Minutes before a bedazzled Paris Hilton will smile behind her Barbie laptop and drop “Padam Padam” to a rapturous crowd of mostly shirtless millennial gays, Chappell Roan is scrambling to find a place to pee. Whizzing around Central Park’s SummerStage venue in a black miniskirt and white tank top bearing the face of the iconic heiress DJing this Pride Weekend party, the 25-year-old pop starlet eventually locates a line of porta-potties. She takes one look at the dank plastic boxes and instantly turns back: “It’s giving Woodstock ’99,” she snaps, a flash of horror in her eyes. She will just hold it.
As revelers rush the stage for Hilton’s dizzying musical voyage, which goes from Kylie Minogue to Kylie again to “Don’t Stop Believin’,” Roan takes refuge behind a distant tree, imperceptible if not for her feather-lined cowboy hat and a few tendrils of red hair peeking out. From this safe spot, she giggles hysterically, unable to converse for more than 15 seconds before shrieking at the spectacle. (Later, she will thank me for bearing with her while she was on shrooms.)
Giant plumes of smoke shoot erratically from the stage, which is accented by rainbow vape-store visuals and dancers who look like a yassified version of The Wiggles. Hilton begins to take jarring creative license behind her laptop. “Not this—what the fuck!” Roan objects upon registering that what we’re hearing is, in fact, an EDM remix of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” But her protest dissipates as she gets distracted by a throuple embracing near us: “I’m obsessed with this.” Twenty minutes into Hilton’s set, Roan is ready to leave—she would really like to find a real restroom—but not before surveying the sea of men in front of her and barking, “Where are the lesbians?”