Rewrite
Five Kacey Musgraves walk into a pub in North London – only one doesn’t need the costume. In celebration of her new album release, the country star left her fans stunned with an unannounced appearance at her own dedicated Thursday night hoedown.
Not many things can get me to leave the house during the hell that is London tube strikes, including my day job. However, a Kacey Musgraves lookalike contest at a place called The Boogaloo? That’s an invitation I simply can’t resist.
On a quiet street corner in leafy Highgate stands a line of bedazzled, boot-wearing, country-loving fanatics. It’s just one week until May 1st, the release date of the 37-year-old country heavyweight’s seventh album, Middle of Nowhere. And for a girl whose days are confined in London’s east to the streets of Dalston, this is, quite literally, the middle of nowhere. It’s also St George’s Day, and what better way to mark my current deficit of national pride than by spending it immersed in some good ol’ Americana?
The charming local that plays host to tonight’s adventure is familiar, friendly, but inconspicuous, not the usual watering hole for such extroverted endeavours. Feeling just a little self-conscious as I murmur “I’m guestlist” at the door, my familiar British awkwardness is quickly eclipsed by awe at the head-to-toe American flag ensemble joining the queue behind me.
Inside, there’s a warm glow, and not just from the neon cowboy signs or half a dozen candles. Giggly and giddy, it’s barely 7pm, and I’ve already overheard one girl say to another, “Sorry, I’m a hugger.” My only prior experience of lookalike contests was the search for London’s best knock-off Danny Dyer in Hoxton Square last summer. The winner that day got a bag of Walkers. Safe to say, tonight’s shaping out a little differently.
I join a group of three friends discussing their collection of Kacey Musgraves vinyls, “I just love how tongue-in-cheek she is. She has a sense of humour, and she’s not afraid to show it,” one of them marvels. The pals had frequented Musgraves’ album release party at Circuit Kingston the night before and are planning to attend her Oxford Street signing the day following. Tonight, they’d travelled two hours because they’d heard whispers of the country star’s attendance. “She can take the most simple concept and make something that leaves me completely shook,” says superfan Jack, simultaneously spilling his drink, “See? shook.” I inform him of the free merch shirts at the front, in case he wants to change.
I head to the bar, a mission briefly interrupted by the fringing of a jacket catching on my button. Swapping my pinot for tequila, I’m ready for the first activity of the evening, line dancing.
The choreography is taken from Musgraves’ recent Coachella set. I stumble over my own feet under the watchful eyes of those who’ve passed through The Boogaloo before me. A black-and-white framed photo of Amy Winehouse shoots me a look of pity.
My lack of coordination is at least good for one thing – embarrassing and amusing failure is often an incredible conversation starter. After my fifth apology, I ask the girl to my right (or left?) how she first discovered Kacey. Hearing an American twang, I imagine it was an obsession that started young, out on a ranch somewhere. “I work in the city, it’s one of those proper corporate jobs, and they love to play her music,” she says. She refuses to disclose where – fair enough – so speculation is only natural. Perhaps the execs at JP Morgan are getting down to ‘I’m so lonely, I’ve been sitting on the washing machine,’ a favourite lyric of mine from her recent release, Dry Spell.
She returns the question. I told her my ex’s favourite song was “High Horse”. “Well, at least he had good taste,” she replied. I didn’t mention his playlist also included a song with the lyrics, “Drop em out, let me see those titties.” In the words of Musgraves, love is a wild thing.
London can sometimes feel like a lonely city. But you wouldn’t know it here. This cabaret has camaraderie. “These events have been running for a few years now, we just wanted a queer space for people to gather in North London,” shares Fenn, friend of the organiser and professional cowboy hat rhinestoner. “One that didn’t only revolve around drinking, but somewhere people could actually connect,” As I sign up for one of her rhinestoning workshops, she tells me about Jerry, the pub owner. “He lives above, in Shane MacGowan’s old flat. You’ll know when you see him, he’s the Phil Mitchell of North London.” I later ask Jerry if he too was here for the contest, to which he lets out a brief snort. He might not have had the hairline, in fairness, but with a decent wig, he’d be in with an outside shout.
Among my favourite characters from the night is Bambi, a rhinestoned hobby horse. Her plush head and wooden stick are entirely encrusted in rainbow gems, complete with two ribbon bows tied to her ears for good measure. I’m disappointed to learn that hobby horse rhinestoning isn’t on the agenda in Fenn’s workshop. Bambi’s sparkle has lasted an impressive six months, or, in her owner’s words, “longer than any of my relationships.”
