Lesbian nightlife in Amsterdam: an explorative study of the shift from 'queer-only' to 'queer-friendly' spaces
URN:NBN:fi:tsv-oa83696
DOI: 10.11143/fennia.83696
Lesbian nightlife in Amsterdam: an explorative study of the shift
from ‘queer-only’ to ‘queer-friendly’ spaces
MARIEKE EKENHORST AND IRINA VAN AALST
Ekenhorst, M. & van Aalst, I. (2019) Lesbian nightlife in Amsterdam: an
explorative study of the shift from ‘queer-only’ to ‘queer-friendly’ spaces.
Fennia 197(2) 200–214. https://doi.org/10.11143/fennia.83696
This paper explains the decline of lesbian space in Amsterdam
through a better understanding of young lesbians' lived
experiences of in/exclusion in urban nightlife. The study is
situated in Amsterdam, a city internationally known as a queer capital. In-
depth interviews were conducted with young lesbian clubbers, owners of
local lesbian bars, and organizers of lesbian-oriented parties. The results
show that straight and queer spaces should be understood as fluid since
the clientele has become a queer and non-queer blend after a shift
towards an ‘inclusive’ and open-minded vibe. That shift goes hand in hand
with the commodification of queer venues, which puts pressure on the
few women-only spaces left. As the interviews revealed, a commodified
open-minded, ‘inclusive’ venue or party is not necessarily a safe space for
lesbian clubbers. The interviews also foregrounded the diversity among
lesbian clubbers, which partially explains the widening range of venues
and party concepts with a concomitant decline in visibility. This paper
suggests some ways to create safe lesbian nightlife space, in light of the
experiences of interviewed clubbers and information gathered from
entrepreneurs within the scene.
Keywords: nightlife, queer spaces, lesbians, fluidity, commodification,
Amsterdam
Marieke (A.H.) Ekenhorst, Independent Researcher. E-mail: marieke_
ekenhorst@hotmail.com
Irina van Aalst, Urban Geography, Department of Human Geography and
Planning, Utrecht University, Princetonlaan 8a, 3584 CB Utrecht, The
Netherlands. E-mail: i.vanaalst@uu.nl
Introduction
The city of Amsterdam is known worldwide as a place of sexual freedom and for tolerance of a broad
gay and lesbian community. The first same-sex marriage in 2001 set an example for other countries
(Hekma & Duyvendak 2011). While Amsterdam remains one of the world's top destinations, particularly
for gay travel and the red-light district (van Aalst & van Liempt 2018), its lesbian nightlife has been
under pressure. In 2017, one of the last lesbian venues, Vivelavie, closed its doors after 37 years.
© 2019 by the author. This open access article is licensed under
a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
201KirjoittajaFENNIA 197(2) (2019)
Meanwhile, the oldest lesbian bar left in Amsterdam, Sarein II, has transformed from a lesbian-only
space to a place open for “all queer minded people" (Saarein 2019). What happened?
Feminist and queer liberation movements claimed the right to be out at night in the 1960s and
1970s, and ‘pink’ nightlife became increasingly popular (Hekma 1992). Starting with the first lesbian
café Tabu in 1970 (ibid. 1992), the 1980s were ‘the golden age’ of lesbian visibility in terms of spatial
clusters of commercial spaces, like bars, discos and clubs (e.g. Podmore 2006). Schuyf (1992) described
the social dynamics of lesbian communities in the 1970s and 1980s in the Netherlands. Lesbian-only
cafés were used as spaces for political activities by the second-wave feminist movement. A variety of
shifting economic, social, political and geographical factors have contributed to the current invisibility
of lesbians and the sharp decline of lesbian space, not only in Amsterdam but in other metropolises
in North America and Europe (Podmore 2006; Fobear 2012; Forstie 2018).
Due to anti-discrimination legislation and growing acceptance in mainstream society from the
1990s (Hubbard et al. 2015), gay enclaves were transformed into queer districts (Podmore 2006;
Brown 2014) and incorporated into the city's tourism and marketing strategies (Goh 2018). Research
explains the loss of women-only bars and the marginalization of lesbians due to gentrification
processes (Podmore 2006) and to the dominant position of gay men in such enclaves (Pritchard et al.
2002; Browne 2006). The increased trendiness of these areas attracted a social mix of visitors and
tourists, though some queer communities seemed to be excluded (e.g. Adamson 2017), based on
gender and other asymmetries like race and class (Browne 2006). Investigating lesbian venues and
institutions, Forstie (2018) suggest that a post-lesbian era has already arrived (see also McNaron
2007). Young girls do not want to be restricted to socializing in lesbian-specific places. This growing
detachment from identity politics could be attributed to an intergenerational tension among lesbian
women (Fobear 2012). In this paper, lesbians’ position in urban spaces is understood to be not only
determined by sexuality but also interrelated with other categories, such as age and gender.
There is a wide range of academic literature focused on gay male spaces (Nash & Gorman-Murray
2015) but few studies on young lesbians’ clubbing preferences or on in- or exclusion practices in
nightlife (Pritchard et al. 2002; Browne 2007a; Fobear 2012). In that light, our aim is to explain the lack
of lesbian space in Amsterdam’s nightlife through a better understanding of young lesbians' lived
experiences of in/exclusion in Amsterdam’s queer scene on the basis of qualitative research. The data
on which this article is based are derived from in-depth interviews with clubbers and key actors in the
lesbian nightlife scene in Amsterdam.
