A Day Without Butches is a Day Without Sunshine: Lucy Dacus 'Best Guess' Music video

I started writing this article just ten minutes after watching Lucy Dacus’ new music video for Best Guess. It premiered only moments ago, and I’ve already watched it at least six or seven times. Even without the context of the song, the video itself feels like a joyous celebration of the masculine lesbian. It’s safe to say I cried tears of happiness.

The song leans toward a poppy romance, its sweetness grounded by Dacus’ sultry, lilting voice, echoing over the meandering track. My girlfriend is eager to hear a love song from her, so used to Dacus’ painful lyrics and melancholy instrumentals that this shift feels almost surprising.

But to understand what made me so emotional about the video, I turn off the sound and watch it again, this time noting each main scene. Because while I love the song, its romance and tenderness, I know that what moved me to tears was something else entirely.

A hand sweeps a deck of cards across a table. Seventeen Butches in suits stare directly into the camera, as if posing for a photograph. Lucy Dacus begins to sing, and the camera pans across their faces. A montage unfolds: two lesbians arm wrestling, two lesbians boxing, two lesbians lifting weights—overscored with the lyrics, “I love your body.” Dacus gazes dreamily at two Mascs doing push-ups.

Cut to a group gathered around a gambling table. Dacus wins all the jewels, has her bow tie tied. A dancer with a shaved head, white vest, and black trousers takes the floor. Naomi McPherson huffs on their sunglasses. The Butches play snooker. Two Mascs with short dark hair, dressed in suits, kiss romantically, cupping each other’s faces. (My girlfriend and I scream very loudly at this part.) Another arm wrestle. A dart game. The winner is lifted onto everyone’s shoulders. The group dances in sync, side-stepping, spinning, clicking their fingers like a boy band. The dancer with the shaved head moves, and I love them for it. The dancing continues, but now it's loose, unchoreographed. Lucy Dacus plays a triangle. Each individual breaks out into their own rhythm. They laugh.

I scroll through the YouTube comments; joyful, excited, overwhelmed at the sheer visibility. Parents share their queer children’s happiness at seeing themselves reflected on screen. Queer adults wish they had grown up with representation like this, how much easier it would have made things to understand. As far as I scroll, the comments are filled with gratitude.

Really, this article is just a slightly longer thank you from me.

Image : Rolling Stone

It’s reinvigorating to witness such a beautiful display of queerness in its many forms. The video radiates camaraderie, companionship, the feeling of being seen, of being recognized, of being loved. They are there on my screen with their tattoos, short hair, watches, rings, and suits, and I love them for it. Their comfort and joy are palpable. Of course, the video has also sparked conversation online about the representation it lacks; many voicing disappointment in the absence of dark-skinned, disabled, and fat representation. These criticisms are valid, and it’s something to hope for in Dacus’ future work. But it’s also worth taking a moment to appreciate what this video does give us: the rare and affirming sight of Butch and Masc lesbians taking up space in mainstream media.

It is refreshing to see Butch and Masc lesbians depicted with such love and respect, especially in mainstream media, where they are so often fetishised, sexualised, or reduced to exaggerated stereotypes. Dacus’ portrayal, or rather celebration, of them feels deeply personal, as if it comes from a friend. Everyone in the video appears so comfortable in their skin, so at ease in their suits, that I find myself both jealous of their handsomeness and overjoyed for them.

In a political climate where LGBTQ+ rights are under attack, where Donald Trump’s anti-trans rhetoric and policies threaten to undo hard-won progress, this video feels like a statement. A quiet but defiant act of resistance. By platforming and embracing Butch and Masc lesbians of different body types, races, and genders, Dacus offers queer and trans youth a vision of joy that might otherwise feel distant under current governments. As an artist profiting from a queer audience, one that listens to her music and sees themselves reflected in it, she holds a responsibility to represent.

This is something Chappell Roan has recently embraced with full force, loudly and unapologetically crediting drag queens for their influence, speaking out for trans rights in interviews, and constantly expressing gratitude to the queer youth looking to her for representation. It is exciting to see so many queer artists, particularly queer women, taking centre stage in music right now. But it’s important to remember that this is not new. When Chappell Roan started gaining traction, I recall someone on TikTok pointing out that queer women of colour have long been representing the queer and lesbian communities in the music industry; artists like Tracy Chapman, Queen Latifah, Janelle Monáe, and Arlo Parks. The path Dacus walks today was paved by those before her, and it’s crucial not to lose sight of that history. Towards the end of her music video, Lucy Dacus plays a triangle, laughing, bobbing her head, bringing together all the joy that fills this piece. She has given us queer joy on a public stage, and it feels good.