Four Kings On A Final Night Of Formation

In the absence of a male king, a woman can and will wear that crown. There is evidence of this in history; Hatshepsut of Egypt was a woman Pharoah. She is buried in the Valley of the Kings.

A few years back in 2010, shortly after the deeply sad occasion of Michael Jacksons passing, I wrote about a woman taking up his mantle as the worlds greatest entertainerthat woman being Beyonc.

Last night, after six months on the Formation World Tour, she proved me right again. While there are some entertainers who continue to perform to sellout stadium crowds, Beyonc is the total package of a deep catalog sung in pristine voice, danced to oblivion with exacting, exhilarating choreography, interwoven with stunning use of her visual arsenal. Did I mention enough pyro to warm the audience on a cool autumn night at MetLife Stadium? Well, let me add that in. With fireworks. And multiple wardrobe changes. And singing upside down while suspended. Or while splashing in 17,000 gallons of water. And, and, and. It was thrilling, scintillating, and almost overwhelming. As I scanned the Kings throng, I saw tears. Twerking. A feeling of being known and appreciated beamed from faces dotted with makeup inspired by Lemonade. The Beyhive was in a frenzy one moment, and stopped for breath in the next.

It begins with a skyscraper of a rectangle that is also a three-dimensional LED display. Ive named it the Screenscraper. It rotates. It changes colors. It scrolls. Its bananas. It is white at first, then it teases flashes of Beyonc in ecstasy. Reveling in and holding herself. Mouth holding the orchid. Naked. In the eye of a storm. Or maybe, she is the storm. Its up to the viewer to decide. The jagged synthetic strains of Formation jolt a rapt crowd to their feet. The skyscraping screens reveal a towering force in a wide black brim and lemon yellow brocade pantsuit, festooned with a bejeweled fuschia floral brooch.

She is slaying. But she makes sure to let us know that we are too.

If you know who you are, and youre proud of where you come from, say: I slay! We respond. We slay. The right fists of every dancer, glorious in every complexion of skin and texture of hair, go up on a Black Bill Gates in the making. The crowd goes crazy. The band flows right into Sorry, giving us no breaks in our cheering. But the King is not pleased.

Im gonna need yall to get louder. I may have to bring somebody out.

That somebody was another woman king: King Serenaas in Williams, the greatest tennis player of all time, of any gender. In repose in a rattan throne similar to the one popularized by Black Panther Party founding member Huey P. Newton. Another subtle but powerful reference to unapologetic Blackness that did not go unnoticed. Fully in her womanness, fully in her power as undeniably beautiful, Serena reprised her cameo from the Sorry video, albeit with a lithe smoothness. All curves and all muscle, she slayed too. H-Town. Compton. Badass. But its way too early for mic dropping. Bey is just getting started, and we have already been laid out. That works out perfectly, because her next command to us was Bow Down.

It occurs to me here that Formation the tour is not just about Lemonade. Were in for it. Were getting all the hits from her 20 year career that she can pack into two hours. This is the kind of show usually reserved for artists in the sunset of their careers doing a Vegas residency. Shes got *twenty* years of recording under her belt, but she is also at her zenith.

Deftly using the visual album to engage us while wardrobe and set changes take place inside the Screenscraper, we are challenged to a dance battle we as an audience cannot possibly win. Mine. Baby Boy. Hold Up. Countdown. I probably have the order wrong. My notes are cryptic mess, scribbled blindly for fear of missing a single moment of this show.

Were at a fever pitch, but shes been at this holding court via stage thing for a while now; she knows this. She slows the pace with some words of encouragement aimed at the women in the arena, as the bassline for Me, Myself & I fills the air. Youre born strong, she intones to the women in the house. There is no such thing as a weak woman. And if youve had your heart broken, you know it makes us stronger, tougher, more beautiful, more vulnerable. And with a timbre both resonant and sure, she sings the song of a more mature expression of girl power that drew the dividing line between her chapter as Destinys Child frontwoman, and solo artist with Dangerously in Love.

She sails through Running and Forgiveness, disappearing into darkness. A guitar soloist emerges. All ripped denim and unbridled curls, she plays us into Beyoncs third wardrobe change (of several). Pimp strolling out in a black studded full length coat, she growls, who the fuck do you think I is?! and a blistering rendition of Dont Hurt Yourself ensues, with the Screenscraper screaming God Is God/I Am Not in all caps. A woman scorned may be a goddess, but she wont necessarily offer godly mercy. Next up: Ring The Alarm sung over the track to Jay-Zs The Takeover. How perfect. Fueling the rumors that Lemonade is all about her marriage. Only to dash them a few songs later with another rattan chair reveal. Another king. The King of New York. Jay-Z. Its the last show of the tour, and its New York. Most of the arena was praying he would bless the stage. He killed it for his verse on Drunk In Love. And with that rarely seen smile, a tight hug and more than a peck of a kiss for his wife, he was out.

By now, weve been treated to Independent Women Pt. II, which flowed into Diva, then Flawless, then Feeling Myself. Male or female it makes no difference I shock the world, she reminds us. Partition. Daddy Lessons. Were high from this emotional roller coaster ride of Beyonc and her seductive chair dancing, then group choreography executed with military precision, then a montage of home movies from her own childhood and that of her daughters...whew. We all kinda need everything to stop. And it does. She invites us to sing along with her a capella. Its Love On Top. She thanks her fans for letting her grow, for trusting her, and for supporting her as she lives out her dream. She thanks every crew member, dancer, musician and backup vocalist. Its a bittersweet moment, because a collective that has become a family over the last six months is about to part ways. But not before the rise of another king to the stage.

The haunting organ of Freedom thunders. The dancers float to the center of the Beyhive, or the arenas floor, on conveyor belts, wearing lemon latex (Patent leather, maybe? Anyway-water repellent) swimmitards. Beyonc floats in wearing a deep cut, lemon yellow lace bodysuit with puff sleeves. And a gossamer cape. King shit, okay? Part battle cry, part gospel sermon, the song builds, the water is everywhere. And then...the chair.

King Kendrick makes four. Mic drop.

Thembisa S. Mshaka is the author of Put Your Dreams First, Handle Your [entertainment] Business .