Coming out at 17, fueled by the sugary sweetness of Bacardi Breezers and house party beer, was a moment etched in awkward teenage memory. The words, declaring my truth, felt clumsy as they tumbled out at a bus stop, witnessed only by the indifferent street and my friend Dan. Looking down at the imagined landing spot of those vulnerable words, then at Dan, then back down, solidified the dawning reality. The party, a haze of nu-rave beats and smoky air, became the confessional booth for my newfound identity, each friend receiving a slightly slurred retelling of my revelation. Later, under the muted chaos of the living room rave, a clumsy encounter with my pal Scott under a blanket sealed the night, and perhaps, unknowingly, set the tone for a decade of queer exploration and discovery.
Many queer individuals share a ‘coming out story,’ a unique narrative woven into the complex tapestry of accepting and expressing their true selves. These stories are as diverse as the individuals who live them: some emerge boldly in school hallways, others wait until the perceived safety of their late twenties. Some stories explode with the force of a revelation, while others are whispered so softly they barely register. Coming out happens in tents under canvas skies, in the solemnity of church pews, amidst the clatter of dinner plates, even at the somber backdrop of a funeral (though perhaps less ideally). Letters are written, stilted conversations are navigated with parents, or sometimes, the words remain unspoken. Yet, despite the myriad of settings and circumstances, a common thread of isolation runs through these narratives, binding them together in a shared experience.
The Queer Experience: Navigating Loneliness and Finding Connection
The journey of queer exploration and acceptance can be inherently isolating. Indeed, queerness itself, in its initial stages and sometimes beyond, can feel like a solitary path. At the genesis of our queer lives, we often ‘come out’ into a world that may offer mixed responses, and then spend years in a continuous cycle of re-coming out, perpetually seeking and sculpting spaces where we truly belong in a world not inherently designed for us. Especially in youth, our queerness often exists in hushed moments and stolen glances. This nascent understanding, once discovered, needs nurturing, a period of germination that often occurs in the hidden corners of our minds, away from prying eyes and societal expectations.
It was two years after my own tentative steps into queerness that Robyn released Body Talk pt. 1, an album spearheaded by the now-iconic single, “Dancing On My Own.” The album, at its core, delves into the themes of loneliness and isolation. In a 2010 interview with Pitchfork, Robyn herself articulated, “The whole album is about being lonely, but I think it’s interesting to put that idea into a club where a lot of people are crammed into a small room.” Specifically about “Dancing On My Own,” she revealed, “I’ve been touring a lot in the last three years, and spent a lot of time in clubs just watching people, and it became impossible to not use that lyric ‘dancing on my own’, because it’s such a beautiful picture.” This observation, born from the vibrant yet often solitary experience of club spaces, perfectly encapsulates the paradox at the heart of the queer experience.
I vividly recall the first encounter with the song. By then, my life had expanded beyond my initial coming out, encompassing new cities and urban landscapes. Fleeting, hurried sexual encounters remained a recurring theme, though thankfully, my skills had marginally improved. Like many young queer men, I navigated the world leveraging youthful charm and wide eyes, seeking connection in a series of encounters, grasping for an intimacy that remained elusive. I was adrift in a sea of unrequited affection for a close friend, desperately clinging to the remnants of a life I felt I should be pursuing, a life that didn’t quite fit my burgeoning reality.
The summer of 2010 was intensely hot, my small studio apartment in East Bristol becoming an oven as friends and acquaintances gathered for a post-Glastonbury celebration. Around midnight, the carefully curated playlist devolved into chaos, jumping erratically from the soulful strains of Candi Staton to the edgy sounds of The Horrors, before landing unexpectedly on a track I’d never encountered.
It began with a tremor, a pulsating, almost anxious rhythm that permeated the four minutes and 49 seconds of Robyn’s “Dancing On My Own.” This juddering heartbeat of synth, full of yearning and melancholy, eventually dissolved into a shimmering silence. Looking out from my kitchen, I saw ‘him’ – the object of my unrequited affection – standing with someone else. The song’s anxious synth mirrored the frantic beat of my own heart. The lyrics, dripping with longing and sadness, framed my own internal landscape. The very agony woven into the song’s bassline resonated with the confined emotions within the walls of my small flat. In that moment, “Dancing On My Own” wasn’t just a song; it was an articulation of a feeling I hadn’t yet fully understood, a feeling deeply intertwined with the queer experience.
