“All the Things She Said,” 20 Years Later: The Complicated, Problematic History of t.A.T.u.

The duo were one of the highest-profile cases of queerbaiting in pop culture history, yet also served as a sapphic revelation in a homophobic era.
“All the Things She Said t.A.T.u.s Problematic Legacy Explained
Fryderyk Gabowicz/picture alliance via Getty Images

To this day, the phrase “all the things she said” shoots me back in time to 2002. At that point, “gay” was still used extensively as a slur (before Hilary Duff told us not to), as were “lesbian” and “queer.” Yet despite the casual homophobia of the era, you could also turn on the radio and hear the Russian pop duo t.A.T.u. sing in accented English to “her” instead of “him,” or flip on MTV and watch them cling to each other in the rain, draw each other closer, and kiss. 

For many, the group’s hit single was the sole piece of media they’d encountered that presented same-sex attraction not as a problem, but as an achingly yearning love story. “All the Things She Said” was everywhere in a way that seemed normal, which implicitly meant that the queer sexuality expressed within the song was as well, despite our culture’s insistence that such desire was inappropriate, even immoral. Or that was one reaction, at least; some critics at the time viewed t.A.T.u.’s sudden ubiquity with more scrutiny. As one writer asked at the time, “What are they really selling?”

After releasing their first record, 200 Po Vstrechnoy, in Russia in 2001, t.A.T.u. hit the English speaking world with 200 km/h in the Wrong Lane in December of 2002. A few months before, the band had dropped “All The Things She Said,” alongside its instantly controversial video. Critics were split on the group’s techno and trance-heavy sound — The Guardian gave 200 km/h four out of five stars, Rolling Stone only two — but the real buzz around t.A.T.u. centered on their “star-crossed lesbian lovers” image. 

Though it wasn’t unheard of to see girls kiss girls in mainstream American culture (see the infamous 2003 MTV Video Music Awards kiss between Britney Spears, Madonna, and Christina Aguilera), actual gay people, not to mention trans or other non-cisgender identities, were largely viewed as an aberration. The U.S. was years away from a presidential election in which same-sex marriage likely helped keep George W. Bush in office against John Kerry. So to many listeners, t.A.T.u. wasn’t just about seeing girls kiss; they were protecting and cherishing their love against an intensely disapproving world. And they would go on to do so on stages all over the world, including the 2003 Eurovision Song Contest, where they represented Russia. 

“All The Things She Said” eventually hit  #1 on the Billboard chart in the U.K. and #20 on the Hot 100 chart in the U.S. Yet behind the band’s success was a much less romantic backstory: In 1999, Russian producer Ivan Shapovalov and his then-business partner put out a call for female vocalists. Out of hundreds who auditioned, they cast Lena Katina and Julia Volkova, both 14 at the time and previously part of the children’s singing group Neposedy. The band’s name and “image” — including that the duo were gay — were created by Shapovalov; t.A.T.u. is short for the Russian phrase “ta lyubit tu,” meaning “this [girl] loves that [girl].” Katina and Volkova literally embodied their artist moniker, portraying femme4femme intimacy in performances, music videos, and interviews alike. 

But it was all an act. From the start, Shapovalov called the group an “underage sex project” that he put together because he “found it funny,” underlining that t.A.T.u. was designed to pander to the male gaze. In classic 2000s fashion, the more sinister (and potentially abusive) aspects of the dynamic between the four was glossed over by the media at the time. Today, as we reckon with how our culture treated young pop stars like Britney Spears during the era, we'd do just as well to apply the same scrutiny to t.A.T.u.

Yet things got even more complicated when it came to the duo's views on queerness. In the 2003 documentary Anatomy of t.A.T.u., which aired on Russian television, it was confirmed that neither identified as lesbian at the time they made the song, and Katina even admitted to attempting to pray away her “sinful” public behavior. Volkova later came out as bi, but in a 2014 interview for Russian TV, said that gay men are “unmanly,” and rebuked the idea of having a gay son. Katina responded with her own pro-LGBTQ+ comments, and Volkova later quasi-apologized.

As for “All the Things She Said,” its origins are a far cry from its star-crossed lovers presentation. Shapovalov’s writing partner (and eventual ex-wife) Elena Kiper reportedly woke up from dental surgery recounting a dream in which she kissed a woman, yelling “Ya soshla s uma!” This became the song’s Russian title, which means, “I’ve lost my mind.”

Once their novelty took a back seat to their scandals, t.A.T.u. was effectively kaput, releasing four more records before breaking up in 2011. Katina and Volkova pursued solo careers, but neither could escape t.A.T.u.’s infamy. They’ve reunited for performances several times, including for the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics and as recently as this September for an “MMA fighting/music event” in Belarus that even dedicated t.A.T.u. fans were lukewarm about.

But two decades out, and despite its misleading and upsetting origins, the group remains a singular pop culture phenomenon. Olivia Rodrigo covered “All The Things She Said” earlier this year, joining the likes of experimental artist Poppy and the League of Legends character-turned-virtual musician Seraphine. Early in 2022, Halsey revealed that their 2019 single “Nightmare” was inspired by the song and at one point sampled it, then teased a (still unreleased) t.A.T.u. cover. In a September conversation for NPR, writer Jill Gutowitz revisited the song; while admitting it was “openly problematic,” she also noted, “I don't know how many music videos at the time depicted an actual emotional love story between two women. And the answer is none, none that were on the radio like that. So there's good and evil in it, you know?” 

Anecdotally, many of the bi and lesbian women in my life carry a split opinion. On one hand, t.A.T.u. took the stereotype that women will pretend to be “gay for attention” to a disturbing and disenchanting extreme. Katina and Volkova’s performance remains one of the most high-profile cases of actual queerbaiting in pop culture history, one that many people are understandably eager to distance themselves from. Several out women musicians declined to comment for this piece, with their management and publicists passing or failing to respond. (One sent back a sharp note: “Have you looked into the band and who they actually are as people?”) 

But on the other hand, Katina and Volkova sang about and kissed each other for an audience of millions, and in doing so challenged the deep homophobia of the time. (Eurovision reportedly censored their performances and allegedly fixed voting so they wouldn’t win.) By committing to the act, t.A.T.u. inadvertently carved out a space for queer people to imagine themselves loving and living freely. In an interview from last year, Katina recalls, “You cannot imagine how many messages we received from different people, who told us, ‘You saved our life. Thank you.'” A sexuality revelation from a problematic and dated work is still a revelation. 

That there was a moment in time when Russia celebrated an LGBTQ+ act — even though it was ultimately just that, an act —  means t.A.T.u. exists in historical limbo as an unreplicable cultural artifact. Katina and Volkova aren’t pioneering heroes, but for a brief moment in time they represented public queerness in a country that now no longer allows it. And their legacy in some ways remains intact because of how little certain things have changed over the past two decades. 

Yet despite the return of Y2K aesthetics and conservatism, we aren’t actually living in a retread of 2002. And though t.A.T.u. helped expand the horizons of our imaginations, we no longer have to live in the realm of imagination. In reality, out artists of all kinds of identities, nationalities, and practices are creating a new and genuinely queer cultural canon. When I revisit 200 km/h, its songs no longer seem like defiant anthems, because in actuality, they never were. Released from deeper meaning, they’re just songs, and that’s enough. 

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