Madonna bought me drinks at Club Confessions

Both the boon and bane of being a music-loving gay guy in New York City are one and the same: you are a mere subway ride away from once-in-a-lifetime pop music events. There’s always a surprise concert or album release party, a Times Square takeover or pop star underplay—but most are announced mere hours before they happen. And unless you’re an influencer yourself, chances are you won’t be let within a hundred feet of the door. The timing and location for these events vary from inconvenient to cruel and unusual, and even if they’re free, the odds of getting in are roughly equivalent to winning the Powerball.

I learned my lesson the hard way with the BRAT rollout, a months-long parade of if-you-know-you-know pilgrimages to the notorious Brat Wall. So these days, I politely decline when my fellow gay guys frantically text me about a rumored Slayyyter appearance or PinkPantheress DJ set at The Lot. Kelela just announced a pop-up in SoHo on Tuesday at 5 p.m., which means it’s approximately three hours from now? Can’t wait to hear about it tomorrow. underscores has a surprise free DJ set? Sounds fun. I’ll pass. Charli XCX album listening party? I’ll hear it when I hear it. 

The truth is that, in these events, you—the fan, the attendee—are mostly an afterthought. Really, they’re less “events” than they are in-person clip farms. Each pop-up show is essentially a one-way pipeline straight to Pop Crave, to stan accounts, to Instagram Reels, where the clips generate far more traction than a standalone event in New York City ever could. If an artist looks like a superstar because a mob of fans is willing to materialize for them at 4 p.m. on a Wednesday, you start to believe they actually are a superstar. 

Of course, we all have our exceptions. And Donna, Madame X, the Queen herself, is mine. I am no tourist when it comes to Madonna Louise Ciccone. At age eight, my mom had to have the birds-and-bees talk with me because I knew every word to the despised Hard Candy deep-cut “Incredible,” belting along with the lyric “Sex with you is incredible!” from the backseat of her Toyota. But over the last six months, I have had a profound Madonnassiance: I dove into deep-catalog remixes, studied footage from old tours, and crafted a frankly irrefutable argument for the “Ray Of Light” music video holding the genuine answer to the meaning of life. So when Madonna announced the New York City edition of Club Confessions with little fanfare—just a poster with a lineup, date, and venue on her Instagram story—I knew I had to go. I’d do anything to go. 

Except, I guess, for posting a TikTok. Much to my horror, the only way for the public to get into Madonna’s invite-only Club Confessions at Knockdown Center was either to enter a giveaway from MISTR, the HIV testing and PrEP provider presenting the event, or—worse—to post a TikTok dancing to “Danceteria” for a laughably slim chance of scoring tickets. Luckily, being a music critic has a few more perks than album advances and vitriol from thirteen-year-old pop stans. By Saturday afternoon, I had scored my invite (shoutout to my sister in Donna worship; I couldn’t have done it without you, Taylor). I was going to Club Confessions. 

The wonderful thing about Club Confessions is that it seems like the event organizers genuinely wanted to throw an awesome fucking party in real life, not just on a phone screen. The entire Knockdown Center was decked out for Madge. The hallway leading to the dancefloor was decorated to resemble the “Good For The Soul” portion of Madonna’s Confessions II film, with plants and bright green lasers beaming overhead. You entered the venue through a colossal inflatable of Madonna’s legs, thrust upward in a low bridge pose, with a speaker instead of her [redacted]. Beautiful men in various states of undress guarded the entrance to Madonna’s coochie like stoic Roman soldiers. It’s what she would’ve wanted.

The best perk, hands down, was the quasi-open bar. At the end of the entrance hall, a dominatrix-esque drag queen handed out three drink tickets per person, which I initially assumed were some kind of Madonna business cards. It seemed almost too good to be true: Three drinks? For free? At the Knockdown Center? For this many people? She’s really celebrating Confessions II hitting No. 1, isn’t she? 

I presume the free drinks had more to do with Madonna’s brand partnership with Absolut than the Queen’s personal interest in funding my alcohol consumption for the night—the drink tickets did read “ABSOLUT ICON,” after all—but thanks to my slightly tipsy and overactive imagination, I couldn’t help but imagine every drink I consumed was personally purchased by Madonna. A tad parched during the Fcukers opening set? Not a problem. Go on and order that “Love Sensation Mule.” The tab’s under Ciccone. 

