Chappell Roan arrives on the main stage at Reading Festival in a rustle of black taffeta and scarlet silk, bat fascinator perched atop her flaming locks. For all the looming grandeur of her set, which could be the castle of a Disney villain or a Meatloaf music video, it’s a strangely muted entrance. Blame it on the sound, which unless you’re plonked directly in front of the speakers, is a little muddy; the chatter of teenage fans on the outskirts actually threatens to drown out her slinky opener, “Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl”.
When it comes to one of pop’s biggest breakout stars in a decade, though, nothing stays muted for long. Leading a band that probably evens out the always-uneven gender split at Reading by 10 per cent, she delivers each song with unmatched panache, striding about like a beatific queen to a tight setlist that is non-stop bangers. It’s the most alive the festival – best associated with feral teenagers, tents being set alight and Lord of the Flies-level anarchy – has felt all day. Yet the genteel and only mildly inebriated gaggles of youths are seemingly here for Roan and her alone, having earlier watched with polite bemusement as Australian actor Rebel Wilson rapped “Gangsta’s Paradise” with The Kooks for a scene from her next film.
That is, until Roan gets going. “Femininomenon”, her ode to sapphic sex, revs up the atmosphere with arched-eyebrow lyrics: “Dude, can you play a song with a f***ing beat?” the 90,000-strong crowd squeals along with her. “The Giver” is a joyous, country-fried update that puts Roan in the power seat: “You ain’t gotta tell me/ It’s just in my nature/ So take it like a taker/ ‘Cos baby I’m a giver.” Then she ignores her mother’s advice on “After Midnight”, twirling around with giddy abandon: “I’m feeling kinda freaky/ Maybe it’s the club lights/ I kinda wanna kiss your girlfriend if you don’t mind.”
How was Roan not booked as a headliner? It’s testament to the often short-sighted approach of UK festival bookers but also to the rapidity with which her star has ascended. The last time she toured the UK – less than a year ago – it was a short whirl around a dozen or so 3,000-capacity venues. Since then, she’s picked up a Grammy for Best New Artist and scored her first UK No 1 single, the swooning jangle-pop ballad “The Subway” (The Cure meets Mazzy Star). You feel slightly sorry for Reading’s actual Friday headliner, Irish artist Hozier, until you see the huge crowd that sticks around for his own, electrifying performance.
Much of Roan’s setlist is derived from her debut album, The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess. Roan, who grew up in a Christian household in Willard, Missouri, became enraptured by the all-out spectacle of pop stars like Lady Gaga and Katy Perry. She moved to LA twice, having first slunk back when she was dropped by her first record label (not profitable enough… again with the industry’s short-sightedness). There, she was able to begin exploring her sexuality – a theme that transpires amid the electro-pop of “Naked in Manhattan”.
Speaking of naked: almost everything but the gloves come off for a sizzling cover of Heart’s “Barracuda” – only after she’s reminded the crowd of the routine for her original song “HOT TO GO”, her very own “YMCA”. While the Benson Boones of the world are still flogging the same Freddie Mercury pastiche, our best pop girls seem intent on celebrating their rock influences at live shows – see also Olivia Rodrigo bringing out Robert Smith at Glastonbury to sing “Friday I’m in Love”. And Roan’s band are about as rock’n’roll as it gets as they line up alongside her, a blur of velvet gowns and flailing hair.
Her versatile soprano sounds extraordinary – meltingly tender one moment, proud and ferocious the next – and she knows it. She sustains howls of ecstasy on “My Kink is Karma”, about the secret pleasures of revelling in an ex’s downfall, before she pares it all back to a gorgeous gossamer lilt on “Coffee” and “Picture You”, as enrapturing as the glitter that dusts her cheekbones. There’s a clear dedication here not just to the art of the live show, but the high camp of it, a worthy successor to the Gagas and Madonnas of the world. Everything is dramatic; it’s impossible to look away as she flounces about to the queer celebration of “Pink Pony Club” or high-kicks her way across the stage to the kiss-off bop “Good Luck, Babe!”, fireworks crackling and spitting above her. And why would you want to? She’s a Femininomenon.
