Interview Big Dyke Energy: Finding youself in a sweaty warehouse

STRAFEEEGEP INTERVIEW Big Dyke Energy

Words by MARTINE AAMODT HESS

The name is enough to warm the hearts of dykes and those who love ‘em, but what is happening inside the walls of Big Dyke Energy (BDE) goes far beyond a good pun. As the rave celebrated its three-year anniversary on April 30, FRUITY met the co-founders on a mission to liberate queer people.

Photo by Charlotte Callis structures of society, is so important.” yourself outside the heteronormative “Having a safe space, where you can be STRAP

At BDE, anyone who is not a queer woman, non-binary, intersex or trans+ (or exploring their identity within that umbrella), are expected to pay more for their ticket.

Photo by Charlotte Callis

Welcome to hedonism and euphoria, to sweat and harnesses, to vibration and movement. With a commitment to queer women, trans and non-binary communities, BDE is inviting people of marginalised groups to “rave safely and freely to underground music.” Founded in 2019, the rave was quick to success, with sold-out events and a rising reputation. These are nights Londoners look forward to for months, which is reflected in their extravagant outfits and an elated atmosphere. But among the city’s many raves, what is it about BDE that speaks to young queer people in particular?

It is a Friday afternoon when I log onto Zoom for a chat with BDE founders, Melody Jones and Elliott Clemenson. While work never seems to stop for the two, they are happy to celebrate the last day of the traditional workweek and greet me with a beer in hand. Getting the sense they have seen each other through thick and thin, I ask Elliott to describe Melody only using three words. “Capricorn, boujee (you love the finer things in life), motivated (you go after what you want),” they say with a smile. Then, it is Melody’s turn: “You’re kind, calm and cheeky.” They share a contagious laugh. The kind of laughter that makes you wonder if it might be a good idea to go into business with your best friend after all. The duo, now running one of London’s most exciting queer nights, was brought together by the LGBT+ venue Dalston Superstore, where Elliott was DJ-ing at the time. A request from Melody to play at one of their DJ nights quickly blossomed into a friendship, and as time will have it, also business partners.

“I felt annoyed that there wasn’t a party in London that was hedonistic and also catered to people who defined as women, non-binary or marketed to people who were trans,” Melody explains. This frustration reached a tipping point when she was approached by a bar asking her to start an LGBT+ night due to her background in teaching women how to DJ. Being a headstrong lesbian with a vision, this was an exciting opportunity, but Melody found that as long as she was working for someone, she had to compromise. It was time to take matters into her own hands. Be her own boss. Start her own night. The kind of rave the community was so desperately lacking.

Together with Elliott, she came up with the name Big Dyke Energy, and the rave soon found a home in South East London’s warehouse-turned-venue MOT. “And that’s how it started. We had the first party, it sold out and the rest is history from there.”

But to what do they owe their success? “When you walk through MOT, there’s a sense of euphoria and complete removal from the everyday,” Melody says. In other words, whether the feeling of repression is brought on by Covid-19 measures, the political climate, your sexuality or gender, BDE offers an escape. She continues: “The idea of having a safe space, where you can be yourself outside the heteronormative structures of society, is so important. I think that is why there is such a big calling for it. People just need a release.”

Elliott, who is trans, has been nodding along and emphasises the significance of such spaces for the young and queer in particular. “At the age of 18 to early 20s you are discovering yourself and a party like this allows you to do that,” they say, adding that growing up as a queer person means learning that the world around you, including the majority of parties, are not catered to you. “We are giving sound and space to people who are underrepresented.”

The dedication to creating a safe space was not a question, it was a necessity. Melody recounts one night she was misgendered when using the bathroom in a club. Security broke down the door and demanded she used the urinals. She was only 21. Nine years have passed since then, but not much has changed. “It’s sad that major clubs can’t make their spaces safe for everybody. But we’re still in this scenario, unfortunately,” she says. “I’ve had loads of instances. What annoys me the most is that when you raise it with the clubs, nothing gets done about it.” Drawing on their personal experiences with harassment, the two of them are determined to do better. “Compared to bigger events, we have more control of what goes on,” Elliott says and adds that they have a presence at each party. They can be spotted wearing staff armbands, making them visible to those who might need help but are not comfortable speaking to security. Other measures include briefing the people working on the door, making sure they use gender-neutral language and are aware that a photo ID might not match how a person looks now.

Melody and Elliott take pride in having a strict door policy that helps ensure people feel comfortable to let loose for the night. They are in a privileged position because selling out before most parties means there is no pressure to sell tickets on the door. The rave is not

“ We are giving sound and space to people who are underrepresented.

We are giving sound and space to people who are underrepresented. ”

inclusive in the sense that everyone is welcome, but inclusive because it is made for people who otherwise do not feel welcome in a club setting. “We have a space and an atmosphere where people are happy to dance without their top on and don’t feel threatened,” Elliott says. Inside these doors, queer women, trans and non-binary people are the priority, compared to most parties which are geared towards cisgender men.

Considering the crowd, setting the event to dance music is culturally significant. “Growing up, dance music was incredibly heteronormative. I went to illegal raves in Manchester and all the people behind the decks were men,” Melody points out. “It’s a boys’ club but you discover there is a huge queer history of it,” Elliott adds.

BDE is paving the way for a more inclusive nightlife by going into spaces that are heteronormative and running queer parties from them - but it takes hard work. “We’re getting better with it but running a party that grew in success so quickly is really hard,” Melody says. The founders both works full-time outside their commitments to BDE and have spent the past two years navigating how to organise a rave in the time of a pandemic. While BDE was embraced by the community from day one, they were only able to host four raves before the country went into lockdown. As restrictions started to ease, nightclubs opened but they encountered licensing issues and had to move the rave around to different venues. Paying their staff and DJs, and keeping tickets at a minimum cost, became a challenge when licensing was decided by the council at the last minute, and grassroots parties did not receive government support.

Despite the challenges, BDE is the labour of love for Elliott and Melody. “We want it to be exactly how we envisioned. That is why we go through the stress of it,” Elliott says. Melody’s favourite memory is walking down the street and being stopped by someone telling her they met their fiance at BDE. “Whenever we are in the thick of it, I take a step back and look at this party that means so much to people.”

Photo by Charlotte Callis Elliott and Melody (from left).