The Village
Disruption on the Dancefloor: A Conversation with Black Queer DJs
By Binny Onabolu
DJ-facilitated spaces are a powerful avenue for oppressed communities to raise sound against global political and humanitarian crises. In the Bay Area, California, there’s DJ Subeaux, a Palestinian DJ who uses his growing audience to speak on the atrocities in Gaza. In Yahidne, Ukraine, multiple DJs rally over 200 volunteers for clean-up sessions soundtracked by electronic music. After Hurricane Helene, queer DJs from The Pansy Collective gathered physical resources and funding for their North Carolina community.
With Donald Trump winning the 2024 presidential election, the Black queer community lies at the precipice of a burgeoning political dystopia. Music serves as a touchstone and mode of resistance, mobilizing afflicted communities into action. This activism is inherently queer, using a space of happiness, music, and dancing to bring awareness to—and, in other ways, provide an escape from—various tragedies. Throughout New York’s Black and queer history, Black trans women utilized bars, clubs, and nightlife as a haven from violence and marginalization. Gay men utilized nightlife spaces to monitor the AIDS epidemic and bring attention to the lives lost to the virus.
As clubbing reimagines queer gatherings and serves as a powerful tool for collective action, it felt imperative to sit with Black queer DJs in New York City to probe the state of this cultural reformation. Through three virtual interviews, I sat down with DJs Chelsea Daniel (she/her), known as “chelsea,” DaNiro Elle Brown (she/her), known as DANIRO, Sasha “Gato Grrl” Kouptsova (they/them), and Tatyana “DJ Stassi Ithier” (she/her) to uncover the boom box of personalities that currently define the Black lesbian nightlife landscape in New York City.
I hoped our conversation would help me understand their role in facilitating community-oriented spaces amidst our bleak and uncertain political climate.
by Kendra Shiloh Russell
When I asked the DJs to recall their coming out—or “coming into queerness”—song, freedom was the name of the game. DJ Stassi, who describes her aura as smooth, soulful, and “lover girl,” describes how Donna Summer’s “I Feel Loved” captures her liberating coming-out experience. Sasha, who identifies their aura through “Black Diasporic House” and Jersey Club sounds, frames their coming out experience as actively liberatory, as captured by the song “The Bomb” by Buckethead. For Sasha, queerness transcends characterized cultural markers like specific clothing or media preferences. Instead, it is about “existing in your body and doing whatever the fuck you want—living without subscribing to the status quo and societal expectations.” This perspective aligns with their love of house music, a genre they admire for its refusal to conform to the boundaries of genre.
“It is a freeing genre,” Sasha explains. “That is what queerness means to me: to be free.”
While DANIRO’s queer journey ultimately leads to liberation, her music embraces the defiance and disruption that preceded her self-acceptance. With an aura characterized by “rageful, bitchy Black girl” sounds, her queerness is epitomized by TLC’s “I’m Good at Being Bad” lyrics: I need a crump tight igga, make seven figures … But I know what I got, you can’t handle though. These words embody DANIRO’s audacious, unapologetic demand for her deserved desires. She emphasizes that accepting the disruption that preceded her liberation was crucial to her self-acceptance and growth, defining her coming into queerness through the defiant spirit of the song.
Lastly, Chelsea’s coming out experience is mirrored in the eclectic soundscape of Brandy’s Full Moon album. She discovers liberation through the diversity of her favorite sounds: their aura ranges from boisterous, crazy drums to soft voices and warm sounds that feel like a hug.
To delve deeper into our DJs’ auditory landscapes, I explored their personal connection to music during their upbringing. For DJs Chelsea and Tatyana, music served as a bridge to connect with their families as their first community. Both recalled being entrusted with the playlists for family gatherings and bonding with their dads through music. Chelsea’s dad taught her to play the piano, and Tatyana inherited the DJ trade from her father, who shares her passion for music.