An extensive body of literature has asserted that space is produced as heterosexual and constructed
as heteronormative (e.g. Valentine 1993, 1995). Human geographers like Binnie (1997) and Valentine
(1995) investigated questions about gender and visibility and how gay men and lesbians marked and
claimed urban spaces. In ‘queer geographies’, queer is often seen as an overarching term describing
multiple groups of sexual dissidents and referring to the broader LGBTI (lesbian, gay, bisexual,
transgender, intersex) community (Browne 2006; Oswin 2008). Contemporary academic debates
challenge conceptualizations of queer space as dissident space or claimed space, instead emphasizing
the fluidity of queer spaces (e.g. Browne 2006; Goh 2018). Recent research describes the users of these
spaces (queers) not only as sexual identities but “simultaneously as raced, classed, and gendered bodies”
(Oswin 2008, 91). Taking this into account and following Maliepaard (2015) we characterize queer spaces
as relatively free from the influences of heteronormativity and which thereby provide members of the
LGBTI community the opportunity to express their multiple identities (Goh 2018). The term ‘lesbian
space’ refers to nightlife space that is labelled ‘for lesbians’ (Cattan & Vanolo 2014) while ‘gay male space’
consists of clubs and bars explicitly meant for homosexual men (Browne & Bakshi 2011).
The theoretical framework is outlined in the following, under the headings of urban nightlife
developments and lesbian nightlife spaces. After elaborating the research design and the geographical
context of Amsterdam, the results of the study are reported. These results touch upon struggles of
lesbian venues, the increasing popularity of lesbian and women-oriented parties, multiple and fluid
lesbian identities, and the complex search for safe and inclusive nightlife spaces. The final section
presents the conclusion.
202 FENNIA 197(2) (2019)Research paper
Urban nightlife developments: regeneration, gentrification, commodification
Nightlife in large cities operates within an economy-driven framework. The term ‘night-time economy’
(NTE) encompasses the obvious links between nightlife, job creation, and inter-urban competitiveness
(e.g. Shaw 2010; van Liempt et al. 2015). Increasingly, the term is used for the assemblage of bars,
clubs, cinemas, theatres, cultural festivals and parties which are, in a context of urban
entrepreneurialism, supposed to contribute to urban regeneration and local economic growth. The
promotion of the NTE has, in many places, sparked social conflicts between partygoers and (gentrifying)
residents in and around city centres (Hae 2011), often over noise levels and litter.
Nonetheless, nightlife venues frequently contribute to gentrification. Flourishing clubs make urban
areas attractive to wealthy residents with other tastes and rhythms, with the result that nightlife itself
becomes gentrified (Garcia 2018). According to the academic literature, this uptake partially explains
the invisibility of lesbians in nightlife. Studying the Village in Montreal, Podmore (2006) analyses the
shifting character of lesbian territorial practices and the loss of women-only bars due to gentrification.
In the 1990s, this area became the local economic engine for gay and queer commerce, serving as a
site for local boosterism and the expansion of the tourist market (Podmore 2006). Nash and Gorman-
Murray (2015) report a similar transformation in Sydney’s and Toronto’s former gay villages, where
the commodification of gay nightlife and the mainstreaming of LGBTI spaces attracts a larger crowd
of straight people, partly international visitors (Pritchard et al. 2002; Nash & Gorman-Murray 2015).
According to Brown (2014), the number of exclusively gay and lesbian bars has declined in traditional
‘gayborhoods’. Such spaces across the Global North are often the territoriality of gay men (and to a
lesser extent the LBTI community) and pre-dominantly white (see Brown 2014 on sexual minorities in
gayborhoods). The growing presence of straight clubbers attracted by these cool, exotic and fun
places has led to a feeling of displacement among the LGBTI community, and also to the loss of spaces
with a strong queer identity (Pritchard et al. 2002; Nash & Gorman-Murray 2015). This ‘de-gaying
process’ can feel threatening; lesbians in particular do not feel welcome anymore in ‘their own space’
and they feel frustration and anger due to their loss of safe space (Pritchard et al. 2002; Eves 2004).
Skeggs’ research in the gay village in Manchester has shown that while “for straight women the gay
space offers a space away from the demands of heterosexuality, specifically men and hetero-
masculine performances” (Skeggs 1999, cited in Held 2015, 35), the gay space still prescribes certain
gender norms which make lesbians feel uncomfortable.
Another development that affects lesbian clubbing is the rise of party concepts and themed club
nights (Boogaarts-de Bruin 2011; Roberts & Townshend 2013). Over the past decade, the number of
pubs has been declining. Meanwhile, clubs have started a new trend of ‘broad programming’ to
diversify their clientele by renting the venues out. Party organizers and DJ collectives have emerged
around specific themes and sell their party concepts to clubs throughout the Netherlands (Boogaarts-
de Bruin 2011). The rise of temporary parties is also affecting the queer scene, as Cattan and Vanolo
(2014, 1163) describe: “a new type of lesbian party is flourishing, which consists of itinerant nights
taking place in different parts of the city.” All these trends influence the spatiality and fluidity of
lesbian nightlife in Amsterdam.
Lesbian nightlife spaces: paradoxical spaces
The queer scene is a setting where people get the opportunity to dance, experiment, and meet their
friends without being in a heteronormative world (Valentine & Skelton 2003). Therefore, it is considered
to be a safe space. The absence of heterosexual norms and the ‘male gaze’ creates a liberated feeling
for lesbians (Pritchard et al. 2002; Fobear 2012; Held 2015) in a space where they can express
themselves without the feeling of being judged (Myslik 1996; Maliepaard 2015). Other clubbers can
confirm and justify these identities, which can lead to more self-confidence regarding one’s sexual
identity (Valentine & Skelton 2003). Queer clubbers have the feeling they are joining an ‘imagined
community’ with a shared identity, which creates a sense of belonging (Pritchard et al. 2002). However,
the ‘community’ is fragmented by “many relations of inequality, exclusion and exploitation between
them (…)” (Valentine & Skelton 2003, 854). This suggests that the queer scene, which appears to be a
203FENNIA 197(2) (2019) Marieke Ekenhorst & Irina van Aalst
safe and inclusive setting at first sight, is still marked by divisions and tensions within the community
itself. The scene can be intimidating because of its expressive and often sexualized character. Queers
who join the scene for the first time are at risk of dressing and acting queer in order to conform to the
dominant queer culture, while still feeling insecure about their own sexual identity (Valentine &
Skelton 2003). Conformity to the dominant queer culture can be experienced as a kind of pressure,
especially when there is no space to share insecure feelings and doubts about one’s sexual identity.
