The floor rumbles as more than 2,000 people stamp their feet, raise their arms and bow down in unison as they chant the name “Lizzo”. I find myself with one hand in the air, palm facing the skies and my eyes closed in devotion asking myself, is Lizzo the messiah we need? And if her message of self-love and acceptance is true, is Lizzo the messiah we deserve?
There is something radical that, in Australia in such a time of tragedy, distrust and uncertainty, it was at the Sydney Opera House – a building inspired by the cliffs and sails of the harbour, a building that at times reminds me of the tall ships, a building built on stolen land – that a grieving community found hope, joy and comfort in a big Brown woman.
After starting the show with the self-love anthem, Good as Hell, Lizzo’s first words to the audience are by way of a simple introduction and then a decree: this space tonight is “inclusive” and “fun”. “There is no room for shame!”
Nothing about Lizzo is apolitical. Her art has perspective. Her music is her opinion. Lizzo is someone with something to say. Lizzo is undeniably, objectively good. Even white male critics think so and they’re totally neutral and objective. Just ask them.
So I’m gonna toss neutrality to the wind and indulge in my confirmation bias. I’m a Lizzbian. I had a Lizzo-themed bachelorette night. I’m a fat woman of colour. I’m Lizzo’s people.
But Lizzo isn’t just good. Lizzo is great. Lizzo is a change-maker. Lizzo is a giver of life. She’s Aphrodite 2020. She’s Julie Andrews on top of the mountains in the Sound of Music. Lizzo doesn’t just speak to me; her body looks like mine and that’s something I’ve never seen in the public sphere before her. It’s fat. It’s a big belly and thighs that touch but most of all, it’s beautiful and celebrated.
Lizzo’s politics are what make her spectacular. Her gift is in her generous subjectivity and honest and unabashed specificity. In her, we see ourselves, who we want to be, and who we can be.
From the beginning of the Sydney Opera House show, she acknowledges the bushfire tragedy that Australia is experiencing. She offers compassion and sorrow for the circumstances of our community at the time of her visit and that donation buckets will be passed around outside.
Her job, she says, is to reflect the times. “That is what artists do: speak up for the people.” And it is this that makes the night not just spectacular but cathartic, like a really intersectional group therapy – with twerking.
Lizzo performed all the hits that have become anthems and pop culture sensations – Truth Hurts, Juice, Tempo, Boys, Soul Mate – but they seemed to take on a bigger meaning that night. Her songs of unapologetic self-love and empowerment, usually told through a prism of personal journeys, became songs of solidarity and community. Lizzo isn’t just what I needed, Lizzo is something we all needed.
Beginning the ballad, Jerome, about “that person who gave you hell, didn’t appreciate you, didn’t love you”, I can’t help but think about the leaders of this country. Of their silence, their absence and their lack of compassion as this country faces a natural disaster. Jerome became a ballad about the failure of the patriarchy, of the so-called leaders, of the rich, of corporations, who spin tales and destroy communities for profit. Who take, take, take, and then leave when the damage is done.
As Lizzo yells to the audience to make a pledge – “No fuckboys in 2020!” – it seems less like a dating resolution and more like a call to a revolution.
Then she leads the audience through a mantra, a back and forth of positive affirmations: “We are receiving compliments now.” “You’re a good person.” She gets us to say “thank you” to ourselves and after we do, she tells all of us, “I’m proud of you, bitch.” It’s a week into 2020 and I really needed that.
The one down note, for me, is when she waves a tiny Australian flag in solidarity. Note for Lizzo’s Australian contact – tell our sis about the Aboriginal flag, we can get her one.
At the end of the night, her infamous instrument, Sasha Flute (an homage to Beyoncé’s alter ego, Sasha Fierce), comes out, and Lizzo is telling us it’s been her dream to play her flute at the Sydney Opera House. She twerks with the flute and it’s beautiful.
I’ve been called fat my entire life. From kindergarten to high school, my fatness has been something I’ve been told to be ashamed of. My body is scarred from weight-loss surgeries. My skin sags and has stretch marks. I’ve been taught to see my body not as a gift but as a curse. So when I see Lizzo onstage, it feels revolutionary because when I look at her, all I see is beauty. Beauty that I want to see in myself. The fact I can see it in her makes me think one day I’ll see it in me. Her existence is a reminder to me that my existence is OK, that I have worth and value too.
Sometimes the ability to make change can feel so far away it seems impossible. But change is happening. Lizzo is disrupting the centre, she’s challenging race, class, gender, sexuality, whiteness, blackness. She’s creating space for people to reclaim their worth in societies that have historically told them that they’re worthless.
Lizzo’s is an energy that survived, cherished and revolted. It’s the same energy I’ve seen in all the Black women who raised me. She’s all the Black women who kept on loving despite being treated like they’re lesser or they’re nothing. It’s Big Aunty Energy.
The only difference is now we get to see it. It isn’t pushed out of the spotlight; it’s onstage in black and gold sequins, playing a flute and twerking.
• Lizzo is performing at the Forum, Melbourne, on Wednesday 8 January
