Then along comes Lil Nas, who plucks the horns from the devil in his music video and puts them on his own head.īut he’s not cut out in the angry queer activist mould either, the kind who shook their fists in the face of homophobic politicians and threw pies at them. In the lead-up to the Supreme Court hearing on Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, which criminalised homosexual sex, in 2018, we saw many heartwarming stories reassuring us that queer people didn’t have horns. When Trikone marched for the first time in an India Day parade, they assured nervous organisers that no one would march shirtless or in leather chaps.
They worked software jobs, loved their dal chawal and went to Diwali parties in kurta pyjamas like every other desi out there. In the early 1990s, when I was part of the first South Asian LGBTQ+ group Trikone, the members went out of their way to reassure the community that they were not scary freaks. That is what is truly inspiring about Lil Nas. Best of all, he seemed to be having a great time doing it.
It wasn’t just that he was openly gay but that he was upturning every rule about how to be gay and a star. It was in the weeks and months leading up to his new album, Montero, that I began taking startled note of him. I had not paid much attention when he became an unusual country music sensation in 2019 with his song Old Town Road-a teenaged black star in the very white world of country music in America. Is there a term for a middle-aged version of fanboy? Sometimes I am even tempted to write a comment on his post, a post that already has 22,42,583 likes. That’s why I find it utterly astonishing that in middle age I am suddenly following a 22-year-old singer on social media. Pop music changes so fast that it quickly feels utterly pointless to try and keep up with what’s cool any more. Sometime in my early 20s, I stopped following the Grammys.