The Ways Black Gay Men ‘Act Straight’ to Survive Festival Season

In the stickiness of summer 2015, Mohammed* felt the unmistakable sprinkle of beer flung from someone else’s cup and landing on his shoulders. It was hardly the respite the now-24-year-old needed from the heat. But, as a black gay man, he feels he’d been targeted during an otherwise fun day at London’s Wireless Festival. Remembering the incident now, Mohammed speaks with a mild tremor in his voice: “I was with two females just dancing, twerking on the girls, doing the most in front of Drake, and some white lads kept shouting shit”, before he says they chucked what he reckons was a near-full can of beer in his direction.

Right up there with Notting Hill Carnival, Love Island and the Aperol spritz, festival season has turned into one of the staples that captures the essence of British summertime. But, for many black gay men, it’s also a time subtly underpinned by the question of how ‘straight-passing’ you might be, and how much that protects you from homophobic verbal or physical harassment. A 2016 government-commissioned review into the UK LGBTQIA community’s experiences of inequality struggled to reach definitive conclusions because not enough actual data has been collected. But, even then, the review flagged up how being both black and queer in Britain lands a double whammy of possible trauma. “In respect of general safety,” its authors wrote, “the evidence on hate crime points to gay men, young people and those from black and ethnic minority groups being more at risk than LGB people from other ethnic groups and compared with heterosexual people.”

Anecdotally, though, you’ll have already likely heard about how black gay men are squeezed in a vice. On the one hand, they can be expected to live up to hyper-masculine ideals (“don’t be soft” and so on), then at the same time they’re being constantly measured up and misunderstood by racial stereotypes (an assumption of both criminality and hyper-sexuality). Graft that onto the time when Pride Month slides back into the general festival season, with booze as an un-inhibiting social lubricant, and you sow seeds of potential discord.

For black gay men, losing yourself to the music when you’re gassed by your favourite artist’s set at a gig, festival or other live music space can mean exposing yourself to danger if you dance or move in a way that’s coded as "queer." Josh Amofah, 21 and from Essex, tells me that his experiences have extended beyond just people’s homophobic reactions to him, to more explicit racial stereotyping. “I’ve definitely been uncomfortable with race and sexuality at concerts,” he tells me. “I’ve had white people ask if I’m selling drugs and been patted down extra by security, even when with my white friends.”

Josh further describes the way many black gay men have to navigate expressing themselves to the music and prioritising their physical safety. “In concerts I definitely feel more uncomfortable with my sexuality, especially when the people surrounding me are straight black males. I try and enjoy myself singing to the artists songs but I’m always conscious: are my hand gestures too feminine? or am I dancing really flamboyantly? I’ve heard people laugh or gesture to look at me while I’m enjoying myself. And the confined space makes me more fearful of being attacked verbally or physically.” He mentions feeling restricted, and having to be just a bit more aware of his surroundings to stay safe.

Marc Biakath, a 21-year-old nursing student from Leeds, knows the feeling, too. “As mad as it sounds, at concerts with lots of people, my auto mode is just to act ‘straight passing.’ I hate going to these events sometimes, mainly because I can’t be fully myself. I can’t whine with my friends, I have to make sure I don’t give off any ‘gay vibes.” In fairness, as he puts it, “I’ll have moments where I hit the liquor and I won’t care about who’s watching me – I just fully free the gay. But I still can never be fully comfortable, if I wanna whine or sing along to a song by a woman.”

Of course, varying degrees of safety compromise black gay men depending on how they present, and what types of music spaces they attend. Those who are more femme-presenting live with a distinct set of challenges, which makes someone as ‘masc’-presenting as 21-year-old management student Niya Taylor even more aware of his body. “It can be hard to ‘see’ that I’m gay,” he says, “and I’ve been told this many times. But on the other hand, I’ve been to concerts with previous boyfriends and we held hands and leaned on each other, and I never felt uncomfortable.”

Niya acknowledges that his experience is somewhat privileged, but extends his solidarity to other black gay men who are more vulnerable: “I think it’s inspirational to see black gay men be our full selves, so fearless and brave in these environments. But in the back of my head I’m always thinking: ‘in this crowd there might be someone that hates us.’ So I’m always thinking about protection, not in the sense of weapons, but in general. If something happens, is that person going to be able to protect himself, or will the people around him be able to protect him?”

Mohammed may reference a homophobic attack by white men, but a fair few men I hear from say they feel most uncomfortable in predominantly black music spaces. Standing flush against masculine blackness makes their queerness stick out as a more exaggerated transgression. As 25-year-old model and CEO of Cambridgeshire’s Strawberries & Creem Festival, Chris Jammer tells me, this issue is endemic in the music industry. “Growing up, I generally found that African and Caribbean culture had less tolerance for the LGBT community, especially with strong homophobic lyrics in ‘murder music’. With the urban music scene taking a lot from these cultures, I tended to keep quiet about my sexuality.”

But worrying about tolerance within these spaces doesn’t mean black gay men should retreat. Some may point to the ongoing movement of queer festival separatism – with LGBTQ+ festivals like Mighty Hoopla providing a haven during the height of Pride month. But at more mainstream, and thus white events like those, racial discrimination might stills creep in. What if you want ‘black’ music, and the community and vibe that comes with it? Then you set up your own inclusive event, as Chris did with Strawberries & Creem and as 25-year-old Akeil Onwukwe-Adamson does too. Akeil founded London's Queer Bruk as a nightclub space for black gay men to enjoy dancehall, symbolically fusing carnival and pride season. “Even though there’s such deep-rooted homophobia in dancehall,” he says, “it’s such an important part of black culture that I wanted to bring people together regardless of sexuality to enjoy it.”

Pride Month may be over, but as brands retire from cashing in on the pink pound for another year, men in the gay community continue to live with persistent threats to their safety. Mohammed’s experience is not an isolated one. As he puts it to me, “I wouldn’t act how I would at a Leikeli47 concert, as I would if I was seeing Giggs.” The fact that black gay men are still forced to code-switch to protect themselves goes to show that not all festival attendees feel the freedom and sanctuary so often associated with live music spaces. Even so, festival season rattles on. Here’s to hoping we can enjoy it without the unwelcome splash of some geezer’s warm drink.

*Names have been changed to protect people’s identities

@jasebyjason