The clock strikes 10:30pm, and the already surreal evening is catapulted to new, dizzying levels of spectacle as the reason we’d all been gathered begins: the lookalike contest. The most glamorous line-up you’ve ever seen takes to the stage, as five show-stopping brunettes get ready to compete for the title of a lifetime. The night’s girlhood spirit is momentarily forgotten as the contestants shoot each other a few competitive glares across the room. “Kacey’s a Leo sun, I imagine a room full of her lookalikes would be her heaven,” whispers the girl beside me. Little did we know we wouldn’t have to stretch our imagination too far.
“I’m Kacey,” says the fifth contestant, she’s dressed in a pink gingham dress, pink neck tie and even has the pink blush to match. Who knew head-to-toe pink could make such an effective disguise? Hands firmly on hips, hair firmly in place, this was the real deal. The country star is here, somehow managing to enter a room full of her most adoring fans completely undetected. That anonymity, however, didn’t last long. Before she can finish the lyrics to her 2015 song, “Biscuits”, whispers of suspicion start to spread. Whispers that soon turn to screams, that then turn to utter fan frenzy.
A testament to the community Kacey has built, the chaos manages to remain contained long enough for the eight-time Grammy-winning artist to crown her champion, before quickly slipping out through a discreet back door. The whole thing is over in under ten minutes, but I think it’s fair to say this is a moment these fans will remember for a lifetime.
Amidst all the commotion, I manage to grab the lucky winner and ask her what she thought made her most like Kacey. I’m hoping for the secret to keeping my bangs in place, or a hidden spot for cheap, authentic cowboy boots. “My bad luck in dating,” Lily smiles. “I relate to her song “Dry Spell” on a spiritual level.” Not exactly the answer I’m looking for, but there was something surprisingly eye-opening about her response. Kacey Musgraves isn’t just about glitter and sparkles – she’s a state of mind. A philosophy that approaches life’s hardships with a dose of humour, whatever those hardships may be, including a three-hundred-and-thirty-five-day dry spell.
The night is over at the tip of your cowboy hat. As I leave the venue and measure my conquest home, all that’s left is a handful of half-dazed fans, a couple of confused smokers (“Kacey was here?”), and one forgotten tour manager, left to figure out how he is making it back to his hotel room in Hoxton. I tell him I know Hoxton well. I’d been to a Danny Dyer contest there once.
Words – Farah Thorndycraft
Photography – Karen Stanley
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Five Kacey Musgraves walk into a pub in North London – only one doesn’t need the costume. In celebration of her new album release, the country star left her fans stunned with an unannounced appearance at her own dedicated Thursday night hoedown.
Not many things can get me to leave the house during the hell that is London tube strikes, including my day job. However, a Kacey Musgraves lookalike contest at a place called The Boogaloo? That’s an invitation I simply can’t resist.
On a quiet street corner in leafy Highgate stands a line of bedazzled, boot-wearing, country-loving fanatics. It’s just one week until May 1st, the release date of the 37-year-old country heavyweight’s seventh album, Middle of Nowhere. And for a girl whose days are confined in London’s east to the streets of Dalston, this is, quite literally, the middle of nowhere. It’s also St George’s Day, and what better way to mark my current deficit of national pride than by spending it immersed in some good ol’ Americana?
The charming local that plays host to tonight’s adventure is familiar, friendly, but inconspicuous, not the usual watering hole for such extroverted endeavours. Feeling just a little self-conscious as I murmur “I’m guestlist” at the door, my familiar British awkwardness is quickly eclipsed by awe at the head-to-toe American flag ensemble joining the queue behind me.
Inside, there’s a warm glow, and not just from the neon cowboy signs or half a dozen candles. Giggly and giddy, it’s barely 7pm, and I’ve already overheard one girl say to another, “Sorry, I’m a hugger.” My only prior experience of lookalike contests was the search for London’s best knock-off Danny Dyer in Hoxton Square last summer. The winner that day got a bag of Walkers. Safe to say, tonight’s shaping out a little differently.
I join a group of three friends discussing their collection of Kacey Musgraves vinyls, “I just love how tongue-in-cheek she is. She has a sense of humour, and she’s not afraid to show it,” one of them marvels. The pals had frequented Musgraves’ album release party at Circuit Kingston the night before and are planning to attend her Oxford Street signing the day following. Tonight, they’d travelled two hours because they’d heard whispers of the country star’s attendance. “She can take the most simple concept and make something that leaves me completely shook,” says superfan Jack, simultaneously spilling his drink, “See? shook.” I inform him of the free merch shirts at the front, in case he wants to change.
I head to the bar, a mission briefly interrupted by the fringing of a jacket catching on my button. Swapping my pinot for tequila, I’m ready for the first activity of the evening, line dancing.
The choreography is taken from Musgraves’ recent Coachella set. I stumble over my own feet under the watchful eyes of those who’ve passed through The Boogaloo before me. A black-and-white framed photo of Amy Winehouse shoots me a look of pity.