Furthermore, the queer scene seems to be divided along gendered lines. As many feminist
geographers have argued, gender differences must be recognized to understand spatial practices and
negotiations in public spaces (e.g. Pain 2001 about perceptions of fear and vulnerability). Pritchard,
Morgan and Sedgley (2002) conducted research on the experiences of lesbians within the gay village
of Manchester. They argue that men dominate the queer scene there, which causes feelings of
displacement among lesbians. Their marginalized position within queer space is experienced as
problematic because queer space is perceived to be ‘their’ (lesbian) space as well. Podmore (2006,
598) argues that “bars have been central to the process of building visibility among lesbians at the
urban scale and expanding what lesbians have identified as their territory.” All these dynamics point
to the paradoxical nature of queer, and more specifically lesbian, space; while some people experience
clubs and bars as safe and inclusive spaces in which they can freely express themselves, a significant
number experience this space as pressuring and intimidating.
Based on research in Montreal, Podmore (2006) asserts that lesbian nightlife has deterritorialized
and become more integrated in former gay-male space. This is partially explained by gentrification
but also by a shift in lesbian identification processes. By the early 1990s, queer politics was on the rise,
meaning that lesbians and gay men were working together on common projects. As more lesbians
identified with queer politics, lesbians and gay men became more integrated in the ‘queer space’. This
shift in lesbian identities corresponds to the findings of Fobear (2012) in Amsterdam where the lesbian
scene seems to be divided by age. Younger lesbians (in their twenties) feel less need to be ‘visible’ than
older women do (those who were active in the feminist/lesbian movements of the 1970s and 1980s).
The younger generation perceives lesbian space as excluding, intimidating, hostile to newcomers and
even as “a meat market for lesbian hookups” (Fobear 2012, 734). They have a stronger desire to mix
within queer and heterosexual clubbing scenes, because these environments were considered less
pressuring and “the judging circle phenomenon was diminished” (Fobear 2012, 734). These judgements
would presumably be less prominent within queer or heterosexual space and mixing would enhance
the sexual development of the younger lesbian generation. The desire to mix within queer and
heterosexual clubbing scenes might also be related to the decline of a strong lesbian identity. Hekma
and Duyvendak (2006, 443) argue that most queer people in the Netherlands do not have strong
sexual identities, noting that “the absence of strong sexual identities parallels the lack of spatially
concentrated gay and lesbian communities.” This is in line with the findings of Fobear (2012); younger
lesbians do not primarily identify themselves as ‘being lesbian’. Although their sexual identity does not
appear to be the main concern, lesbian nightlife space has not lost its value. According to Fobear
(2012), the debates on spaces and visibility should be couched in broader discussions on normativity
and lesbian identification processes.
Lesbian identification processes can be linked to "the construction of social norms that include
lesbians and gay men on the condition that they conform to individualist and consumerist economic
values and lead sexual lives that mirror the norms of heteronormativity (e.g. long-term, monogamous
relationships within specific gender norms)" (Browne & Bakshi 2011, 181). The assumption is that
members of the LBGTI community want to be part of the dominant culture. This assertion corresponds
to the research of Fobear (2012, 736), who finds that young lesbian clubbers do not want to stand out
from the rest of society. They feel a strong desire ‘to be normal’ and to not to deviate from the gender
norm although it was not seen as hiding their sexual identity. According to Browne and Bakshi (2011),
homonormativity structures the queer community and causes marginalization within the queer
scene. Young lesbians associate lesbian identity with being overly masculine, ugly, man-hating,
crude, and aggressive. This impression of what a lesbian is supposed to be leads younger ‘femme’
lesbians to feel uncomfortable about portraying themselves as a lesbian. At the same time, ‘butches’
feel pressured to ‘act normal’, meaning more feminine, to avoid reinforcing ‘negative’ stereotypes
204 Research paper FENNIA 197(2) (2019)
(Fobear 2012, 738). These identification processes suggest pressure within the queer scene to dress,
act and behave according to certain gendered and sexualized norms. If you do not fit the norm, it is
difficult to feel welcome within the queer or lesbian nightlife space. To understand their feelings of
in- and exclusion in urban nightlife, it is thus important to analyse the spatial practices and lived
experiences of young lesbians.
Discovering urban nightlife through the eyes of lesbian clubbers and entrepreneurs
This paper draws from an empirical study with a qualitative research design. Conducting in-depth
interviews was deemed appropriate to gain a better understanding of young lesbians’ lived experiences
of in/exclusion in Amsterdam’s nightlife (Seidman 2006). This study focuses on young lesbians who go
clubbing in Amsterdam. They form a specific group that cannot be reduced to a simple category of
being only women, lesbian, nor youngster (Parent et al. 2013; Rodo-de-Zarate 2015). Fobear (2012)
highlights generational differences between lesbian clubbers in Amsterdam; her findings confirm that
nightlife experiences are related to age, but also to gender, sex, and sexuality. Since these categories
intersect, overlap and interact, the lens of intersectionality is applied throughout this research process
(Valentine 2007; Parent et al. 2013).
Respondents were recruited through various personal social networks using a snowball sampling
technique which helped to gain easy access and initial trust. All of the respondents are women [18–30
years old], self-identified as lesbian or bisexual, and (recently) active within the nightlife (queer) scene
of Amsterdam. They live in the city, are students or have a job, and their educational background is
diverse, ranging from vocational to academic. The clubbers’ views have been combined with the
perspectives of entrepreneurs active in Amsterdam’s lesbian scene to gain a more thorough
understanding about the decline of lesbian space.
