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In all the shows I’ve played, not a one has gone by without me considering my outfit.
Some say the clothes don’t matter. That it’s shallow to concern oneself with the drape of a blouse when the performance should be centered on the music.
But the clothes—and one’s appearance, in general—send a message, no matter what the clothes are. Even when we claim not to care about an outfit, the non-performance is a performance of its own.
In her essay “The I In the Internet,” Jia Tolentino discusses the inevitability of performance on the internet. She shares how sociologist Erving Goffman, in his 1956 book The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, suggests that people put on a performance in every social interaction. Whether or not they consider themselves performing, they are actively creating an impression of some kind. Tolentino writes,
The performance might be calculated, as with the man at a job interview who’s practiced every answer; it might be unconscious, as with the man who’s gone on so many interviews that he naturally performs as expected; it might be automatic, as with the man who creates the correct impression primarily because he is an upper-middle-class white man with an MBA. A performer might be fully taken in by his own performance—he might actually believe that his biggest flaw is ‘perfectionism’—or he might know that his act is a sham. But no matter what, he’s performing. Even if he stops trying to perform, he still has an audience, his actions still create an effect.
If you wear a unisex hoodie on stage to communicate that you don’t care how you appear, you’re still curating your look. Therefore, you are still actively caring about what you look like. Isn’t that just as “shallow?”
I never could commit to a makeup routine. This was partially because I never learned makeup from my mom, and mostly because I always woke up just before I had to leave in the morning. There was a phase in high school when I found time to drag black eyeliner around the circumference of my eyes, but so short-lived was that habit that a small nub of that very stick of CoverGirl still dwells in the depths of my makeup bag.
In my late teens, I wanted to present myself as someone unconcerned with their appearance. My clothes? Wrinkled. My makeup? Nonexistent. The message was that I wasn’t “like the other girls,” a concept rooted in my internalized misogyny.
At this time, makeup was a representation of what I had gathered was the weaker sex. If I wanted to set myself apart as serious and exceptional, I needed to find common ground with men. I was operating under the idea that men were the more productive members of society, while women — especially the ones who leaned into the feminine — were just playing around with false eyelashes and false dreams.
Sometimes I feel deep shame for having lived with this mindset for so long. I wish I had been sharp enough to see through it on my own. But the people around me were benefiting from me feeling like I had to prove myself. And I certainly don’t think I’m the only one who has received the message that being feminine makes you less capable. Such beliefs against women are prevalent in our society, as Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is quick to point out in her Vogue makeup tutorial.
“There’s this really false idea that if you care about makeup, or if you care, if your interests are in beauty and fashion that that’s somehow frivolous,” she says, then pivots to discuss her preferred sunscreen.
When I started playing music, I became reacquainted with the idea that I needed to be one of the guys. Almost all of the musicians around me were men. This was in a little Ohio city and the scene was small. But even on tour, men wearing band shirts and Converse sneakers hovered adjacent to my every move, and I felt the urge to blend in.
I didn’t present as masculine. But I was afraid to lean into the feminine, or to explore and be myself in those settings. Wearing something too “girly” or giggling too much would put me at risk of being taken less seriously.
I’ve always enjoyed picking my outfit, but I spent a lot of years editing my look based on the impression I wanted to give. No matter what I wore, I feared feedback from men around me. At times it left me straddling a perceived duality: either I looked too good and people only liked my music because they thought I was hot, or I looked too frumpy and I owed it to the crowd to be sexier.
Sometimes it came to me directly, laid out like a meal I didn’t order. Whether or not they said it out loud, judgements still get communicated. Undertones send messages too.
Somehow, over the years, I wiggled out of that trap. Part of the evolution was expanding my world and moving to a place where I’d have a chance to meet new and better people. I’ve always needed support to back me up while I grow. I am a high-maintenance house plant. I found that support in Cincinnati. And I also found inspiring femme musicians who were and are perfectly fine playing with fashion and beauty in their sets.
Now I choose my look based on what feels true and powerful. I think of a stage outfit as part of the overall expression of music. A corset is a piece of performance art.
Unfortunately, not everyone can accept that a woman is wearing her style out of her choice and not out of a debt to society. When I played BLINK two weekends ago, plenty of onlookers behaved like my sequin-adorned legs were strictly for their consumption. In this (over-rated?) art festival, many attendees were looking for things to gawk at. Thus our bodies, dressed as we wanted to, were particularly objectified as if they were just another laser show desperately trying to impress. Only a laser show would never take its shirt off for you, so why even ask?
We are always performing—on stage or off—wearing outfits that we know audiences will see. But an outfit isn’t meant to be possessed by the onlooker. It’s not an advertisement by default; it’s an expression asking to be heard.
At the end of the BLINK set, a sound person told me “nice pants.” Their tone was so dry I couldn’t tell whether it was a joke or a compliment. I felt embarrassed. The set had sucked, for reasons out of our control, and now this very un-showy professional was commenting on my disco ball getup.
As soon as I could, I changed out of the outfit into black coveralls.
When my bandmate and I were getting ready earlier that night, I felt great about the look. Sequins were right for a light-based festival. It was outrageous, but this was performance art.
If I’d worn jeans and a t-shirt, I probably wouldn’t have gotten the same crude comments from the crowd. But I would have been adjusting myself to accommodate the emotionally stunted audience.
I’m not willing to change who I am in response to someone else’s weakness. Changing into my coveralls was not me admitting that a bare midriff was asking for it. It was me withdrawing my artists proposal. Never mind, I don’t want to be in your gallery.
Stage wear
A thoughtful and eye opening essay. Made me realize I was also misogynistic when younger. I remember being in the home ec class in 8th grade and looking on disdainfully as the other girls sat in front of the mirrors putting on makeup while I worked on my project instead. I still value brains over beauty, but also admire a sense of style and good hair and well applied makeup.