Doja Cat’s Scarlet Tour Shouldn’t Work, but It Does
By Sarah Rescigno
About halfway through the first track of Doja Cat’s Scarlet Tour at the Prudential Center in Newark, I had decided that all of this was, in fact, satanic.
The silhouettes of devil horns in the crowd aided in the exaltation of flickering monochrome shots of doorways from a cheap horror gimmick to genuinely terrifying. Doja Cat opened with the two most energetic songs on the set list (“WYM Freestyle” and “Demons”), accompanied by fireworks and cultic cheering at her arrival. Prior to the concert, I didn’t consider myself a Doja Cat fan—but, after a theatrical performance of “Shutcho” (complete with mock stained-glass windows and backup dancers dressed like cult members from Eyes Wide Shut)—I found myself converted.
As “Tia Tamera” began, red lights blanketing the pentagram-overlayed stage and Rosemary’s Baby-esque devil’s claws on the jumbotrons, I noticed for the first time how menacing the beat was. Despite sounding the same (unlike “Say So” which is stripped of its disco roots in favor of a jazzy cover later in the show), it took on a completely new identity—far-flung from its nauseatingly colorful 90s-inspired music video. This became a theme of the remaining setlist: mostly new songs, and when older songs were played, they felt divorced from the form they took in their original releases.
When I caught a better glimpse of her during the well-lit, cool-toned (think Paranormal Activity) rendition of “Agora Hills”, Doja Cat appeared to have colored contacts on—still playing into the demonic bit she is obviously devoted to manufacturing. She was dressed like my backpack that wasn’t allowed in the venue, with nets and straps dangling off her white outfit. It defied categorization, in a good way (perhaps the way she wished her music to), but bore equal resemblance to a corset, bodysuit, and mini skirt all at once. Her underwear was white, with black capital letters reading “PSYOP” printed on the front.
She had a wig on; a curious choice considering lyrics like “I look better with no hair.” But then again, the whole point of the theatrics around her haircut seems to be asserting her self-determination to her cloying “stans”, regardless of whatever their favorite “look” of hers may be. The acceptance of this self-determination by some of her fans is clearly still in progress. Regarding fan’s complaints about the lack of outfit changes between songs during her show, Doja Cat recently said on Instagram, “i’m not a fuckin barbie doll i’m a human being and I’ll change my outfit when I want to change my fuckin outfit.” [sic]
Personally, the lack of outfit changes, combined with the fact that she wore different outfits at different shows, made her feel more relatable. It conjured up the image of her rolling out of bed in the morning and giggling to herself as she indulged in the spontaneous impulse to slip into a pair of panties with PSYOP written on the front. This begs the question: how many people even got (or were supposed to get) this bizarre easter egg? My guess is not many. I asked a few people outside of the show, but most stared at me vacantly as I tried to explain what a “psychological operation” was.
But why would she even choose to wear such an accessory, when she’s already faced so much flack during the recent Sam Hyde shirt controversy? Perhaps this is just another rebellion, albeit a much more subtle one– or just a simple way of entertaining herself during the monotony of touring. Maybe she feels like her poppy hits have attracted the wrong fan base. These stunts could simply be ways of paying homage to her past, or they could serve a more practical purpose—like a Darwinian form of branding (weed out the weak to make way for the strong). Regardless, if satanic panic is back, maybe Nazi chic is too? Like the Sex Pistols aimed to shock the Silent Generation with Nazi iconography – maybe Doja yearns to shock a new generation of liberals, by pioneering “Neo-Nazi chic” (or more accurately, “Alt-Right chic”). Maybe after decades of the rinsing and repeating of this formula (by Marilyn Manson, Madonna, and even Lady Gaga), regular Nazi imagery is just no longer shocking enough for mainstream audiences.
It's also possible that she just wants to revel in the self-satisfaction of knowing she’s different from other pop stars, which is true—but not as much as one might think. Ironically, being that Scarlet has been marketed as a rap-centric reinvention, the show included plenty of pop star/Madonna-esque antics. During “Attention” dancers in beige trench coats and black hoodies (like something in the H&M men’s section) simulated a violent abduction of Doja Cat, before holding her up like Jesus on the cross (Madonna has done the same, but more explicitly), and then going after her Carrie-inspired alter-ego “Scarlet”. Whether her ensemble was dressed as journalists, rapists, or anonymous internet accounts is up to interpretation.
There was an unnerving intro to the most bubblegum pop track on the set list, “Kiss Me More”, like something truly frightening was coming. But, in truth, “Kiss Me More” was one of few older songs left unadulterated. As she sang, WebCore animations and meme references (notably an Illuminati sign) crowded the jumbotrons. It was as if the whole thing was an ironic joke, that you would be the fool to take seriously.
It seemed like a polite, even cute, way of echoing the sentiments she expressed in a much-maligned tweet: that her previous albums Planet Her and Hot Pink were mediocre “cash grabs” that her audience “fell for.” Her fans seem to have forgotten, or at least forgiven, those comments because the mood was joyous. Not even someone getting injured halfway through the song deterred the crowd. I simply heard someone shout, “Get up, queen!”
Predictably, after this little interlude, her new persona was reiterated by the most (in)famous song of her comeback: “Paint The Town Red”. She twerked in front of a giant eyeball with legs and even the straight guy next to me sang along. During the line, “I wanna have really really really rough sex” (“Wet Vagina”), Doja Cat’s backup dancers lined up and she pretended to pull their hair simultaneously. The irony of such a direct lyric is that, in the context of the show, the scene was comparatively insipid and tame.
She tries so hard to be offensive, that she often becomes inoffensive along the way. This is the central tension at the heart of Doja Cat. She is a woman of contradictions: a terminally online pop star, a Black and Jewish woman who flirts with the alt-right (figuratively and literally), authentic but never too intimate or vulnerable (maybe never even genuine). Like everything she does, the show was filled with humor, pop culture references, vivid sexuality, cheap shock value, mesmerizing theatrics, and undeniable charm.
Like a drug comedown in the early morning, the lights came on harshly. I could barely see or hear. Also like a drug comedown, Doja Cat brought up some existential feelings in her fans. “What do you have to look forward to now?” I hear as I leave the stadium. “Going again.”
