Dalston Superstore at 15: ‘A gateway into a world of freaks’

Still, in the beginning, says Beaumont, “gay men were a bit sniffy about Superstore because they didn’t think we looked like a gay bar should or that we were ‘gay enough’, which really means ‘cis gay men enough’. At that time there was a real lack of visibility for women and trans people in the community because ‘gay bar’ was thought to mean ‘cis gay man bar’.” Being more than that to the community has become the essence of Superstore’s identity, changing the perception of what a ‘gay bar’ is in the process. “All kinds of people have had a bonkers night at Superstore,” Beaumont says proudly. 

I arrived at the venue shortly after the opening in 2009 and found this to be true, trepidatiously attending dyke nights with ridiculous sapphic names like Twat Boutique and Clam Jam, which really forced you to confront the fact that yes, you are a lesbian. I quickly acclimatised to the uniform du jour; a baggy black t-shirt, chain and cap or beanie for the butch inclined, and a leather jacket and packet dyed black hair for the rest, both camps inspired by the brooding indie aesthetics of The xx. Through the sheer will of attendance, I soon became familiar with the door people, managing to skip the line so I could reach the red neon-lit toilets cubicles faster, trying to avoid the watch of security, then on into the sweaty basement to hook up or not hook up with someone while their ex watched from barely a metre away. Back then, the London lesbian scene was so small that you’d recognise 50 per cent of the crowd, especially since Superstore was really the only place to go away from the more commercialised nights held in Soho.

“All kinds of people have had a bonkers night at Superstore” – Dan Beaumont

Soon, I started visiting the gay boy and fashion nights too, like Hot Boy Dancing Spot, where they (allegedly) put poppers in the smoke machine. There was also Bum.p, where stalwart DJs like Jeffrey Hinton and Princess Julia played alongside the likes of designer Charles Jeffrey or photographer Louie Banks, remunerated in loose change and £5 notes from the pot on the door, given this was the days before ticketing apps and £20 cover charges for parties. For a while, Superstore became my main hobby; its clientele my family. I even took my actual dad there, inclusive as it was. He was disappointed not to receive more sexual attention.

In the mid-2010s came an explosion of DIY-style drag nights, a movement that would birth behemoth drag party Sink the Pink, also based in east London. At the time, it was not novel or uncommon to see a person painted entirely green or dressed as a tree. This era is when Donna Duke, who now runs the Superstore club night Haute Mess, first visited Superstore. “My first memory is in 2015, just as I’d turned 18 and I had just gone to uni. I was intimidated to go in, because it seemed so cool and all the hip kids were going. What I found inside was so exciting, colourful, and maximal, a politic or aesthetic of messiness, a gateway into a world of freaks who I need to be around. I remember getting fingered by the bar and thinking ‘this is my path in life’.”

The ethos of unbridled self-expression Duke witnessed led her to start Haute Mess in Oxford, an attempt to bring the Superstore atmosphere to a sleepier part of the UK she felt needed it. Beaumont namechecks other London and UK nights and festivals gestated in the Superstore basement, like Body Movements and Mighty Hoopla. “We’ve always worked with different collectives and promoters, which is one of the reasons we’ve always had a jumble of intersecting communities who come to the space. That means we’ve also been part of a pipeline of talent for people on the way to really exciting DJ careers, like Honey Dijon, Blessed Madonna and Daniel Avery, or new school superstars like Carly Marx and DJ LoveCatt.”

After a long hiatus, (probably due to the fact I’d had a long-term relationship and no longer felt the need to compulsively cruise every weekend) I returned to Superstore one night in the 2010s, and was hit with the realisation this was the place that defined much of my early twenties; accepting who I was through an immersion with people who were “the same” as me, while also teaching me to embrace difference. It was a place where we felt safe to be intimate in ways that straight bars or the street just didn’t allow. But truthfully, pushing 30 at this point, I now felt old in the club, like a wistful gay elder watching the next generation dance to hyperpop bangers and drink markedly less than mine ever did. But there was the same sense of optimism in the air.

“What I found inside was so exciting, colourful, and maximal, a politic or aesthetic of messiness, a gateway into a world of freaks who I need to be around” – Donna Duke

Not long after, the pandemic hit. “That was our biggest existential threat,” remembers Beaumont, adding that it also destroyed the income of the network of nightlife performers and promoters associated with the club. “We had a Patreon scheme for people to support the space and we also ran a hardship fund for people from the community who didn’t have any furlough. We only survived with luck and goodwill and by being able to open our doors again. But I don’t miss the days of people ordering cocktails off their phones, wearing masks and being asked not to dance.”

The club bounced back with a more varied roster of parties than ever. Recent club night Spectrum catered to the neurodiverse community (it’s now moved on to a bigger venue). Popola is a Perreo night celebrating ​​Afro, Caribbean and Latin culture and music. Fèmmme Fraîche with Michelle Manetti remains one of the club’s longest-standing nights, while The Gossip is an indie sleaze dyke night, if that’s your niche. At Haute Mess, Duke is interested in how to acknowledge and work with the fact that clubs might never be the fully “safe spaces” we might have once hoped. “You can make it as safe as possible, but to promise an entirely ‘safe space’ feels naive. We try to embrace a little danger and play with that idea. The other night, I pulled a pint with my arsehole. People had to fish sweets out of my bum with their mouths, consensually, of course. We’ve built a relationship of trust with Superstore over time that allows us to try to create a space of dissidence.”

According to Beaumont, even with no imminent threats, we can’t take spaces like Superstore for granted. “I think the way nightlife is in London, there’s always uncertainty about the future, all of these grassroots spaces are fragile. We think of Superstore like an institution but it exists through willpower, passion and the new ideas the punters or bar staff bring through the door.” Amidst a recession, rising rent prices, and frankly a boom in competition with the explosion of queer raves that have overtaken London, perhaps nothing lasts forever. But there is something special about a permanent space; the intimacy of a club over a warehouse, say, or the possibility of experimentation being open seven nights a week brings. As long as it’s still standing, Superstore’s walls also hold 15 years of memories and endless future possibilities, along with the faint smell of sweat and other bodily fluids.