My lack of coordination is at least good for one thing – embarrassing and amusing failure is often an incredible conversation starter. After my fifth apology, I ask the girl to my right (or left?) how she first discovered Kacey. Hearing an American twang, I imagine it was an obsession that started young, out on a ranch somewhere. “I work in the city, it’s one of those proper corporate jobs, and they love to play her music,” she says. She refuses to disclose where – fair enough – so speculation is only natural. Perhaps the execs at JP Morgan are getting down to ‘I’m so lonely, I’ve been sitting on the washing machine,’ a favourite lyric of mine from her recent release, Dry Spell.
She returns the question. I told her my ex’s favourite song was “High Horse”. “Well, at least he had good taste,” she replied. I didn’t mention his playlist also included a song with the lyrics, “Drop em out, let me see those titties.” In the words of Musgraves, love is a wild thing.
London can sometimes feel like a lonely city. But you wouldn’t know it here. This cabaret has camaraderie. “These events have been running for a few years now, we just wanted a queer space for people to gather in North London,” shares Fenn, friend of the organiser and professional cowboy hat rhinestoner. “One that didn’t only revolve around drinking, but somewhere people could actually connect,” As I sign up for one of her rhinestoning workshops, she tells me about Jerry, the pub owner. “He lives above, in Shane MacGowan’s old flat. You’ll know when you see him, he’s the Phil Mitchell of North London.” I later ask Jerry if he too was here for the contest, to which he lets out a brief snort. He might not have had the hairline, in fairness, but with a decent wig, he’d be in with an outside shout.
Among my favourite characters from the night is Bambi, a rhinestoned hobby horse. Her plush head and wooden stick are entirely encrusted in rainbow gems, complete with two ribbon bows tied to her ears for good measure. I’m disappointed to learn that hobby horse rhinestoning isn’t on the agenda in Fenn’s workshop. Bambi’s sparkle has lasted an impressive six months, or, in her owner’s words, “longer than any of my relationships.”
The clock strikes 10:30pm, and the already surreal evening is catapulted to new, dizzying levels of spectacle as the reason we’d all been gathered begins: the lookalike contest. The most glamorous line-up you’ve ever seen takes to the stage, as five show-stopping brunettes get ready to compete for the title of a lifetime. The night’s girlhood spirit is momentarily forgotten as the contestants shoot each other a few competitive glares across the room. “Kacey’s a Leo sun, I imagine a room full of her lookalikes would be her heaven,” whispers the girl beside me. Little did we know we wouldn’t have to stretch our imagination too far.
“I’m Kacey,” says the fifth contestant, she’s dressed in a pink gingham dress, pink neck tie and even has the pink blush to match. Who knew head-to-toe pink could make such an effective disguise? Hands firmly on hips, hair firmly in place, this was the real deal. The country star is here, somehow managing to enter a room full of her most adoring fans completely undetected. That anonymity, however, didn’t last long. Before she can finish the lyrics to her 2015 song, “Biscuits”, whispers of suspicion start to spread. Whispers that soon turn to screams, that then turn to utter fan frenzy.
A testament to the community Kacey has built, the chaos manages to remain contained long enough for the eight-time Grammy-winning artist to crown her champion, before quickly slipping out through a discreet back door. The whole thing is over in under ten minutes, but I think it’s fair to say this is a moment these fans will remember for a lifetime.
Amidst all the commotion, I manage to grab the lucky winner and ask her what she thought made her most like Kacey. I’m hoping for the secret to keeping my bangs in place, or a hidden spot for cheap, authentic cowboy boots. “My bad luck in dating,” Lily smiles. “I relate to her song “Dry Spell” on a spiritual level.” Not exactly the answer I’m looking for, but there was something surprisingly eye-opening about her response. Kacey Musgraves isn’t just about glitter and sparkles – she’s a state of mind. A philosophy that approaches life’s hardships with a dose of humour, whatever those hardships may be, including a three-hundred-and-thirty-five-day dry spell.
The night is over at the tip of your cowboy hat. As I leave the venue and measure my conquest home, all that’s left is a handful of half-dazed fans, a couple of confused smokers (“Kacey was here?”), and one forgotten tour manager, left to figure out how he is making it back to his hotel room in Hoxton. I tell him I know Hoxton well. I’d been to a Danny Dyer contest there once.
Words – Farah Thorndycraft
Photography – Karen Stanley
and integrate them seamlessly into the new content without adding new tags. Ensure the new content is fashion-related, written entirely in Japanese, and approximately 1500 words. Conclude with a “結論” section and a well-formatted “よくある質問” section. Avoid including an introduction or a note explaining the process.