Our findings are based upon interviews conducted during daytime between March and May 2017
with six lesbian clubbers and four key actors in the lesbian nightlife scene: one entrepreneur of a
(former) lesbian venue and three organizers of lesbian parties. The entrepreneur was responsible for
Vivelavie and one organizer had set up the lesbian event Lesbique. The other organizers (a team of
three women, two of whom were interviewed together) were responsible for the parties YARRR,
GirlDrop and Klitty. The lesbian venues and party concepts will be explained in the following section.
In addition to these interviews, one expert-interview was conducted with a researcher to provide
some context on gender, sexuality and emancipation in the Netherlands.
Before each interview, we obtained verbal informed consent to record the conversation. All
recordings, which had an average length of 50 minutes, were transcribed verbatim and analysed
through several cycles of coding and categorizing. The analysis started with the “open-ended process
called Initial Coding” (Saldaña 2015, 4) and was combined with in vivo coding. During the process of
recoding and recategorizing, we used analytic memos to reflect on the data and enhance our analysis.
The data was analysed in Dutch, the original language of the interviews. The quotes were translated
by a native-speaking text editor. Pseudonyms are used for all participants, while organizers and
entrepreneurs are anonymised. The real location and names of bars and parties are presented to
maintain a clear connection with the local context of Amsterdam.
Geographical context: queer spaces in Amsterdam
Amsterdam promotes itself as a queer-friendly capital and uses this image for city marketing purposes
(Amsterdam Info 2016; Travel Gay Europe 2017). Whereas some global cities have clearly demarcated
queer neighbourhoods (e.g. Cattan & Vanolo 2014; The Castro in San Francisco and The Marais in
Paris, see Mattson 2015), queer nightlife spaces in Amsterdam are scattered throughout the city
centre. The streets Reguliersdwarsstraat, Amstel and Kerkstraat are characterized by a high density of
queer pubs and clubs (Amsterdam Info 2016; Nighttours 2016; Travel Gay Europe 2017); as shown in
Figure 1, famous places like Club NYX are located in this area (Club NYX 2019). Another prominent
queer bar, De Trut, is a bit hidden and only open on Sunday nights; it is difficult to trace online but
well-known among clubbers within the scene. Since the beginning of 2017, heterosexuals are officially
205FENNIA 197(2) (2019) FENNIA 197(2) (2019)
allowed to enter. Almost none of the queer venues have an exclusive character in the sense of being
restricted to people with a certain gender or sexual orientation.
At the time of our research, the city had only two historically lesbian-oriented bars: Vivelavie and
Saarein. Vivelavie is a pub in the main queer district (Fig. 1), near the touristic ‘Rembrandt square’. The
respondents describe Vivelavie as a commercialized, more ‘mainstream’ bar, where you can go for a
drink or dance late at night. Saarein, in contrast, is a bit secluded and situated in a residential area (Fig.
1). It is described as a place to talk, hang out and play pool/billiards. Saarein is known to attract an older
generation of lesbians. Two respondents refer to its historically political and feminist character. Aside
from these two lesbian-oriented venues, there are several lesbian-oriented parties. Our respondents
mention a wide range of events which emerge and disappear, though some make a comeback over
time. These parties are organized in a flexible way, and the sequence mainly depends on the available
time of the organizers. Periods with regular parties held at specific times of the month alternate with
periods without these parties. We will focus here on four parties that were important during the time
of the fieldwork. Lesbique is a lesbian evening in the queer bar Spijkerbar and is usually held once a
month on a Monday. It is a meeting space where lesbians can gather and hang out. Initially, Lesbique
was part of the queer party Flikker but in the form of a theme night meant to attract queerer women
to Flikker. One of the organizers of Flikker decided to develop the idea of Lesbique further and started
up her own event. The idea of Lesbique is to host a “real get-together, where people can have a
conversation with each other, to meet like-minded and new people” (organizer Lesbique).
YARRR, GirlDrop and Klitty are different party concepts, each organized by one group of three
women but each with its own character. YARRR has the vibe of a club and is a party where young
lesbians can meet and dance. It is held in various venues and has grown over the years from 100
visitors to 300. GirlDrop is a smaller, low-key bar hang-out organized in the Cut Throat Barber Shop at
the heart of Amsterdam. The shop is temporarily transformed into a small dance floor during these
parties. Klitty was on hold during the time of interviewing; it used to operate in the winter and it
featured live music and jam sessions.
Fig. 1. Amsterdam queer nightlife venues.
206 Research paper FENNIA 197(2) (2019)
Struggles of lesbian venues
Just a few weeks after the interview with the owner of Vivelavie, the bar announced it would close its
doors after 37 years in business (Telegraaf 2017). The 70-year-old owner had sold it to an external
actor; she explained how difficult it is for a lesbian bar to survive in Amsterdam:
At first, it is all new, and fun, and everyone likes to come. And later on, the question is: can I keep
them in? But aside from that, you should also have other guests besides the lesbian
women, to keep your business healthy. You can’t carry on by focusing on one group only.
(entrepreneur Vivelavie)
She stressed the entrepreneurial importance of moving away from a lesbian-only crowd, given the
high costs of running a bar in the city centre. During the interview, she highlighted the role that tourists
and local neighbours play in keeping the business going. Interestingly, both clubbers and entrepreneurs
had specific ideas on lesbians’ spending behaviour. Compared to gay men, lesbian clubbers would
drink less alcohol, spend less money, and party less frequently, especially if they are in a relationship.
