Lezzer Fest, now in its second year, arrives with a deceptively simple question: where do all the lesbians in the UK actually go to dance?
Because visibility, as a concept, can sometimes feel abstract. It sometimes feels like the interior lives of queer women only exist in campaigns, hashtags, and brand partnerships. Something marketable. But in the Arches, it felt palpable.
Nearly 2000 lesbians, dykes, devotees of Sappho, tragic gay situationships and wuh-luh-wuhs (wlw: women loving women) descended on the Vauxhall Arches to mark the end of Lesbian Visibility week. For Scarlett and Xandice, the architects behind Lezzer Fest, that visibility has always been rooted in building a community.
Gal Pals started in the basement of Dalston Superstore, affectionately known as ‘The Mothership’ by those in the know, as all queer roads seem to eventually lead back there. For Xandice and Scarlett, they wanted to build a space for lesbians to have fun. The concept of Lezzer Fest was then born to celebrate the vibrancy of lesbian and dyke club culture and highlight all the talent our scene has to offer. The pair want people to support the nightlife we have all year round, and not just during Pride month.
The first time I saw the Gal Pals' co-founders DJing was the Saturday night of a student LGBT+ conference, and I had spent the whole night on the dancefloor. A decade later, Lezzer Fest offers a glimpse into the ecosystem of nightlife for lesbians in the UK. Xandice calls it a smorgasbord of queer sound: “We wanted to offer a sample menu,” they say. “We wanted to answer the question of ‘Where should I be going out?’”
Across three stages and a sprawl of collectives, the festival moves through genres and geographies. Bumpah brought booty bass to the Sappho stage, with Dykes on Decks bringing the sweat. There was Blxckstage, whose pole showcase had the crowd completely rapt, with one attendee later telling me, “God, I’m so glad I’m gay.” The line-up also included Brighton-based duo, Wildblood and Queenie, whose decades-long partnership has soundtracked famous dancefloors with disco and house. Alongside them played the iconic Brixton collective Sistermatic, the UK’s first Black lesbian-run sound system, led by Eddie Lockhart and Yvonne Taylor.
Each set felt like its own little bubble of lesbian euphoria. Scarlett reflects that one of the most special things about the event is how deliberately intergenerational it all feels. Sistermatic, active since the 80s, brought their signature blend of groove, soul, R&B, house and lovers rock into the space, and suddenly, elder and younger lesbians were dancing side by side. “I didn’t have this at 20,” says Charlotte, 46, beaming. “We had to build it ourselves. Seeing it now, it feels like a different world.”
For Cheza Lucina, one third of QTIPOC-led bass collective Bumpah, that matters. “Queerness and Black culture aren’t separate,” they say. “But sometimes the scene treats them like they are.” Cheza talks about collectives like Felt Sound System, who have been doing the work for years, building and sustaining spaces for lesbians and queer people of colour in particular. At the heart of it all is Jorge, their beloved van (donate here to support the efforts to get them back on the road!).
When asked what they will be bringing to the stage, Cheza says simply, “Holding space for the cuties to shake their arse in grace".
“Shaking arse in grace,” I repeat. “I fucking love that.”
Walking through the Vauxhall Arches felt like moving through the full spectrum of lesbian life. Aisha, 27, gestures at the crowd and says, “Every corner of the dyke-o-sphere is represented".
Scarlett says lesbians across the UK are searching for this feeling, and that it’s especially hard for queer women outside of London to find it, which is why people travel in for events like this from Newcastle to Cornwall. I tell her it feels like everyone is on a kind of quest for places to commune. She doesn’t hesitate. “No, but it is. That’s exactly what they’re doing! They’re travelling pilgrims looking for these spaces.”
