ed. note: Below is a response to Rich Tarbell’s recent review of St. Vincent’s Ting Pavilion performance, written by fellow concertgoer Sarah F. Roberson. Her personal take offers additional insight into the themes of power, gender, and the dynamic between artist and audience, providing a valuable female perspective that we felt was worth sharing.
Having timed my arrival in Charlottesville on Saturday so that I could visit Derrière de Soie and purchase “silk bottoms” before they closed, and having been to New Dominion Bookshop and purchased The Left Hand of Darkness, a science fiction paperback about gender, by Ursula K. Le Guin, Come Together by Emily Nagoski, and the paperback Poor Things, I had queer arousal and power dynamics on the brain.
I stashed my elegant shopping bags in the trunk of my car and met my friend for a meal at Monsoon Siam. We both ordered food we hoped would delight us in presentation, smell, and of course taste. We knew we would benefit from someone’s creativity and care while we sat back and breathed deeply. After we ate, we walked across the length of the mall to Ting Pavilion primed for the visuals of St. Vincent‘s torn, black fishnet stockings and black high heel boots, an angular black suit jacket and tiny black shorts. The lighting on the members of the band was done perfectly, I thought. I loved how the stage and curtains and costumes were almost entirely black with minimal white or sometimes golden lights. Subtlety is important to my enjoyment of concerts and life in general.
My friend and I moved into the middle of the sea of bodies in anticipation of warmth. A breeze was coming in from the left side.
Leading up to the concert, I had been listening to her songs while doing housework and driving. Although I am a new fan, I did already know a lot of the lyrics, however I was not prepared for the visual performance aspect. I think it can be fun to go into a concert naïvely so that there are no expectations. I had never seen her band perform, not even in a video. As the first song “Reckless” reached its climax, Jason Falkner smiled and touched his whammy bar, spanking our ears with guitar distortion and looked out at us like, “yeah you like that, huh?” That song undoubtedly left me breathless (and deafened). My friend leaned over and asked if I was ok because I was crying.
As I wiped my tears and settled in, I realized that St. Vincent was in control of how we objectified her, asking for our attention but then chastising us for predictably giving it to her. Like Tori Amos or Madonna, St. Vincent is the kind of woman I might want to fuck in a church in Scotland. What a relief it is that those thoughts come about intentionally due to how those artists write about praying and shame and power. I felt reassured by the command she had over me.
In her award-winning song “Broken Man” she asks accusingly, “what are you looking at?!” and in Pay Your Way in Pain she screams, “I wanna be loved!” During her performance, she could make herself appear drugged, with soulless hollow eyes, and then laugh and scowl into the audience as if she had caught us perversely wanting her to be a broken, lifeless body. She pulled her own puppet strings, and she checked her own pulse. She yanked on her leather belt and then gave us a wry look of practiced arousal. She seduced us by pushing the experience of pleasure.
When she put the theremin between her legs, thrusting and grinding it around with hilarious energy, I thought, “Yes, girl, I also want my dick sucked.” She embodied the kind of queer, curious, and self-assured lover who easily laughs at the silliness of what can turn us on. Although I have nowhere near the confidence she has, I could relate to what she was doing.
She moved her arms, wrists and fingers in an exaggerated choreography coded for a drag queen, and also got down on her knees and longingly opened her mouth towards Jason, but then he laughed and got down on his knees, and they bonded by pressing their foreheads and shoulders together as they both played guitar.
The glares St. Vincent shot at her audience were graciously tempered by her laughter. I would think, “Oh, she wants to hurt us, wait no she’s just having fun.” She teased us by flowing in and out of submissive doll face, prancing on her tiptoes with her knees squeezed together and then dropping into an aggressive low squat as if she were daring us to even imagine topping her.
At one point she decided to attempt crowd surfing. She addressed the audience by calling us “Charlottesville” and told us as we moved her precariously away from her comfort zone that we weren’t doing well at making her feel held in a safe and steady way. It easily became a metaphor for a sex position that seemed fun in theory but, with this specific partner, was not working. She asked to get down and, laughing the awkwardness off, she parted the middle of the crowd like a zipper, a golden light from above following her as she strutted back towards the stage. She raised her eyebrows with concerned disdain as we nervously giggled like amateurs.
Like Bella Baxter, protagonist of Poor Things, St. Vincent played with the theme of arousal in a female body. She gave us the space to process our prejudices by creating this show and giving us a memorable performance. Yet she also publicly defended her right to be aroused and satisfied. She exposed our shortcomings by calculating her freedom to express herself.
Like author Emily Nagoski, PhD, St. Vincent understood and demonstrated context, pleasure, trust, and silliness.
Although I have not yet started Le Guin’s book The Left Hand of Darkness, I predict I can tie that one into St. Vincent’s performance of gender and her efforts to acknowledge, encourage, and challenge our perception of her. Perhaps we can engage with these challenges and expand our perceptions of ourselves as a result.
Written by Sarah F. Roberson
Photo by Rich Tarbell
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