The organizer of Lesbique links the lack of lesbian nightlife venues in Amsterdam to “a big generalization
or opinion about lesbian women that they do not drink, that they are stingy”. This is in line with the
vision of the entrepreneur of Vivelavie who said that it is not profitable to focus only on lesbians. Some
clubbers explained their view:
Well it’s not so strange that clubs focus on gay men. Because if they [gay men] are in a relationship,
they still party as much as they would without being in a relationship. Spend more money, often
also have more money, that’s just logic you know. No strange desires to have children or so (laughs)
(Tiffany, clubber, aged 25)
And financially it is really, if you just see what a man spends on an evening, a gay man spends and
a woman, then it’s also related to how much money women and men earn. Yeah and especially gay
men, they work so much and have better jobs in general, higher salaries and that’s what you notice.
(Anne, clubber, aged 27)
Interestingly, Tiffany and Anne relate ideas on how lesbians spend their money to a gendered pay
gap. That gap is still present in the Netherlands: women earned 15.2% less than men for similar types
of jobs in 2019 (European Commission 2019). Following the clubbers’ reasoning, a lower income might
mean that women spend less money on clubbing. While it is beyond the scope of this research to
examine whether clubbers have different, gendered spending behaviour, Jayne, Valentine and
Holloway (2016) discuss how drinking practices are differentially constructed for men and women.
Differences in alcohol use often reflect gender roles about appropriate masculinities and femininities
and cultural expectations (Jayne et al. 2016). We could assume that other factors like cultural
background and upbringing also affect drinking and spending behaviours.
The desire to have children was also mentioned by Tiffany as a possible reason why lesbians would
go clubbing less. Her idea is underpinned by the assumption that more lesbians would have a child
wish compared to gay men and touches upon gendered divisions within the queer scene. These
gendered divisions (see also Pritchard et al. 2002; Fobear 2012) might explain some of the
entrepreneurial difficulties of lesbian venues.
Another struggle faced by lesbian venues is found in the competition among footloose parties.
These women-oriented events have gained popularity in Amsterdam, which corresponds with a
broader shift in urban nightlife from fixed venues to temporary parties (Boogaarts-de Bruin 2011;
Roberts & Townshend 2013). The organizers of Lesbique, YARRR, GirlDrop and Klitty mentioned that
they do not face financial problems and therefore feel no need to attract a broader crowd. These
organizers do not have monthly fixed costs (e.g. rent, pay checks, electricity bills, salaries) and only
need to cover the costs of their party. Since their work is mainly non-profit, they need less money to
keep their parties going. This fits in with another broader trend in Amsterdam: the shortage of inner-
city space for creative activity and strict regulations lead to a music and clubbing scene characterized
by festivals and foot-loose actors (Dorst 2015).
207FENNIA 197(2) (2019) Marieke Ekenhorst & Irina van Aalst
Lesbian and women-oriented parties: a key to success?
YARRR, GirlDrop, Klitty and Lesbique can be understood as four different events sharing a similar
approach to organize a party or bar hang-out specially meant for women within the queer scene of
Amsterdam’s nightlife. The initial idea of YARRR was to start a creative venue where people can dance,
enjoy the music, hook up and make friends. After six years of organizing YARRR, the concept was
professionalized and evolved towards a club setting. While YARRR developed as a club venue, the
organizers initiated GirlDrop as a place to hang out with friends. As the organizers describe it:
Well, YARRR is more of a club venue, so, it’s a higher volume. But it’s just that we also have other
programmes in there. GirlDrop is more a hangout, no entry fees, a lot of start-up DJs are coming there.
We give them the opportunity and sometimes we give them a short lesson to perform, how you need
to DJ. YARRR is a bit more professional, on the performing side. (organizers YARRR, GirlDrop & Klitty)
An important aspect of YARRR, GirlDrop and Klitty is the flexibility and fluidity of these party concepts.
The parties are characterized by a constant turnover of new ideas, varying in time, location, venue,
crowd, music (DJs), themes and name. The organizers explained that they deliberately chose not to
hold YARRR at the same place but to continually change the location, giving thought to the production
costs and the need for a good sound system. Aside from preventing high monthly costs, changing
venues keeps it interesting to themselves and to the clubbers: “And we like to evolve you know.
And the reason why we change venues is that we don’t want to bore our people and us also”
(organizers YARRR, GirlDrop & Klitty).
Another example of flexibility can be found in the diversity of music offered at their parties. With
YARRR, every hour a different style of music caters for different groups of women. This fits the trend
of ‘broad programming’ (Boogaarts-de Bruin 2011) and hiring various DJs with different music styles
to attract a broad audience. The party organizers mentioned that they explicitly aim to reach a diverse
crowd, which fits the strategy of broad programming. It might also fit the need to accommodate
different groups within the internally diverse lesbian community.
The fluidity and constant evolution of party concepts seem to be key to the success of lesbian and
women-oriented parties (Cattan & Vanolo 2014). These characteristics might also explain some of the
popularity of parties and festivals; if a concept does not work well, it is easier for event organizers to
change some of its main elements (venue, location, music, targeted crowd) or to even start from
scratch with a completely new concept. This is more difficult for entrepreneurs with a fixed venue.
Being ‘footloose’ provides high flexibility and reduces costs. Fixed venues seem to have less flexibility
to experiment with new elements (being tied to the same venue and location) and are locked into
fixed costs. These dynamics seem to explain their struggle to keep their business healthy.
Fluid and multiple lesbian identities
During the interviews, the lesbian clubbers stressed the variety of lesbian identities. They associate a
‘lesbian’ identity with short hair, tattoos, piercings, a boyish look, and sometimes with ‘being feminists’.
These descriptions are paired with different labels. Among others Eves (2004) used a more classical
distinction between ‘femme’ and ‘butch’, while our respondents mentioned soft-femme (Jane, clubber,
aged 30), hard-femme (Jane, clubber, aged 30), hard-core dyke (Rose, clubber, aged 19) and lipstick
lesbians (entrepreneur Vivelavie; Jane, clubber, aged 30). The idea of a feminist, boyish, short-haired
lesbian seemed to be derived from the feminist movement of the 1970s (Fobear 2012). Most of the
interviewed clubbers did not recognize themselves in these profiles. As Jane explains: “For example if
someone asks ‘what, what are you?’ then I say like ‘just gay’. ‘Aren’t you a lesbian then?’ Well the word
lesbian sounds so dirty. Les-bi-an, it sounds so owww, I don’t know what it is” (Jane, clubber, aged 30).
