INTROSPECT
WHATEVER PEOPLE SAY I AM, THAT'S WHAT I'M NOT I remember that a couple of the guys were dressed like New Romantics. Elaborate, with makeup, big jackets, and bright colours. It wasn’t the kind of club where you’d expect to see people dressed like that, but then, none of the clubs where I did my undergrad were. The nearest queer club was in Oxford. This was at Propaganda, the indie night that gets run up and down the country. The music there was, understandably, very male. My second year seemed to be defined
by the fact that Arctic Monkeys played wherever you went, alongside indie club staples like ‘Mr. Brightside,’ and ‘A-Punk.’ Music, especially in clubs, is something that’s designed to be a kind of communal experience; a room full of people collectively losing their minds when the perfect song comes on at the perfect time. But that feeling of community can be naturally strained if you’re drifting in-between different ways of moving through the dance floor, different ways 46
of responding to songs that feel like they’re never quite yours. I don’t know what those two new romantics were called; I don’t think I was ever introduced to them by name, or even had more than one or two conversations with them. I knew them that way that everybody knew people on dance floors in campus towns, through a friend. They were in my university’s LGBT+ Society. I met a few people through it who
