Club hopping: From skating to fantasy, Austin’s LGBTQ scene goes way beyond bars
From record swaps to fantasy worlds to skate parks, Austin’s queer population is carving out space in scenes where many felt excluded in the past. The Austin LGBT community is expanding beyond traditional bar bars to cultural scenes where many felt excluded. Queer Skate Austin founder Max Richardson started the club after feeling too insecure to go into skate parks as a visibly queer person. The group now meets weekly at Mueller Skate Park and members are encouraged to learn new tricks. Founder Gaston and Nawal T. both had no previous skate experience but found the club a safe and welcoming space. Richardson credits the club for helping them overcome fears and making them more confident outside the skate park. The club's founder, Richardson, uses they/them pronouns and emphasizes the importance of making people feel welcome.
Pubblicato : 11 mesi fa di Eric Webb in Entertainment
When most think of LGBTQ gatherings, bars come to mind. With good reason — heck, the modern gay rights movement started at New York City’s Stonewall Inn in 1969. But as Pride Month continues and rights for queer people are threatened — including about 140 anti-LGBTQ bills filed in the Texas Legislature last year — perhaps it’s time to redefine “club hopping.”
From record swaps to fantasy worlds to skate parks, Austin’s queer population is carving out space in cultural scenes where many felt excluded in the past. We caught up with three local LGBTQ clubs creating visibility and having a blast doing it.
As Queer Skate Austin founder Max Richardson puts it: “You can't be what you can't see.”
There’s no way around it. Wheels are cool. Richardson, who uses they/them pronouns, grew up on a pop culture diet of things like the Nickelodeon cartoon “Rocket Power” and the video game “Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater.” They eventually picked up longboarding, but the New Yorker often felt too insecure to go into skate parks as a visibly queer person.
Then, the emergence of queer skate groups around the country and a 2022 move to Texas inspired Richardson to start Queer Skate Austin, a meet-up for LGBTQ people to roll together.
The group now meets weekly on Sunday at Mueller Skate Park. Amateurs are encouraged. Members cheer each other through conquering new tricks. There are simple tenets: all ages, all wheels, all identities.
Richardson’s back in New York for now, but skaters like Casey Gaston and Nawal T. keep things going. Gaston, who comes from a flat-track roller derby background, was new to town and looking for queer groups on Instagram when she stumbled upon Queer Skate Austin.
“It really gave me that reassurance that I was looking for, that there was a safe and welcoming space and people that were willing to help you,” Gaston says. “I immediately went and dropped a load of money on new skates that were going to work in the park.”
Nawal had no skate experience before joining up in 2023. She’d joined queer running groups before but wanted to try something new. She only had her skateboard for a week before showing up at the park.
“Everyone looked like they were having so much fun, and they looked so cool,” she says.
Learning a new skill has given Nawal confidence outside the skate park, too.
“It's never too late and you're never too old to start learning a new hobby or a new skill that you didn't think you could do,” she says. “You can make progress really quickly when you have encouraging friends who will teach you all the tips and tricks.”
Gaston feels more able to be her authentic self in other spaces like work, thanks to the confidence she developed in the club.
“I remember myself as a baby gay 20 years ago. The visibility just wasn't the same. And so to be that example for younger queers to see how much joy and opportunity there is in their lives — I might start crying talking about it now,” Gaston says.
So much of skateboarding is about facing fears, Richardson says. It’s all trying and falling and trying again. Queer Skate Austin creates a community around its members that makes it easier to get back up. A space where queer folks can come together and just be joyful is radical in itself, Richardson says.
Skate communities have a dicey reputation for judging newbies and catering to a certain identity — cisgender, heterosexual and male, Richardson says. At Queer Skate Austin meet-ups, “overly approachable” is the vibe. The music is loud and the pride flag flies high.
“It's like, ‘Please know we are here,’” Richardson says. “We are visible.”
On East Cesar Chavez Street, discover a portal to a realm where there’s no such thing as heteronormativity. People love who they want. Gender is fluid. There’s no colonization, and the concept of race as we know it is nonexistent. This is Tiny Minotaur Tavern.