The resistance to having a ‘lesbian’ identity might reflect a strong urge to ‘be normal’. This impression
is in line with the findings of Fobear (2012), who states that younger lesbians do not like to deviate
from the gender norm. Jane (clubber, aged 30) states that she “does not like to be seen as different”,
and Simone (clubber, aged 26) explains that “If someone says: ‘I didn’t expect you to be gay’. Then that
actually means: ‘because you look straight’. And somehow I feel flattered (…) I actually do not want it
to be flattering, but it is. And perhaps sometimes I even try a bit harder to look straighter.”
208 Research paper FENNIA 197(2) (2019)
This urge to ‘be normal’ seems to represent a sense of homonormativity (Browne & Bakshi 2011) in
which clubbers feel the need to fit in with mainstream society without trying to hide their sexual
identity (Fobear 2012). This might explain why some lesbians prefer to be invisible in the sense that
they do not want to stand out from society (Fobear 2012).
While there are diverse lesbian identities, our respondents expressed more fluid ideas on gender
and sexual identities. Jane (clubber, aged 30) states that “I don’t think in masculine and feminine.
That is what you [society] are doing. And that’s why I also think about it sometimes. But for myself it
is not something I think of.”
Her comment highlights the important distinction between a self-ascribed identity and an identity
ascribed by others. Several clubbers expressed discomfort about being confronted with stereotypes of
what a lesbian identity would entail without recognizing themselves in these ideas. These clubbers felt
they were being placed in a box, as others decide what it means to be lesbian. As Lisa (expert) states:
In feminist or lesbian research and cultures there exists this strict distinction between ‘femme’
and ‘butch’. Well, I am not really in favour, because you clearly separate it in feminine and
masculine. While if you do not fit the gender norms, you shouldn’t search for new boxes, to make
this [new box] the new norm.
And as the organizer of Lesbique explains, “It’s not like I have one identification box that I fit and I’m
also not looking at other people like: ‘wow, you are really this, or you are only that.’ I think it’s more a
scale of different components and that nobody is only one thing.” This fluid approach to both gender
and sexuality is increasingly adopted by scholars (e.g. Browne 2006; Oswin 2008). Browne (2006)
urges researchers to move beyond the homo/heterosexual and feminine/masculine dualistic
framework towards a more comprehensive understanding that explores the complexity and fluidity
of sexes, genders, sexualities and desires.
Three of our interviewed clubbers expanded on how plural and diverse lesbian identities are
hypersexualized, especially during their mainstream clubbing experiences in Amsterdam. Personal
examples reveal how two women who show affection are often sexualized in mainstream clubs; the
presence of the ‘male gaze’ in these mainstream venues is a reason for some clubbers to prefer the
queer scene. Sarah (clubber, aged 19) mentions that she is not taken seriously when she is clubbing
with her girlfriend and encounters heterosexual men who try to hit on lesbian women: “Imagine
someone would hit on my girlfriend and I said ‘this is my girlfriend’, they don’t take it seriously and
keep on going (...) Or if I were kissing with my girlfriend then people would only start sexualizing this:
‘Oh really nice lesbian sex and so’.”
Tiffany and Rose have similar experiences of heterosexual men making comments: “You have not
tried my dick yet” (Tiffany, clubber, aged 25) and “Oh, that was horny, could you do that again?” (Rose,
clubber, aged 19). Sarah, Tiffany, and Rose feel irritated by such behaviour, comments and gazes.
They feel more aware of their sexuality because of the heteronormative gender roles which cast
young lesbians as ‘different’.
The plurality and fluidity of lesbian identities, but also the stereotypical features and urge to meet
gendered and sexualized norms might explain why some young lesbian clubbers prefer to stay away
from specific lesbian- or women-only nightlife spaces. However, the clubbers we interviewed
affirmed the need for a safe space where lesbians can freely express their emotions and sexual
identities in Amsterdam’s nightlife.
Fluid dynamics of safe space
In general, lesbian clubbers describe queer venues as places where they can experiment and express
themselves in an open way (in line with Valentine & Skelton 2003; Maliepaard 2015). “It is just really
pleasant to merge yourself in a crowd.” (Sarah, clubber, aged 19), and Simone (clubber, aged 26) states:
You just want to celebrate your evening with peers, you just want to party. And ehm, you don’t
need to, you don’t want to think about it! (…) And if everyone is gay, you don’t need to think about
it [sexuality], since you are just part of a group that does stuff together and when a group of
heteros joins, you just immediately feel… so conscious again.
209FENNIA 197(2) (2019) Marieke Ekenhorst & Irina van Aalst
Both quotes illustrate how these clubbers experience queer space as safe and inclusive due to
liberation from the ‘male gaze’ (supporting the findings of Pritchard et al. 2002), the ability to merge
into a crowd without being aware of your sexual orientation, and the imagined queer community
which creates a sense of belonging (see Pritchard et al. 2002; Valentine & Skelton 2003).
However, the idea of queer space as safe space is also contested. The idea of having your own
space can be underpinned by a feeling of exclusion. Jane (clubber, aged 30) stresses the paradox of
having your own space: it could create a safe environment in which you can express yourself “for one
hundred per cent”, while at the same time the need to have your own space implies that you are being
excluded from other places. All clubbers mention how sexual comments and the male gaze make
them feel uncomfortable in some mainstream clubs. They do not necessarily feel excluded but are
highly aware of their own sexuality. The need for a physical space for lesbian clubbers in Amsterdam’s
nightlife emphasizes that lesbian sexualities are deviant from the dominant heterosexual norm. As
Jane (clubber, aged 30) explains:
We need to have that space, because it is not safe there [mainstream clubs]. That is what I don’t
like about it. That, apparently, I do have some desire for it [queer space], because I do not feel
comfortable in another space from time to time. It’s not a nice thought (…) it is very paradoxical.
