May 27, 2010

Forgive me while I queen out, but I have to tell you about an experience I had last week. It was a religious experience, perhaps never to be repeated in this lifetime. I listen to a lot of music and I, of course, love all the obvious gay icons. I know, I know. But I do. I have no say. They hold power over me I don't understand.

I adore Gaga and Madonna, but I prefer my icons a little more, how should I say this, um, showy? You know. Liza. Cher. Judy.

I love Bob Mackie dresses and strings behind a diva. I like the camp of the 1970s. I appreciate a synchronized dance, but I'd much prefer to watch my divas belt out songs while teetering on too-high heels sparkling like a giant disco ball. Well, thank God we still have Diana Ross.

I watched her show, a greatest hits tour currently on the road, last week at Radio City. She changed eight times, each time better than before. She sang on key with little effort. She was beautiful, powerful, humble, classy, and glamorous at the same time. And as she sang song after song with a large orchestra I looked around the room, full of all ages, and sang with the crowd. We all knew every song.

She paved the way for Madonna and Beyonce before they were even born. And having seen many a gay icon live in the past two decades I have to say seeing Diana Ross is nothing less than a religious experience. A Supreme God lives among us still. She's 66 and still has that hair.