Want to see Conchita Wurst looking like she wants to jump out of her own skin? Watch the opening number for Sweden’s Melodifestivalen last night. A number where some bright spark had the idea of her singing with Sanna Nielsen and Robin Paulsson.
Not just singing, however, because that would have been nice, but instead standing on a see-through pedestal like a performing doll, elevated higher than and separated from her two co-singers, and singing the worst song in the history of show business. (“She came out of Austria, and had facial hair. She won Eurovision. Let’s find her an heir“). Literally, the worst song in the history of show business.
Of course, Conchita pulled off the performance like she always does, with elegance and grace and a powerhouse voice. But can I just say, love, never ever ever let anyone do that to you again. Ye gods.
The evening did, however, get much better once Sanna and Robin left the stage (and, no, it wasn’t their fault, it was that bloody song and that bloody staging), as Conchita Wurst then sang her Eurovision winning song ‘Rise Like a Phoenix‘. Sounding amazing with that powerhouse voice, and looking incredible in a gorgeous metallic-colored mermaid dress from the phenomenally talented Austrian design house of JCHOERL.
A style of dress I would never wear while within a thousand feet of Conchita Wurst as her — stunning, elegant, perfectly suited to that kind of tightly-fitted dress and, yes, all girl — and me — all hips.
But now I have a bone to pick with Conchita Wurst (with all due respect, you understand, but, yes, a bone). Because if I hear her announced as Conchita Missing the Wurst one more time, like she was at Melodifestivalen and at several other places last week, I’m going to start throwing things. Literally. Throwing things.
Because here is why I fell in love with Conchita Wurst and why I spend a huge percentage of my life writing about her.
She’s Conchita Wurst. The girl with the memorable name. The girl with the beard. The boy who shoved on a dress, slapped on a wig, painted his face, crammed his feet into stilettos and marched off to get his dream. The girl who never gave a flying damn what other people thought of her name, her beard or her. The girl who won Eurovision by pushing everything about herself in front of the faces of the bigots, in an elegant way, of course, and standing up against what probably seemed like half the world.
The girl who is larger than life. The girl who is magnificent.
She is not Conchita. The one who is worried about that name, how it’s pronounced, what it means, and what other people think about it. The one who, when she’s announced on stage or on a TV show, first name only, is already diminished. Lesser than. Smaller. The girl with a name that rings hollow and untrue. The girl who sounds……….incomplete.
Besides, isn’t it Conchita Wurst who has always said “Be the best version of yourself rather than a bad copy of someone else!” (Cher, Madonna, Beyonce – meh).
See. A bone. Because my version of love for Conchita Wurst means, when she’s making a mistake, you tell her. Nicely. Respectfully. And with the absolute promise that you’re going to always love her anyway, no matter what she ultimately decides. But – you tell her.
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