Call it a crude comparison, but President Joe Biden's withdrawal from the presidential race and endorsement of Vice President Kamala Harris as the Democratic nominee last month called to mind Beyoncé's left-field self-titled album drop in 2013. There was a surprise, there was fevered excitement, there was a kind of coronation and a whole lot of discussion. Overnight, Harris went from the presumptive number two, dismissed by her fellow Dems, to the great new hope of the party — with a good shot at the White House.
The past three weeks have been a honeymoon period for the burgeoning campaign: The donations are rolling in, Harris has eclipsed her rival in earned media, and the memes have been plentiful and — though they toe the line — have not fully crossed over into cringe territory yet. It's a momentum that Harris and the Democrats want to see beyond the likely peak of all this good press: when she accepts the presidential nomination at the Democratic National Convention next week.
Her momentum is also powered, in part, by sidestepping the press and eschewing other traditional forms of media. In this short amount of time, we've gotten to know Harris as a pop culture fixture, but we have yet to get a true sense of the ways her governing style and policy substance are similar and different from the current commander in chief.
At the time of this publishing, there's no policy platform on her website. And her packed rallies offer feel-good Democratic talking points, and she talks broadly about her values and goals, but offers few details and no real plan of action for making things happen. What is her plan for a ceasefire in Gaza? Why no taxes on tips? Does she plan to sign an executive order regarding abortion rights, or attempt to work with Congress over the matter?
In the hectic early days of her campaign, Harris is acting as a mirror: she's reflecting the desires of those who will vote for her, allowing a broad range of voters — including some with contradictory opinions — to see in her what they want to. It's a tactic that works, and the best example of where it can take you is the woman behind Harris's campaign song: Beyoncé.
What Beyoncé teaches us about effective PR
In many ways, a comparison between Kamala Harris, a presidential candidate, and Beyoncé, a multihyphenate musical icon, can feel like apples and oranges. One woman is a public servant, the other holds the record for winning the most awards from the Recording Academy. But if the 21st-century political landscape has taught us anything, it's that for better or worse, politics often function similarly to the world of celebrity. It can at times be difficult to discern if people are talking about their favorite fandom or their candidate of choice.
For a long time, Beyoncé has been notoriously tight-lipped with the press, instead bypassing them to communicate directly with her fans via album releases and limited social media. It's been years since she has given a traditional television interview with a journalist, and her elusive relationship with the press has been one of many examples of the decline of the celebrity profile, once considered an A-lister staple. Now, Harris is employing the same strategy.
It's likely no coincidence that the Harris campaign asked for permission to use the song "Freedom," a track that appeared on Beyoncé's Lemonade, arguably her magnum opus. It's the singer's most issue-oriented album and has been read as a kind of manifesto by many (especially on the right). Those who operate outside the Beyhive's watchful eye may not have been as dialed into her references to relaxers on B'Day a decade prior, and for many in the public Lemonade's release was a thematic turning point. Gone was the hopeful pop princess who demurred political questions. Beyoncé was Black now. And not just in the cool way. In a real, political sense. Even Saturday Night Live took notice of the shift.
In the music video for "Formation," the album's lead single, a young boy with his hood up dances in front of a line of police officers, raising his hands in defiance. Law enforcement follows suit, and then the camera pans to a wall that reads "Stop killing us." The video closes with Beyoncé perched atop a cop car, sinking into water as if being baptized. The video came out in a post-Trayvon Martin, post-Mike Brown world: For the first time, people whose anxiety doesn't inherently prickle when pulled over for a traffic stop had to reckon with the experiences of those who do. These were the days before black squares on Instagram, back when uttering that Black lives matter could get you fired from your job rather than a promotion in the C-suite. In a country awakening to racial consciousness from a deep slumber, the video's messaging seemed clear.
Still, just as Beyoncé was hitting audiences with a stark message, she was also saying a lot less than it might have seemed. On Lemonade and the albums following, Beyoncé largely gestured toward the work of womanists (a term for Black feminists coined by Alice Walker) who came before her, never outright saying what she believed. This strategy gives listeners just enough to project their desires (and frustrations) onto her, but rarely confirms or denies if that thinking is correct.
One of Beyoncé and Kamala Harris's other similarities is a little more obvious: They're both Black women. And much to the frustration of those who don't engage with race as a social construct and those who do, it's an identity that comes with a lot to navigate. A common phrase a Black child will hear over and over as they make their way into adulthood is "you have to be twice as good to get half as far." There is no room for error.
Public life means mistakes are inevitable. Definitive statements can be a poison pill; when they know exactly what you believe, people respond, for better and for worse. By keeping quiet, Beyoncé has been able to (mostly) avoid the accusations that come with being a Black woman with a platform and something to say: too angry, too loud, too much. When you are taught you have to be twice as good to get half as far, you learn that quietness and the respectability people assign to it can push you the other 50 percent across the finish line.
That makes silence a shrewd choice for a pop star in an era of oversharing and social media apologies; an old Hollywood move that still lands in a time when talking keeps you in the zeitgeist and controversy is capital. It's more complicated for a potential president.
Read the full story on Vox.com.