For DANIRO and Sasha, music was a conduit for feeling and processing their emotions during childhood. As a neurodivergent person, music helped Sasha associate and communicate complicated feelings. They shared the affirming experience of discovering music that resonated deeply with their emotions, explaining, “There’s someone whose songs speak to me, who understands and communicates that this concoction of emotions exists.” They felt less isolated knowing that their feelings could transcend words and reach others through sound.
Music also provided DANIRO with an escape during a tumultuous childhood, allowing her to flee challenging family dynamics and immerse herself in a different world. As she grew older, music morphed from being a portal to escape reality into a key unlocking deep emotional landscapes. She described moments when specific songs, such as instrumental ones like the jazz song “Bubby’s Solo” by Zacchae’us Paul, unlocked wells of feeling she hadn’t realized she needed to confront. For both Sasha and DANIRO, music remains a raw and powerful way to connect with others and convey emotions.
Event and Sylvester Concert Slides (1970-1977). Courtesy of the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender (GLBT) Historical Society, San Francisco CA
In the spirit of community building and listing “ins” and “outs” for the new year, the DJs and I reflected on community call-ins and call-outs within their various social circles. In: Romantic ballads and steady R&B songs. Unconventional slow dances at the club, since many of us were closeted during our high school proms. Out: Wallflowers glued to their phones. The capitalist perversion of nightlife spaces, where wealthy partygoers in VIP spaces prevent Black, queer, and lower-income dancers from holding the spotlight on the dance floor. Egos, particularly among party curators and other DJs, that erode relationships and snuff out community building. As Sasha points out, “You are not better than someone else because you get booked more or have certain followers.”
As DANIRO explained, “When you take a gig, you’re saying it’s worthy of your time—so why not promote it? Underground curators are often paying out of pocket, covering costs like flyers and production. When headliners don’t support the event, they still demand high rates but contribute nothing to its success, leaving curators to bear the financial risk.”
This disregard undermines underground event creators’ hard work and erodes the spirit of collaboration. “If we want to connect with each other on a sonic level and escape the B.S. we face day-to-day,” Sasha continues, “We need to relinquish our egos and remember that all we have is each other.” In this way, the Black queer DJ community calls for an ethos of mutual respect and accountability—an understanding that a thriving dance floor depends on collective effort and care.
Sasha’s most joyful memory is when their community of acquaintances, friends, and loved ones, particularly their mom, surprised them and packed out their first club set during the “She, They, DJ” happy hour at Mood Ring. For Tatyana, it is the profound experience of seeing queer joy embodied during a set she played at a Queer Tech conference in Belgium, where she noticed a queer man from India fully immersed in a moment of freedom that’s rarely afforded back in India.
“He was on the dance floor, eyes closed, looking free, which is what I do it for,” Stassi reflects.
DANIRO, similarly entranced by queer joy on the dance floor, mentions that her favorite moments are marked by moments of collective release by queer partygoers who reflect her identity as a fat Black femme.
“I play for mostly Black femmes, whether they are cis, trans, queer, purple hair, blue hair, green hair, afro, wig, bussdown, whatever,” she says. “I look out and those are the people I want to see have joy. To see them looking, dancing, enjoying themselves—that is the most beautiful, brilliant thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life.”
“It is about ‘existing in your body and doing whatever the fuck you want—living without subscribing to the status quo and societal expectations.’”
DANIRO described the room at its most electric, when the energy shifts into a shared crescendo of collective release through embodied bliss. “Watching someone cry, scream, jump up and down. And when I feel the energy too, I grab the mic and let out a big-ass ‘AHHHH!’ Shaking your ass until your wig starts to slide, your shoes come off—that’s what it’s all about,” she says.
“The biggest thing for me is seeing these people [who] I care about so much releasing with me, all of us simultaneously…It’s pure bliss, euphoric energy, cunt rage—throwing shit, bouncing ass, snatching wigs, taking it off, titties out. It doesn’t matter. That, to me, is the most beautiful thing.”
Moments of collective joy and connection highlight the profound role that DJing plays in fostering community. This awareness led us to the central question of our time together: Is DJing an act of community organizing? This inquiry invited the DJs to reflect on the role of nightlife in shaping New York’s queer community while considering their contributions to their local scenes. All of the DJs responded with a resounding and resonating yes, each offering different perspectives on how they see DJing as a form of community organizing.