On the upper levels, with daylight spilling through, there were stalls selling adorable lesbian crafts and prints and tiny queer knick-knacks that feel essential to my life. Homosexuality for sale, illustrator Jen advertises. Ruby Rare tells me it’s been a joy selling their zine Ladyfister (available at Common Press) and chatting to dykes about fisting. “It’s not just for gay men. It’s a seismic experience, giving and receiving!” Ruby says, with utmost sincerity.
In Bridgerton, the debutante season marks that stretch from spring into summer, where young women are presented to society, all a flutter with anticipation and possibility. Lezzer Fest is just like that, only instead, I am desperately seeking another three-month U-Haul relationship that will destroy my life in all the best ways. I dive into the ball and set out to interview anyone who will talk to me (so, naturally, everyone).
We both smile at each other when I gently grab her arm, so she is pulled into my orbit. We get chatting and Karo, 25, says, “I always kind of knew, but I wasn’t really aware of it until I realised I could only picture my future with a woman.”
There is a particular kind of freeing movement that happens in spaces for queer women and trans people. I am frolicking around the venue and so is everyone else, galloping and leaping across the dancefloor; the energy is so infectious.
Humphrey, 30, puts it best. “People are always telling women and lesbians what a woman is, and what a lesbian is. But it's only in a space like this, made by lesbians and for lesbians, that you actually see the multiplicity of our lives and the many different ways that we can exist. Look at how joyful it is!”
The line-up is eclectic, with sets leaning into “music with words”. It stands in contrast to a lot of queer nights that often only offer techno. Xandice tells me this is deliberate. “At the time, we felt like we were going against the grain by just saying we really love pop music and we aren’t ashamed of it. There’s been this stigmatisation around playing it, as if it’s somehow low-brow or less than. Pop has always been the space where a lot of women find success, and I think that’s why it’s often dismissed.” I agree. There’s a tendency to undervalue things that are seen as feminine or accessible, mistaking that accessibility for ease.
For Scarlett and Xandice, running club nights together for over a decade has been an enduring joy. When they first started, Scarlett didn’t even know how to DJ, that hadn’t been part of the plan at the beginning. “I think she only learnt so I could get toilet breaks,” Xandice says, laughing.
“Connection is the number one priority for our parties,” they both tell me. “It’s so important to log off, to get into your body, to dance, to feel free. We want people to come away from it feeling like they have a reason to go outside, to keep engaging with people, with life, with their community.”
I spoke to Danni, 31, who was working welfare with Safe Only, a queer-led, not-for-profit collective providing trauma-informed security and care across nightlife. For Danni, “spaces like this matter because of the lack of them. The same level of revolution that gay men have had needs to reach lesbians, too. We’ve always been pioneers, the backbone of the community, but we’re still marginalised. We don’t get the recognition we’ve earned, what we deserve.”
Still, the conversation keeps circling to what is missing. Daisy, 29, wants more daytime spaces, somewhere to gather beyond nightlife. Gavi, 28, wonders what it would look like if events like this happened every month. These are not complaints, they insist. And I believe them. Because for all the talk of a lesbian renaissance, there is still precarity, and as the London Nightlife Taskforce has shown, our spaces are always at risk.
By the time we move into the afterparty, the energy has tilted. “We’re going from wholesome queers to a bit more degenerate,” Xandice tells me. “Everyone’s ready to get a bit feral.”
Karlie Marx, founder of Plastyk, describes it as the party you didn’t get to have properly the first time around. “Like a freshers party rerun,” she says, “but you’re older and you’re with your real friends. Your chosen family.” Karlie is halfway towards her fundraising goal, and being in community means showing up for your people, which means helping them get there: donate here.
Have you ever screamed Robyn’s Dancing On My Own at the top of your lungs with hundreds of lesbians? Because I have. And surrounded by hundreds of lesbians singing it at the top of our lungs, it stops being a song about loneliness and becomes something else entirely.
A shared release! A righteous chorus! Our swan song!
I’m in the corner, watching you kiss her, why can’t you see me!
This is what lesbian visibility looks like, London, and she’s here to stay.
