‘Mighty Real’ Sets the Record Queer on the History of LGBTQ Music

Throughout pop history, queer music has often been written about in ways that obscured, or even muted, its queerness. The crux of the problem is structural—since the invention of the rock critic in the 1960s, straight white men have dominated the cultural conversation, whether by having access to the most resources or simply by being louder than everyone else. Though voices who don’t fit into the Lester Bangs mold have always made space for ourselves, the broader landscape only really began opening up in the mid 2000s, with the advent of blogs and then social media.  Still, the old dynamic tends to replicate itself even now—some of the best resourced and most popular music podcasts, for instance, are almost exclusively hosted by straight white men. (For the record, ours is not!)  

All of this is to say: Music lovers have missed out on a lot of rich, dynamic history because of the homogeneity of rock criticism. It’s a fact I kept thinking about while reading Mighty Real: A History of LGBTQ Music, 1969-2000 by the gay music critic Barry Walters, who began his storied career at the Village Voice in the early 1980s. “LGBTQ musicians have made an art out of saying what can’t be overtly said,” Walters writes in the book’s intro, “just as LGBTQ listeners have learned to hear what others can’t.” In his massively instructive, entertaining, and insightful tome, the veteran journalist offers a much-needed corrective on how the queer canon of artists has been framed—and, in certain cases, denigrated—by the industry, politicians, the public, and critics (whose dismissive and sometimes homophobic reviews are quoted liberally—tea). Mighty Real is not a polemic, but the book’s dedication to depicting LGBTQ and allied musicians through the lens of queer history is exhilarating, an underline on the new ways even the most-written-about pop icons can be thought about even now. (Full disclosure: Music journalism is a small cohort—practically everyone seems to run into one another, if you’ve been around long enough—and Walters recently edited a few blurbs of mine for a freelance assignment, though we do not know each other well.)

Mighty Real begins with the Velvet Underground, just before 1969’s Stonewall rebellion, and immediately establishes itself as expansive and exciting. Though more has been written about Lou Reed over the last several decades than we know what to do with—or will ever need (sorry not sorry)—the breeziness, enthusiasm, and close reading with which Walters addresses Reed’s lyrical expressions of his queerness immediately woke me up. On “Sister Ray,” Walters writes: “Back then, detailing intravenous drug use with first-person pronouns in an oft-repeated refrain was one thing. But the similarly repeated line, ‘She’s busy sucking on my ding-dong’ is even now a humdinger, particularly since ‘she’ most likely has one herself. When the cops arrive, Reed can’t be bothered—he’s focused on his fix and fellatio.”