Given the invite-only nature of the event, I foolishly anticipated the crowd would be more balanced in terms of gender. But, I suppose, wherever She goes, gay men follow. Indeed, the audience resembled the very Grindr grid Madonna invaded as part of Confessions II’s promotion. But do you know who really knows how to have a good time? The women. Yes, the hags were out at Club Confessions, and god bless them. At the merch stand, I immediately befriended Michelle, who flew in from Wisconsin and had seen every Madonna tour since 2001’s Drowned World. (Her favorite tour? Hard Candy. Least favorite? Rebel Heart.) I ran into her again at the Wall Of Posters Of Madonna (the WOPOM, for short), where I took approximately one thousand photos of her on her phone, as one does.

But the night reached its apex at approximately 1:03 a.m.: not too late, considering Madonna’s notorious reputation for taking her sweet time. I glimpsed Stuart Price first, the DJ and producer behind both the original Confessions on a Dance Floor and Confessions II (and whose Wikipedia Personal Life section I’ve checked around one hundred times for any mention of the word “Gay”). Over a deep-house beat with a spoken-word sample right from her Grindr promotion (“It’s Mutha! It’s Mutha!”), she emerged—blonde hair in perfect waves, pink sunglasses to match her pink jacket, knee-high silver boots not unlike the inflatable ones I walked through to get inside the club. “New York,” she called out, “I love you so much.” 

Madonna’s resistance to fans filming at concerts is well-documented. “Put your fucking phones down and connect,” she said at the Tribeca Festival premiere of the Confessions II film. But as expected, all the phones shot up as soon as she arrived. Just because we got free drinks doesn’t mean Club Confessions isn’t a clip farm, too. Unfortunately, the truth about Madonna is that she is not very tall, nor is Knockdown Center’s stage particularly high. Many used their phones like binoculars at the opera, zooming in just to catch a glance of the diva. No one near me could get a good video until she climbed atop the booth to greet her adoring worshippers. While I snatched what footage I could, I didn’t want to contribute to the group problem. In a way, I suppose, her stature simply begs us to heed her message and feel so free. Sure, you could record the blur of blonde hair behind the booth, but why strain your neck when you can just dance to “Thief of Hearts”? 

The setlist was similar to the other Club Confessions events in Los Angeles and London. Donna lived on the mic while Stuart bobbed around, mixing the tracks in a blue zip-up. (Does he not get hot?) “One Step Away” glided into “Love Without Words,” addictive synth pattern and all. She opened “School” with the ever-important rhetorical question: “Are you ready to learn?” Four thousand eager fans yelped with joy, and I briefly fantasized about a record wave of registrations at the Brooklyn Public Library, thanks to a newfound enthusiasm for learning among New York City’s circuit queens. Maybe Madonna’s “School” is the sign I need to finally get an MFA. 

By the time “Bring Your Love” kicked in, everyone near me had taken their shirts off in the heat. Bring your love? More like bring your six-pack abs, or these gay guys here might actually, physically kill you. “Danceteria” was completely ecstatic—the crowd yelling “Everybody get up and dance!” in unison—though the irony of singing about the iconically cool Danceteria at an invite-only, brand-sponsored event was not lost on me. The shrieks of delight that left my mouth during “Get Together,” “I Feel So Free,” and “Hung Up”  were so physically taxing I was almost relieved when she prepared her exit during “Physical Attraction.” One can only sustain maximum levels of Queening Out for so long.  

She left in the single most Madonna way possible: encouraging a very muscular man to take off his shirt. “What do you do all that going to the gym for? Don’t give me that pussy shit,” were the final words I heard her say before she passed the decks off to Honey Dijon to close the night. Au revoir, Madonna. 

I have a confession: I do feel a tad guilty for being one of the lucky few who got to attend Club Confessions. While I am not Catholic, this is Madonna we’re talking about, so perhaps a bit of Catholic guilt is appropriate. What about the thousands of diehard Donna Heads clamoring to get in? Why me and not, say, Martin Diaz, star of the “Bring Your Love” virality campaign? Still, at Club Confessions, Madonna, as always, set the example. If you’re going to throw a pop-up party in New York City, make it a party worth going to. Take notes, pop stars: school is in session.  

Andy Steiner is a writer and musician. When he’s not reviewing albums, you can find him collecting ‘80s Rush merchandise. Follow him on X.

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