be. My stomach was in my ass, and I was fighting the urge to vomit when the news broke, as my body has always been rather shoddy at differentiating excitement and dread. We were officially seeing Slayyyter, and we would be getting barricade if it was the last thing we did.
Of all the ridiculously well-done concerts I’ve attended, the ones in the cities in which the performers are native have always been the most distinct. Every drop of familiarity, hatred, and indescribable love one has for their more conservative hometown was oozing from her performance. Being from a place that isn’t inclined towards a likeness for you and your peers is an integral part of being an alternative Midwesterner. By the time I was 17 years old and making final decisions on where I could realistically afford to attend college, I was devastated at the realization that I would continue to be confined by the Midwest. I recall closing myself into a spare bedroom at a family birthday party the day I finally accepted the scholarship offer to a school just less than an hour from my hometown. It was a bit childish, but I couldn’t bear having to face my family when all I felt was self-pity and disappointment on a day that was supposed to be so rewarding. The more years that passed and the further into myself I began to step was what would eventually heal my confusing relationship with the Midwest, most of which occurred at that last choice university I so begrudgingly attended in the beginning. I was fortunate to find that there were people with similar love-hate connections to the region all around me, and that the more we leaned on each other, the easier it was to see the admirable parts. Getting really f*cked up with your friends every weekend made it a hell of a lot easier too.
Of the concert venues in Midwestern downtowns I’ve ventured to, The Pageant in the Delmar Loop was nowhere near impressive. The (very kind) door staff were way too good at their job, immediately seizing all the José Cuervo shooters I had stuffed in my microshorts and not-so-secret compartment of my purse. On top of now being forced to pay $15 for a sh*tty vodka Red Bull (straight bartender with a weak pour), they also held my digital camera hostage in a (very well-monitored) storage locker for the entirety of the show. We snagged spots in line about two and a half hours early, and I was now faced with the prospect of being sober for the concert. Nonalcoholic nights are completely fine, as I’ve enjoyed many sober events before, but it was f*cking Slayyyter.
Despite my toiled plans to have my vision blurred into seeing two Slayyyters from the effects of cheap tequila, it was the most intoxicated I’ve ever felt while being dead sober. With our early arrival time and instinct to elbow if need be (and we needn't, so calm down, it’s a joke), we had snagged a spot one person away from the barricade. I was now two hours away from being thrown around a soup of sweaty, scantily clad gays with differing views on deodorant.
In the words of Tara Lynn, “I finna be in the pit.”
It didn’t take psychic to know how special it was for her to be playing on this lovingly run-down stage. In between seizure worthy strobe lights, the loudest sounds you’ve ever heard, and belting so incredible you had half the mind to wonder if it was lipsyncing, she took the time to speak about her experience growing up in the area. The memories she shared weren’t the mystical origin stories you hear your favorite celebrities share in high profile interviews. They were experiences we knew frighteningly well. As she laughed about terrorizing the Loop after attending concerts at The Pageant, and late nights out at Just Johns, I had never had an artist feel so authentic, aligned, and literally right there in front of me. Less than 24 hours before, I had been whipping my hair around dressed in only a see-through bralette and polka-dot miniskirt, with a crowd of shirtless queer people at the same club, unbeknownst to me that I was sharing her pastime. And don’t judge me on the nudity of it all, as it was the “naked bike parade” a few hours beforehand. If anything, I was one of the most modest people there. I witnessed nakedness in forms you couldn't even fathom that night, with the exception of their bike helmets, of course.
Although my trip to St. Louis was a bender in its own right (I was also there to visit a friend), the concert was the one night I didn’t go out afterward. I had probably thrown my back out moshing to “OLD TECHNOLOGY,” and I decided it would be the one night I respected the fact that I had an early morning the next day. Besides, the show was what some vanilla-ass dorks would categorize as “clubbing” anyway. I got the energy release I was seeking and much more. I was content with ending the night there, but only after walking through the Taco Bell drive-thru first.
As I sit here and write, this Missouri smokeshow is actually mere hours away from attending another concert of thee Missouri smokeshow. Because the universe seems to love me and I found artists willing to show the Midwest some mercy, Slayyyter, Turnstile, and Die Spitz will be performing at my former university (you know, the one I was devastated to attend?), and the ticket was under $75. Some would consider this boasting, and they would be absolutely correct. But isn’t it about time we give the Midwesterners their flowers?
