@colekincart
Photo credit: Julian Dakdouk

Welcome, folks, to my Cowboy Carter review and reflection. I arrive here not as an expert, nor as a scholar of the Beyoncé canon, but as a witness. A witness who found themselves caught in the gravitational pull of something bigger than just a concert. Now this write-up isn’t just about the setlist or the choreography (as those things were already anticipated to be immaculate.) It’s about the spectacle that lassoed Chicago’s heart this past weekend. As someone who works in the South Loop, I can confirm the week-long stir: a city strutted in denim flares and rhinestones cowboy hats, like it had been preparing for a rodeo of the Divine. But by the time Beyoncé arrived, Chicago stood ready, boots on pavement, breath held, and sky turned windy (truly).

Now, as a white boy from South Dakota, I can’t confirm many things about American culture but, I can bear witness to the country-craze that has slowly taken over the last few years and seems to reach new heights each summer. From the Americana-infused albums of Faye Webster and MJ Lenderman to Shaboozey’s “A Bar Song” takeover and Post Malone’s questionable new pivot (again), country is here to stay. This poses some unique questions: what does it mean for the people who already claim this genre? And what can it mean for future endeavors? That said, leave it to Beyoncé to answer both, not with explanation, but with embodiment of power and grace that doesn’t ask for permission, and doesn’t need to.

Heading to the show, it felt only right to dress with intention. I threw together some low-rise boot-cut women’s Levi’s and a slim-fitted ringer tee I’d once gifted my girlfriend but borrowed back for the show. The look? Somewhere between a Lone Ranger rerun and a Brady Bunch fever dream, but it worked. I’ve always been more of a witness than a participant, so I ditched my Divvy bike a few blocks out and walked the rest, watching the sidewalk transform into a runway full of fringe and denim.

This was my first foray into a stadium tour, and almost immediately, I knew I was in unfamiliar waters. I’m used to the rhythm of smaller shows: opener, wait, main act, and done in 10 to 20 songs. But this? This was something else entirely. It felt like entering a new kind of worship.

Wanting to meet the moment with the right kind of respect, I did my homework. That meant diving into the r/beyonce subreddit, scrolling through threads on AViewFromMySeat.com like I was cramming for a final, and yes, peeking at the setlist. A whopping 40 songs? I was impressed, and excited to witness it in person.

I made it to my seat before 8 p.m., which was reportedly the earliest time she had taken the stage on this tour. And soon, the Queen did just that. Beyoncé delivered. The show itself was broken into “acts,” which helped give the night space, allowing her to seamlessly glide through sonic eras and outfit changes alike. The intermissions between acts were little vignettes—some featuring backing tracks from JPEGMAFIA and Justice—that made me wonder if anyone around me recognized those sounds. Even if they didn’t, you could tell these were seeds planted for a future concert film. I’d watch that in theaters, no doubt.

The night was naturally filled with a heavy helping of Cowboy Carter tracks. My personal favorites? “II Hands II Heaven” and “Protector,” both of which featured writing credits from Ryan Beatty (which may or may not explain why I was drawn to them). Before “Protector,” Beyoncé brought out her daughters, Rumi and Blue Ivy, in a montage devoted to motherhood. It was the kind of moment that reminded you this tour, this album, this era wasn’t just about boundary-pushing, but also about building something her children could one day inherit and listen to.

I’m 22, which means I missed the prime years of early Beyoncé by a few beats. That said, prior to the night, I was most drawn to the act that presented a medley of her classics: “Love On Top,” “Freakum Dress,” “Crazy in Love,” and my personal favorite, “If I Were A Boy.” Maybe it’s because I wasn’t part of the Beyoncé scene in her early eras, but I heard these songs growing up in car stereos, mall speakers and yes, regrettably on Kidz Bop. To finally see them performed live, by her, felt like a full-circle spectacle.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I remembered a small fact: Beyoncé and I share the same birthday. Maybe that’s why I felt oddly connected, even from the stands. Or maybe it’s just the magic of a stadium filled with thousands of people, all singing like they’d grown up beside her, like they’d carried these songs in their pockets for years.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real Cowboy Carter magic.