It is interesting how clubbers navigate this paradox of not always being accepted in mainstream clubs,
but also being unwilling to separate themselves from other clubbers based on their sexualities and
gender. Rose and the organizer of Lesbique clearly disparage the idea of lesbian-only bars and clubs
and say they would feel uncomfortable there. Lesbian-only bars are compared to a “snake pit”
(organizer Lesbique), “a meat market” (organizer Lesbique), “where clubbers would come ‘to hunt’”
(Rose, clubber, aged 19) and “if you enter, all eyes are on you: ‘fresh meat, yes!’” (Rose, clubber, aged
19). Among others, Anne (clubber, aged 27) stresses the tensed vibe in lesbian-only venues; therefore
she prefers gendered mixed venues “because lesbians can also make drama out of nothing”. She
illustrates this with an example of a night at Vivelavie:
All these dominant lesbians that are just fighting and so on, screaming towards each other, that I
think: yo, this is not my scene you know. Yeah, I am not really in the mood to be there. (…) But on
the other hand I think, if we are just nearby: Hmm, let’s go there for a drink. Because then I’m with
friends and then it’s fine. I think it’s important that something like this should continue to exist.
Because you see that it’s just relaxed, well in general.
Anne’s experiences reveal contradictory and sometimes mixed desires. This messiness reveals
complex dynamics of lesbian and queer venues (Valentine & Skelton 2003). While clubbers might have
specific preferences for a night clubbing, these preferences and desires might not necessarily be
connected to fixed places. Anne prefers other places to Vivelavie, but under specific circumstances
(being nearby and being with friends) she would still go there. Later in the interview she states:
Everything has become more liberated and open, so you don’t focus any longer on one location.
You don’t need any longer one venue to meet people. I also notice it with my own circle of people
that even if you’re only with gay friends you don’t necessarily go to a gay party. Because if you like
a specific music style, you just go to a festival or to this club or that party. (Anne, clubber, aged 27)
The experiences of places should therefore not be understood as fixed, but rather as fluid and
interacting with different factors like the company of clubbers, their music preferences, and their
objective of the evening (e.g. to flirt, to dance, or to hang out with friends). These aspects are subject
to change and influence how clubbers experience and evaluate the same spaces at different
moments in time (Malbon 2002).
This fluidity does not guarantee that queer and lesbian space can be understood as ‘safe’ space.
The queer scene still tends to be male-dominated, leaving less space for lesbians. Sarah (clubber,
aged 19) and the organizers of YARRR, GirlDrop and Klitty mention the attitude of gay men and their
dominant behaviour. Tiffany (clubber, aged 25) can feel completely ignored by gay men, in her view
because she is a woman. She states that: “You are not really included by that kind of person [gay men].
Nasty comments, or meanness you know. It happens.”
Tensions within the scene arise not only along gendered lines. Clubbers described other
subgroups within the scene, they spoke of hard-core dykes (Rose, aged 19), tinhorn crowd (Tiffany,
210 Research paper FENNIA 197(2) (2019)
aged 25) and feminist lesbians wearing pink dungarees (Sarah, aged 19). As the organizer of Lesbique
mentions: “Within such a group [the queer scene] you see different minorities and there is not a
high level of tolerance on some points.”
These findings show that a queer space is not necessarily inclusive and safe (Pritchard et al. 2002;
Maliepaard 2015). “Vulnerable social groups are not just marginalized/oppressed, but can also
marginalize and oppress each other” (Valentine & Skelton 2003, 163). Although these internal divisions
are partially gendered (e.g. Pritchard et al. 2002; Fobear 2012), it is of crucial importance to move
beyond this gender dichotomy and stress the wide variety of internal differences related to lesbian
and queer nightlife (Browne 2006). Internal exclusion was mentioned by the same lesbian clubbers as
those who described the inclusive and open character of the queer scene. In- and exclusion can thus
occur in the same space, illustrating the fluidity of space (see also Browne 2007b). However, while
most of the lesbian clubbers prefer mixed queer parties and bars to lesbian venues, they argue that
it is important to have some lesbian places available.
Safe space for lesbians is still important in Amsterdam’s nightlife, but this does not necessarily
mean that a venue should exclusively focus on a lesbian crowd. Lesbian clubbers themselves stress
the importance of an inclusive vibe, where open-mindedness seems to be key. The organizers of
YARRR, GirlDrop, Klitty, Lesbique and the entrepreneur of Vivelavie also emphasize the importance of
creating and maintaining an inclusive character at queer spaces and parties. Being in an ‘open-minded
environment’ seems important, but this open-mindedness occurs in different shapes and degrees. A
lesbian venue might be perceived as ‘open-minded’ by default, since it moves away from the
heterosexual norm and embraces other sexualities. Gendered norms do however still occur, which
can produce new tensions. All the organizers involved in this research stated that they do not want to
exclude people on the grounds of sexual orientation, gender or age, and aim to create ‘open-minded’
parties and venues where everyone is welcome.
Creating an inclusive space
One of the difficulties of responding to this need for a safe and inclusive space is that one venue might
feel inclusive to some lesbians while other lesbian subgroups can feel excluded at the same time and
place. The enormous diversity among lesbians and the existing internal tensions make it even more
difficult to create an inclusive space for everyone.
Entrepreneurs within the queer scene do have experience with creating open and inclusive places.
For example, the organizers of YARRR always explain what kind of party is going on to people at the
door. The door policy is that everyone is welcome – regardless of sexuality or gender, as long as they
respect each other and do not harass people or show disrespectful behaviour. Many clubbers who are
unfamiliar with these inclusive parties react as follows: “And most of them [group of guys] are like,
okay we’ll get in, have a drink and then leave. And understand that girls are not interested in them.
