Dance This Mess Around: The B-52’s and the Queer Art of Camouflage
A late thank-you to a band that screamed defiance through wigs, laughter, and alien surf rock.
This isn’t just a debut album. It’s a signal from the margins—a camouflage dance party for the quietly queer and gloriously weird.
The B-52’s 1979 debut is many things: a dance record, a joke machine, a retrofuturist beach party from outer space. But beneath the bouffants and surf-guitar sparkle lies a quietly radical document—a coded queer mission statement wrapped in kitsch, camp, and strategy.
At a time when queerness couldn’t be openly declared—especially in the American South—the B-52’s built a space where it could be lived, danced, and screamed sideways. Their absurdism wasn’t emptiness. It was protection. Their thrift-store aesthetic wasn’t just style. It was signal. And their party was never just a party. It was a shield.
Take “Dance This Mess Around.” For most of the track, it’s a playful litany of retro dance names and comedic asides. But then it shifts. Cindy Wilson belts out:
“WHY DON’T YOU DANCE WITH ME?”
The line cuts through the camp like a blade. It’s not a punchline. It’s a primal blast of rejection, longing, and defiance—a queer scream hidden inside a beach bop. It’s the moment the mask slips. And it tells you everything.
That scream reverberates through the album. You hear it in the frantic breakdown of “52 Girls,” in the twitchy anxiety of “Planet Claire,” in the whispered frenzy of “Hero Worship.” There’s a barely-contained urgency behind the party—a need to break through the fog of heteronormative pop with something that couldn’t be named outright.
For those craving punk authenticity, the B-52’s debut is a masterclass—not in stripping down, but in strategically dressing up. In a time when survival meant passing, they chose to pass as weird. And that weirdness was queer.
Camp and kitsch weren’t distractions. They were tactics.
Where punk attacked the dominant culture with blunt force—think the Sex Pistols’ scorched-earth nihilism or the Ramones’ stripped-down defiance—the B-52’s rerouted it. They recharged discarded aesthetics and claimed them as portals. They turned every pastel wig, every out-of-tune organ, every scream-laugh chorus into a kind of joyful rebellion.
In 1979, being seen listening to this kind of music wasn’t neutral. It was a moral risk. You weren’t just weird—you were corrupted. Queered. Marked. And for those who danced anyway, that wasn’t just taste. It was defiance.
To be queer and Southern in 1979 was to live in code. This album is one of the codes. A signal from the margins. A dancefloor transmission that said:
We are here. We are strange. And we’re not asking permission.
Personal Note
As someone who completely missed the subtext growing up—in a world where the population seemed divided into “straight” or “closeted”—this feels like a ridiculously belated reckoning. The signals were there. I just didn’t yet know how to read them.
This isn’t an attempt to claim space that wasn’t mine, but a gesture of late gratitude: for the weirdness, for the camouflage, for the invitation I couldn’t yet recognize.
Sidebar: Notes from the Blind Spot
Listening back to the B-52’s debut from a place of hindsight means reckoning not just with what was missed—but why it was missed. A few lighthouses:
1. Who Gets to Decode?
Recognizing a signal and needing that signal are two different things. This reflection comes from outside the original urgency. That difference matters.
2. Southern Queerness Is Its Own Code.
The South shaped the band’s repression and rebellion. Their sound isn’t just queer—it’s Southern queer, with all the coded hospitality, shadow play, and roadside glamour that implies.
3. Kitsch Carries Lineage.
Camp and kitsch draw deeply from Black musical traditions, R&B aesthetics, and girl group gestures. These weren’t neutral references. They carried weight, joy, memory—and some were buried in the glitter.
4. Some Got It Immediately.
While some of us missed the message, others felt seen instantly. Queer fans, weird kids, outsiders in all shapes—they heard the invitation in real time. Their clarity deserves honoring.
It’s not just a debut LP.
It’s a blueprint.
It’s not just a party.
It’s a perimeter of safety.
It’s not just fun.
It’s freedom in a beehive hairdo.