The Tamesis
Before I saw Doja Cat, I heard her voice. I stood under fluorescent lights in the basement of Sydney’s Cudosbank Arena as security looked me up and down. Her warm-up voice floats through the closed door: “Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!” Doja’s assistant slips in, gives me a thumbs-up, and leads me into a tennis court-sized dressing room, with black velvet curtains covering the walls. The arpeggios continued—”La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!”—and then, as my presence was announced, Doja’s silky, soft voice switched to the trills of a theater child: “I like Huhu Guys! “
Behind the black faux leather couch in the far corner of the room, a flaming Ziggy Stardust wig popped up like a periscope, and Doha studied me. Slim and athletic, she walks to the center of the floor, leans forward, grabs her toes in a yoga pose, then jumps like a grasshopper onto the makeup chair, puffing on an ice-blue e-cigarette in front of a mirror studded with lightbulbs. I sit down in the chair next to her and ask her how her afternoon has gone—the playlist has dramatically shifted from deep cuts by Heidi Montag to gorgeously sleazy songs by X-rated British rapper Ceechynaa. “I’ve had chlamydia, syphilis, gonorrhea and herpes,” she deadpans, flicking on a tabletop humidifier to release a dramatic mist. Sound busy? “Oh, yes,” she replied. “one Very A busy day. “
Just weeks away from Christmas, Doja arrives in Australia for the fifth (sixth just added due to demand) date of her world tour to support fight for, Her playful, genre-crossing fifth album was released in September. The record deftly parodies 1980s R&B, pop and funk, paying homage to Prince, Janet Jackson, cock rock and German punk singer Nina Hagen, and is reminiscent of Doja’s clever (and sometimes silly) lyrics, killer hooks and ability to spit out double-entendre verses. fight for Along with Doja’s typical radical reinvention, this time it incorporates high-profile fashion from the classic 80s such as Claude Montana and Yves Saint Laurent. On stage, she wore a blonde mullet wig, animal print on her shoulders, and kaleidoscopic smoky eyeshadow that could have been an Antonio Lopez illustration.
Her hairstylist, Jared Henderson, the naughty wig expert aka @JStayReady, removed a hat from her head and began massaging her scalp. (“Got to hydrate that melon,” he muttered.) Doha leaned toward the humidifier; she was already feeling a little uncomfortable. “Whether it’s the epilogue or I have something new, I don’t know. But it’s very…” She paused to consider the exact terminology. “Annoying dot-com company.”