And some of them are like ‘okay, then we’ll go somewhere else. Thank you for letting us know.”
(organizers YARRR, GirlDrop & Klitty).
The entrance fee might raise the threshold for people who are not familiar with the party concept.
Besides, the organizers describe how the level of inclusiveness depends on the location of the party:
It depends on our venue. Because like Club Akhnaton, that is a venue with fewer spontaneous
visitors. It is also the geography / location of it. So, a lot of people who attend are attracted by our
party and invite their friends. In the past, when we organized our parties in the Winston (Warmoesstraat)
we had a lot of street walk-ins […] that is where it changes. (organizers YARRR, GirlDrop & Klitty)
The location of the venue, the advertising, and what you explain to people at the door are examples
of how entrepreneurs try to make their event appeal only to people who are really interested. People
who could ‘ruin’ a party will either not know about it or will not feel like joining in. These strategies of
self-exclusion might be the key to organizing inclusive events.
The inclusive vibe that entrepreneurs within the queer scene try to attain is being commodified as
former queer spaces are transformed into mainstream places with an increasingly straight crowd.
Several lesbian clubbers gave examples of how formerly explicitly queer clubs like Club NYX are
211FENNIA 197(2) (2019) Marieke Ekenhorst & Irina van Aalst
becoming more mainstream, tending to attract a non-queer crowd. While straight clubbers might
want to blend in with Amsterdam’s queer community, several lesbian clubbers do not feel at ease
anymore in these clubs; some say they are even being commented on by straight clubbers for showing
affection. This pressure on queer space fits a broader trend of commodification and gentrification of
queer venues in cities like Sydney and Toronto (Nash & Gorman-Murray 2015). In the process of
gentrification, traditional queer clubs and bars become increasingly more attractive to a non-queer
crowd (Doan & Higgins 2011; Mattson 2015) which can lead to feelings of displacement (Pritchard et
al. 2002; Nash & Gorman-Murray 2015). While blending in of straight clubbers at (formerly) queer
venues is often perceived as a sign of emancipation, it might also increase the pressure on the few
‘safe spaces’ Amsterdam has left.
Conclusion
The wide variety of queer venues in Amsterdam seems to reflect an open and tolerant city in which
diversity can be celebrated. However, the international reputation of Amsterdam might explain its
declining success. Increased commercialization puts pressure on Amsterdam’s nightlife spaces,
which specifically affects the more creative and experimental (non-profit) initiatives. The 'night
mayor' of Amsterdam even launched a campaign to fight against the ‘repression of nightlife culture’
in the city (Nachtburgemeester Amsterdam 2019). This pressure on more experimental, creative and
diverse nightlife cultures also affects the queer community. Queer venues are seen as hip and
trendy, and it becomes ‘cool’ for straight clubbers to go there (notably to the Reguliersdwarsstraat).
At the same time, it might be an economic strategy for some former queer venues to open up to a
broader, non-queer crowd.
Opening up to a broader crowd also fits in with the philosophy of being ‘inclusive’. Many queer
venues aim for inclusion and want to be open to everyone regardless of sexual orientation or
gender identity. The declining lesbian visibility might be explained by a more fluid understanding of
gendered and sexualized space, in which people with different sexual orientations, genders and
ages interact as elaborated by Browne (2006) and Oswin (2008). This fluidity among different queer
groups and between queer and non-queer clubbers could be a sign of emancipation. However, this
fluidity also puts pressure on the existing safe space for lesbian clubbers. ‘Blending in’ of straight
clubbers often reinforces the ‘male gaze’, which reduces the already limited safe space of lesbian
clubbers. Although some lesbian clubbers stress the importance of being willing to mingle, and
thereby relinquish the idea that it is necessary to have your ‘own’ lesbian space, these clubbers
assert that their former safe space is under pressure.
Lesbian clubbers, entrepreneurs of lesbian venues, and organizers of lesbian and queer parties
stress the need for a safe space, a place where lesbians can dance and act freely without feeling
judged. All clubbers mention the need for safe places where they can express themselves fully, which
is in line with earlier studies of Valentine and Skelton (2003) and Fobear (2012). Our participant stress
that these safe spaces can also be open to other groups but their main focus should be on women
who love women. One of the difficulties in creating spaces that are both safe and inclusive is the
internal tension among lesbian clubbers caused by the enormous diversity among them. A fluid
understanding of gender, space, and sexuality highlights internal heterogeneity which makes it
challenging to create ‘safe’ space for everyone. Several subgroups have stereotypical ideas about the
others, which leads to a fragmented ‘lesbian’ scene.
This internal fragmentation is visible in the underrepresentation of lesbian nightlife venues in
Amsterdam. The nightlife scene for lesbians lacks diversity, with only one lesbian-oriented bar left.
While several party organizers try to fill the gap, lesbian clubbers say that they do not have many
places to go to, aside from more general queer venues and some open-minded ‘open to everyone’
parties. These more commodified parties cannot always guarantee a safe environment for lesbian
clubbers. According to clubbers and entrepreneurs in our research, a dedicated crew with people
who are sensitive to possible tensions and able to take action is needed to create inclusive spaces.
Also door policies could be crucial to inform clubbers about the kind of party they are entering; an
entrance fee might create a threshold for visitors who accidentally run into the party and are not
212 Research paper FENNIA 197(2) (2019)
looking for a lesbian or queer night out. Furthermore, targeted advertising and the marketing of
themed parties can lead to self-exclusion. Last but not least, balancing the needs for inclusive yet safe
nightlife spaces is of key importance to celebrate diversity.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, we would like to thank all the participants of this study. We would also like to thank
the members of the Gender & Geography reading group affiliated with Utrecht University for their
useful and insightful comments. Thanks to Nancy van Weesep for the editorial guidance.
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