Finding Community and Culture in Shared Loneliness
American professor David Halperin’s book, How to Be Gay, despite its seemingly prescriptive title, is not a beginner’s manual for homosexuality. Instead, it explores the unique position of queerness within minority or marginalized communities, particularly concerning the acquisition of history, culture, and identity. Unlike many other identities, queer people often don’t grow up within queer families or communities. Exposure to queer individuals, especially in formative years, is often limited, and positive, nuanced representations in mainstream media are historically scarce.
Instead, queer culture is learned and transmitted within the community itself, in the dimly lit corners of bars and clubs, in the fleeting encounters of darkrooms and bedrooms. We learn from those we love, often those whose love is not reciprocated in the way we desire. We learn from shared traumas, from a collective understanding of loneliness. From these experiences, we weave fragments of culture – music, art, poetry – into a shared queer lexicon. Queerness manifests in public spaces, in private moments, across digital platforms and physical billboards, but it truly thrives in the communal atmosphere of clubs and queer spaces. In these environments, we overlay our individual queernesses onto each other, creating a shared tapestry of identity that covers the walls and ceilings of our chosen spaces. Through a collectively curated canon of anthems, we envelop our queerness in the thick air of these spaces, and for a fleeting moment, become subsumed by it, finding unity in shared experience. From the moment of its release, “Dancing On My Own” was instantly absorbed into the musical vernacular of a generation of queer individuals, becoming a cornerstone of the queer soundscape.
Robyn performing, highlighting her status as a pop icon and the emotional depth of her music, particularly "Dancing On My Own."
Image via Wikimedia
In 2013, the enduring power of the song manifested in a tangible form: a club night named Dancing On My Own (DOMO) was born. After several iterations, it found its home in London’s Resistance Gallery, rapidly gaining traction and becoming a vital part of the queer scene. Five years after my initial coming out, three years after the transformative experience of hearing the song in that cramped apartment, “Dancing On My Own” remained a constant presence in my life. It accompanied me through life’s turbulent highs and lows, and now, it resurfaced again, this time in a new and communal context.
DOMO was more than just another queer venue. The Resistance Gallery, tucked away behind an unassuming door on a London backstreet, possessed the hallmarks of a typical East London spot: a small bar, a DJ booth, a stage adorned with cheap glitter curtains, and a smoking area enclosed by barbed wire and walls embedded with broken glass. Yet, once a month, this unassuming space transformed into a queer utopia, a sanctuary of shared experience and liberation.
Seeking to understand the magic of DOMO, I reached out for photos and stories from attendees. Repeatedly, people responded with gratitude for the memory prompt, but apologies for the lack of visual documentation. This absence of photos was partly due to the club’s atmosphere: as the night progressed, the temperature would soar, leading to a liberating shedding of clothing, with many dancing in their underwear. Indiscriminate photography, in this environment of joyful abandon, was understandably frowned upon. My friend Izzy aptly described the scene as having “more boobs than Playboy, except not in an oppressive problematic way,” capturing the spirit of joyful, uninhibited self-expression.
While the sweat-drenched mass of bodies was undeniably part of the evening’s appeal, it wasn’t the core of DOMO’s magic. The true essence lay in Izzy’s subsequent message: “I only went once and I spent all night kissing Lauren (my straight pal), it was my first kiss after my shitty, abusive ex-girlfriend and my sparkly Converse stuck to the floor and I’ve never felt more alive.” This anecdote encapsulates the heart of DOMO.
It wasn’t just about the kissing or the sticky floors; it was about what happened in between. It was the creation of a space where shared trauma and collective experiences could converge, be acknowledged, and held within the community as individuals danced, seemingly alone, yet profoundly together. It was within this club night that I truly grasped the profound and integral role “Dancing On My Own” plays in the contemporary queer experience.
At every DOMO event, “Dancing On My Own” was always the final song. Even now, I can vividly recall the moment the lights would rise, synchronized with the song’s lyrical cues. I remember witnessing the pure joy on the faces around me, voices raised in collective catharsis, friends embracing, sharing one last sweaty kiss as the song’s erratic heartbeat finally faded into silence.
But I also remember witnessing the lingering sadness in people’s eyes as they dispersed into the London night. Queerness, in its complexity, encompasses sadness. It can be lonely, bleak, and challenging. Yet, it is also beautiful, exhilarating, and breathtaking. “Dancing On My Own” mirrors this duality. When we, as queer individuals, dance to it, wherever we may be, we are dancing on our own, but also as part of a collective “own” – united, however fleetingly, against the world, finding solace and strength in a shared anthem of loneliness and resilience.
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