The Troubles: Northern Ireland Punk

From the late 1960s until a peace agreement was reached in 1998, Northern Ireland—particularly its capital, Belfast—was devastated by bitter sectarian violence dubbed “The Troubles.” Civilians were swept up in atrocities carried out by rival terrorist paramilitary groups made up of Loyalists (who wanted the north to remain in the UK) and Republicans (who wanted a united, independent Ireland), which were met with a heavy-handed response by police and the military. Religion had a stranglehold on civil liberties that affected gender and sexuality rights disproportionately.

When punks stomped into the zeitgeist in the 1970s, they were initially met with dismay. In Northern Ireland, there was an added element of transgression, as it was one of the region’s first cross-community subcultures. Their provocative outfits, laden with fetish and gender-bending themes, were deemed repulsive, as they signaled a shift away from the rigid gender norms drummed into the young. Punks were not rebelling for rebellion’s sake; they were defying civil unrest and demanding something more. There was a sense of futility in adhering to the dictated values amid the constant threat of violence.

For the queer community, there were great social, legal, and sometimes even fatal consequences for those who were outed. The LGBT community often is scapegoated in times of political uncertainty, and in Northern Ireland, queer people became a lightning rod.

In the 1970s, when it was still illegal to be a gay man in Northern Ireland, many in the community hid their sexuality because of death threats and fears of prosecution. Both police and the paramilitaries were responsible for rampant queer-bashing, and many victims were afraid of reporting assaults. Gay-friendly venues were frequently bombed, and nighttime curfews combined with frequent surveillance made suspected cruising spots perilous. With the lack of mass public and media exposure, the dehumanization of the LGBT community went unchallenged, and visibility carried great risk.

Lesbianism was never outlawed in the UK, including Northern Ireland, but society nonetheless was stifling in its lack of recognition. Queer women could lose social standing or employment should they be outed, and they often faced verbal or physical attacks. Lesbian support organizations struggled to be heard, and for many women, joining the mass outflux of “gay migration” from Ireland was the only way they could live freely.

The Chariot Rooms was Belfast’s first gay-run bar, founded by Ernie Thompson and Jim Kempson, who were both arrested in the 1960s in a mass roundup of gay men. Punks found refuge in The Chariot Rooms, and there was a sense of “anything goes” for gay, lesbian, bi, trans, and even straight people. The Red Barn, known predominantly as a fetish bar for leather men, required anonymity because infiltration could flag it for raids. There are references to other venues, but because of violent attacks and unwanted police attention, word of mouth was discouraged.

While there have been oral histories recounting Northern Ireland’s LGBT community from this era, there is still a limited number of personal accounts, and some stories are anonymous or contain second-hand information. In Moya Morris’ Threads, a wonderful book collecting Northern Irish lesbian oral histories, participants describe a diverse crowd, dancing, flirtation, and drag acts. Revelers shook off stigma and oppression, even if they could only live and love freely in a contained space. For example, participants Heather and Arlene say that talk of The Chariot Rooms came only from people in the know or support groups. Discretion was advised and essential for first-timers and regulars alike.

Nonetheless, punks and LGBT community formed a relationship at such bars at a time when the punks received a hostile response elsewhere. Punks were highly visible because of their attire, so if they encountered someone from the gay bars on the street, there was a consensus that they would not acknowledge each other for fear they would blow their cover. Queer people had to be straight-presenting in public, and it would garner suspicion if these well-dressed people were seen to be cordially interacting with “scruffy” punks.

Out of appreciation for their acceptance, the punks often would provide a protective presence for LGBT people. During a gay liberation march in the late 1970s, activists felt a highly justified fear that they would not be welcome, so the punks became an active defense to chaperone the marchers to safety. While it should be noted that some punks displayed homophobia, there was a shared sense of mutual respect that was not afforded to either group elsewhere. This continued into later years, as Northern Ireland remained for several decades a difficult place to be out.

In the 1980s another club, Jules, became an escape from the grim reality of life during The Troubles for a mix of punks, queer folks, and pleasure-seeking club kids. Likened to the Berlin club scene and the Blitz club in London, it was known for having gender-neutral toilets and an openness to everyone. Jules faced a backlash for being deemed a hotspot for decadence, and the mixed toilets were considered so inflammatory that attempts were made to shut it down.

In an enlightening blog post titled “Aural Alchemy: A Brief History of Clubbing in Belfast,” participant Alexandra McKinney remembers Jules this way: “The people were funny, bitchy, camp and very hedonistic at weekends. I remember great style. They were [as I remember]less inclined to be mainstream students, more art school drop outs . . . hairdressers, the odd visiting models from London, would be transvestites, new wave influenced post punx.” The club was frequented by Boy George, who would often talk of how the “gay punks” were safe within punk, and would evolve into New Romantics.

Four decades later, Northern Ireland has been slower in progress on LGBT rights than many other regions, but remarkable advances have been made. Belfast held its first pride parade in 1991 with roughly 100 marchers. The parade received a harsh reception, but it’s grown over the years and now annually attracts thousands. The surge in support groups and LGBT historical walking and bus tours must seem unimaginable to those who had to be incognito a few decades ago. In 2020 same-sex marriage was legalized, marking a tentative new age of acceptance for a country that was once mired in hate.

Despite the progress, Northern Ireland has not been exempt from the global rise in homophobic attacks. The queer response remains as it’s always been: unity and defiance. There has been a sharp focus on education and community outreach programs doing work that was impossible in previous decades. On a trip to Belfast two years ago, after hearing about a spate of hate crimes, I was pleasantly surprised to see openly gay couples walking the streets in safety. A group of young punks caught my attention because it included two women holding hands and guys wearing pins displaying queer iconography. They were vigilant but also proud.

The alliance between first-wave punks and the queer community is underexplored in part because at the time it was often not disclosed to the press or researchers, either out of either self-protection or to avoid outing others. LGBT people had to be skilled at disguising their identity, and the punks played along, so there was no inclination to mention the matter.

Anne Marie Molloy is a queer Irish writer whose work is inspired by her academic and creative pursuits.