Why ‘Taylor Mac’s 24-Decade History Of Popular Music’ Is Pride Month’s Must-Watch

From documentaries on the Polish LGBTQ community and Rock Hudson to the hell-freezes-over return of Kim Cattrall in And Just Like That, HBO is serving more than any other network for this year’s Pride Month. But their most rainbow flag-waving original centers on a legendary drag performer’s audacious attempt to reframe the history of America in an all-day musicthon, massive inflatable penises and all.  

Don’t worry: Taylor Mac’s 24-Decade History of Popular Music (June 27) condenses this mammoth endeavor into a more palatable 106 minutes. However, it still captures the joy, significance and sheer exhaustion of the experience, not just for Mac himself but for the musicians, behind the scenes crew and hundreds of fans who descended upon Brooklyn’s St. Anne’s Warehouse in 2016 for the one-time-only experience. 

Mac, a Pulitzer Prize for Drama finalist famously – and much to his disdain – once described as Ziggy Stardust meets Tiny Tim, had previously performed his alternative history lesson in four separate six-hour chunks. Here, he pushes himself to new performance limits, dedicating an hour to each decade from 1776 onward in one go, from the Civil War to the Great Depression to the Sexual Revolution, and all the latent homophobia, racism and misogyny within. 

Directed by regular partners in crime Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman (The Celluloid Closet, The Times of Harvey Milk), 24-Decade History highlights the mind-boggling efforts required to bring this to fruition. Mac had to learn 246 songs, accompanying many with fascinating, and often sobering, tidbits that made you hear them in a whole new light. Did you know, for example, that the British military sang pre-Revolutionary War song “Yankee Doodle Dandy” to attack any Americans they deemed effeminate? Or that sea shanty “Coal Black Rose” is about a group of sailors counting down the hours until they can gang-rape a slave?

Mac also appears to have a blast subverting the artists and material that would instantly get canceled today. After performing minstrel song “Camptown Races,” the star has writer Stephen Foster and the less problematic Walt Whitman physically wrestling for the true Father of American Song crown: unsurprisingly, the latter emerges victorious. The problematic yellowface portrayal in Gilbert and Sullivan’s libretto The Mikado is swerved by reinventing its Asian characters as tentacled Martians. Best of all is the ingenious reinterpretation of Ted Nugent’s “fag-bashing” song “Snakeskin Cowboys” as a gay junior prom anthem. “We have to appropriate that shit,” Mac tells the crowd with a barely-concealed fury. 

Other song choices are more personal. “Soliloquy” from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Carousel was a favorite of his father’s that also used to traumatize him as a child. Meanwhile, Suzanne Vega’s “Blood Makes Noise,” interpreted by many to be about testing for HIV, is preceded by a recollection of how gay panic made Mac fear for his own health. 

The extravaganza also boasts more elaborate costume changes than a runway episode of Ru Paul’s Drag Race, with maximalist designer Machine Dazzle adorning Mac in everything from outfits made of potato chip bags (to celebrate the snack’s invention in the 1850s) to hot dog headdresses (representing the German immigrants of the 1920s) to white picket fence shawls (representing the ‘50s idealization of the American Dream). You might not always understand the symbolism yet each and every one is a feast for the eyes. 

It’s not just the front and center shenanigans that offer pause for thought, though. On the turn of each decade, one of the 23-strong backing musicians gets a send-off in a representation of the AIDS crisis which decimated the gay community when Mac was coming of age: by the emotional final hour it’s just him and his ukulele facing the crowd, no doubt almost as drained from all the audience participation. 

Indeed, perhaps to give himself some breathing space, the counter-culture icon continually gets his congregation involved, even when most are struggling to stay awake. Ranging from the harmless (handing out free drag wear) to the decidedly risqué (asking the few straight men in attendance to mimic fellatio), these “random acts of fabulousness” are undoubtedly entertaining but also leave you mightily relieved you’re watching from the comfort of your own home. 

The setlist also sounds like a chore to sit through in its entirety. It’s unlikely many attendees have any traditional Irish drinking songs or patriotic battle hymns on their Spotify playlists, although Mac does his best to reinvent such musical relics. It’s only when the show reaches the more recognizable post-war era that those in their seats match the enthusiasm of the performer. Luckily, we only have to sit through a few snippets. 

Interspersing all the on-stage chaos are some more intimate talking head interviews explaining the thinking behind such an ambitious project. Mac, who reportedly prefers the pronoun ‘judy,’ makes for a fascinating and eloquent subject as he charts his own journey as an openly gay man: perhaps surprisingly, he reveals the first time he encountered another was during a San Francisco march at the age of 16.  

There are powerful statements from those who helped make Mac’s dream a reality, too. “I think the number one problem we have in America is a lack of community,” music director Matt Ray remarks. “What Taylor does is open up the queer community to the world.” Co-director Niegel Smith, meanwhile, is brought to tears while discussing how the show poetically reflects the community’s darkest days. 

Ultimately, you’re left with nothing but awe for such a remarkable feat of stagecraft. This abridged version might lack the endurance factor but it does a fine job encapsulating all of Mac’s “radical faerie realness ritual.”

Jon O’Brien (@jonobrien81) is a freelance entertainment and sports writer from the North West of England. His work has appeared in the likes of Billboard, Vulture, Grammy Awards, New Scientist, Paste, i-D and The Guardian.