Bauerle-McKnight created Tiny Minotaur in 2020 as a DIY immersive art project. The artist, who uses they/them pronouns, missed creative community during the pandemic. A lifelong fan of speculative fiction by authors like Octavia Butler, Ursula K. Le Guin and N.K. Jemisin, they looked to fantastical world-building as a possible respite.
“I have a habit — if it’s not there, I’ll make it there,” Bauerle-McKnight says.
Tiny Minotaur has grown into a thriving themed social club for adults. Patrons come to experience deeply imagined lore of mages and elves within a movie set-like atmosphere. People who feel shut out of traditional nerd spaces come for role-playing quests, libations, karaoke and even a monthly fantasy-themed drag show called Drag Me To the Tavern.
Membership is donation-based, with three tiers costing $20 to $60 a month. Tiny Minotaur also offers day-passes for the orc-curious. Costumes are encouraged — think less Renaissance Faire, more Dungeons & Dragons.
While Tiny Minotaur isn’t positioned specifically as an LGBTQ venue, “any project I do is going to be openly queer-adjacent,” Bauerle-McKnight says. Most of the actors who build out the fantasy world are queer, they say. There’s a code of conduct, and racist, misogynistic, transphobic or homophobic behavior will get you ejected.
As Bauerle-McKnight explains, the fantasy genre is inherently queer. Much of the canon challenges social status quos and dares to imagine new ways to be, they say. Themes of adaptability in new lands echo the same tools queer people have used to foster for survival in the real world.
That makes fantasy “the queerest thing you can possibly get your hands on,” they say.
Groove is in the heart: Queer Vinyl Collective
Gabrielle Rose has a mantra: The DJ should be having the most fun at the party. Whenever Queer Vinyl Collective spins, that’s a given.
The collective, a local group of DJs and vinyl enthusiasts, started with a record swap in the summer of 2022. Dana Brown, the founder and resident DJ, has collected records for ages. But when she came out as transgender, she felt a dearth of respect in traditional vinyl enthusiast circles. She wanted to make room for queer voices and good grooves.
Brown (aka DJ Dana Scully) first found a willing venue in Try Hard Coffee. Rose (aka DJ Beaujolais) owned the East Austin shop, which recently closed, and strived to make it a welcoming space for queer people. They remember basking in how special the moment felt.
Today, Brown describes Queer Vinyl Collective as “a bit of an ambitious juggernaut.” About 15 DJs spin under the collective’s banner, all with their own styles and tastes. They spin for community organizations, nonprofits, restaurants and clubs like Cheer Up Charlies or Double Trouble.
You might hear tunes from the 1980s, hip-hop crowd-pleasers from the ’90s or a bunch of vaporwave, which Rose describes as “if elevator music got a facelift.” Members of the collective often DJ in pairs or trios. They sometimes coordinate outfits with the sounds of the night.
“We’re here to enhance the vibe in every way,” Rose says.
Brown believes that palpable queer joy emanates from the collective’s events in a way you won’t find at regular ol’ DJ sets.
“For a lot of the queer people I know, it’s liberating to live how you want to live,” she says. “When you step into some queer person's space where they're doing what they want, you can feel that on a whole different level.”
Brown and Rose dream of spreading the Queer Vinyl Collective gospel, perhaps on the music festival circuit or across the world.
“I just want to bring this to more people,” Brown says. “There’s no shortage of queer vinyl DJs all over the world that need more community.”
It can be scary to highlight the collective’s status as a minority group, Brown says, especially in Texas. But she finds it especially validating to get booked by venues that don’t always market queer talent.
And a desire to get behind a turntable isn’t a requirement to join the fun.
“If you’re a vinyl enthusiast, if you have a record collection, and you identify as queer or you're an ally and want to engage, go for it,” Brown says. “Send us a message. Come to an event. We'd love to have you.”
Eric Webb is an award-winning culture writer based in Austin. Find him at www.ericwebb.me.
Temi: Social Issues, LGBTQ