DJ Stassi observed that nightlife has evolved from generalized club culture to more intentional, themed parties where different Black queer individuals can find their niche. These curated spaces offer the community a secure space to express themselves. Adding to this idea, DJ Chelsea reflected on the significance of crafting a diverse setlist.
“When putting together a show—especially as the DJ organizing the event—the people you include on your bill represent the audience you want to attract and the community you care to uplift.”
By centering queer and trans folks in her shows, Chelsea explained, events become more than entertainment; they become a declaration of value and sovereignty. On the dance floor, prejudice and burdens are momentarily consumed by rhythm and movement, creating a space of release and affirmation. Her identity, experiences, and even the challenges facing her community matter. This intentionality fosters lasting connections.Chelsea notes, “Community starts to build as attendees return for different events and begin to recognize each other, connect, and care about one another.”
Sasha, echoing these sentiments, described the dancefloor as a space of profound connection.
Sasha, AKA DJ Gato Grrl by Lexi Webster
“You realize more and more that it is about community organizing in an unconventional sense—how many times have we found ourselves in deep conversations or gained a sense of understanding that wouldn’t happen in broad daylight at a coffee shop?” they further elaborated. “There’s more space for authentic self-expression because the people who might judge have gone to bed. People come into this space feeling more comfortable and secure in themselves. The walls are down, the self is up, and that’s when true community, communication, and understanding can happen.”
As Sasha beautifully articulates, the dance floor is a space of profound connection precisely because it invites people to show up as their authentic selves—unguarded, expressive, and unapologetically true. Despite the connection taking place on the dance floor, exclusion underlies the daily existence of Black and queer folks. DANIRO spoke about the nature of otherness within the DJ industry. “People don’t want to work with you. If they can’t fuck you, they don’t want to work with you. Now I don’t get the opportunity to play on certain platforms because [they’ll say things like] ‘She’s ghetto, she’s gay, she’s a dominatrix, she’s weird.’” The mainstream nightlife industry harmfully misperceives the pillars of her identity, which epitomize a powerful sense of self-love through disruption.
“A lot of my crowd is queer femmes which include both cis and trans women, gender non-conforming femmes, trans-masc bitches, fat femmes who are very happy and comfortable in their skin. And a lot of people are not comfortable with that,” DANIRO says. “They are not comfortable with that cunt shit coming through the door.”
However, DJ-facilitated spaces offer an opportunity for cultural reform, which is a profound mission in a time when oppressed people’s existence is excluded or outright denied. Subeaux and the Ukrainian DJ collective demonstrate that bringing people together to spotlight and tackle injustice lies at the heart of DJ community organizing. For DANIRO, this means addressing the oppression and neglect of nightlife spaces for Black queer people, particularly Black femmes. She wields her power as a DJ and party curator to center the very identities that have been denied, transforming that exclusion into the active creation of safe spaces and opportunities. The transformative work of Black and queer DJs is a radical rejection of imposed hatred, turning towards unapologetic self-love, political disruption, and social change.
Our togetherness is our superpower. Through collective action in DJ-facilitated spaces, the nightlife community has come together to hold fundraisers for Palestinian food kitchens, rebuild communities from the ruins of war through sound session cleanups, and affirm the importance of our existence by creating spaces of joy and celebration for ourselves. This powerful collective action is sustained by individuals, revealing a deeper truth: true community begins within. The spaces we create—the dance floors, the fundraisers, the moments of joy and rage—are reflections of our truest selves. To foster authentic community, we must first turn inward, exploring the core of who we are, what drives us, and what we seek in those with whom we share space, time, and music.
Through prioritizing their individuality and community care, Black queer DJs unabashedly resist modes of exclusion. With each song, they transform the dance floor into a radical, disruptive space—spinning the record to the beat of liberation.
•
Edited by Cheyenne Edwards and Ava Emilione