For at least one evening a month, hundreds of queers pack into a sweaty box somewhere in Bristol, torsos slicking off each other as the temperature rises, clothes left at the sides of the room, in kinship with those around you. Soft Butch is an event without a permanent home, but whether it’s at The Jam Jar, Strange Brew or Lost Horizons, the feeling is always the same: you belong here. On a recent Friday night, my emotions overflowed. Kissing friends, sharing space with my partner, seeing someone I’d not seen in years, sobbing at the final song built from interviews of people speaking about what being butch means to them.

The evening ended with dancing and hugging, but it began with screaming. Gathered together under the same roof, and in camaraderie with my fellow queers, we were guided through a group meditation and then asked to share in our rage together. We stomped on the floor and screamed until throats hurt, a desperate cry of frustration and defiance at the injustices we’ve been facing for the past few weeks, years, decades.

The dancefloors of queer nightlife have an uncanny ability to be home to the most life-affirming hours of the week. And elsewhere across the country, queers danced and screamed together. Trans and non-binary people took back power, even if the only thing they had control over was their own catharsis. In at least one of these cases, the sound was recorded to be repurposed by trans noise artists to sample, creating beautiful and defiant music imbued with queer rage.

For queer and trans people, art and identity and activism are inseparable. To be alive at this moment as a trans person is an inherently political act, and to create a space like we did together on that Friday night was a work of underground art in a space that exists firmly outside of mainstream expectations and acceptability.

I was asked to shape this essay around how it feels to be trans in underground and experimental scenes. I have come to the conclusion that, for me, the two – being trans, and creating alternative art – are inseparable. The first time I listened to Vile Creature’s 2020 album Glory, Glory! Apathy Took Helm!, it felt like the clouds were parting to shine light on a new area of my life that I’d never realised was there. In the midst of lockdown, grieving my recently departed dad and separated from all my friends, I found myself wandering through woods near my house for hours, feeling the lyrics “Plant me deep within the darkness/With grace and mercy I shall bloom” resonate somewhere deep in my chest. It was a watershed moment in both my music taste and very identity, to find art made by people who felt the same way I did, overflowing with resilience which I desperately needed. There was a way to live which I’d never considered before, which brought me joy and a sense of calm I didn’t think I could access. Queer art continues to bring me this feeling half a decade later, and it’s my aim to amplify trans voices in the experimental scenes wherever I can.

I’ve been to a lot of protests recently. The state of the UK is dire at the moment and I am determined to use my able-bodiedness, my white and cis-passing privilege, to fight for my own rights, and of those around me who cannot fight for themselves.

At a rally a few weekends ago I was reminded by one of the speakers that “the party is the protest”. Screaming together and dancing together is in direct opposition to the oppression we face. I want to extend a question to The Wire reader, who, statistically, is likely to be cis gendered. How do you make space for queer and trans joy in your life? How do you uplift this kind of community in your life and your work?

In another draft of this essay, I began with a moment of isolated despair. It was a Wednesday when I heard the news about the UK Supreme Court’s ruling that the legal definition of a woman is based on biological sex. I was writing a review of the heartfelt album Seeds Are Sewing by Alex Etchart, a trans and non-binary choir leader whose work aims to be as inclusive as possible to people of all backgrounds, all genders. The voices on the record swelled up in unison as I read the news – a decision made by a room of cis people who have decided to police our bodies once again. I cried for the future of a country where my girlfriend and I will live in fear in any non-queer spaces.

Over the past few weeks, I have felt joy, rage, desperation, love and protectiveness all wrapped up in one, inseparable from my everyday life as a trans and non-binary person. I have been blasting aya’s new hexed! album and sharing it with my queer friends. I hope The Wire’s readers, having read the cover story on aya in issue 495, have been enjoying that album too. But as a cis person, enjoying art made by trans people – or people of colour, or Indigenous people, or disabled people – when you are not of that community is not enough at the moment. Existing as a British trans person in 2025 is precarious. It’s a balancing act with which we could use some help.

I wonder how many people who have listened to aya’s album have written to their MPs recently? How many have attended any protests against the Supreme Court ruling? We are living in a moment of fragility, held together by tentative hope and fierce love. Please support trans lives the way that you support trans art.

This essay appears in The Wire 497. Pick up a copy of the magazine in our online shop. Wire subscribers can also read the essay in our online magazine library.