Showing up and stepping back

Dancing in the margins at Lambrini Girls (Larimer Lounge on May 13, 2025)

Photos by Alexis Bolton (@alexisaleanaa) for FEMMUSIC

The air already felt heated leading up to the Lambrini Girls show at the Larimer Lounge last month. Between political attacks on LGBTQ+ and immigrant communities, growing tensions between neighbors and friends, and the actual high degree temps that day, there was a lot of steam to blow off.

If you love Lambrini Girls like I do, you probably know what they’re about: feminist rage, queer chaos, punk that bites back. The female duo of Brighton-based queers’ latest album, “Who Let The Dogs Out,” has been flying off the Wax Trax shelves (and one of those transactions was my own – how could I pass up a “smurf dick blue” vinyl?). Our anticipation had built for months.

My friends and I arrived at the Lounge early, anticipating a large and rowdy crowd of fellow queer women. But as we joined the line, we noticed something surprising: the line was mostly middle-aged men. Not bad or hostile men, but it shifted the energy. The reality is, even at shows performed by people who face discrimination, it’s easy for those with more socio-economic status to unconsciously take up the most room.

It started me thinking about what it means to support artists from marginalized backgrounds. Yes, we should be buying their concert tickets, pre-ordering their physical music, and encouraging others to listen to their art. But it’s more than showing up and singing along, it’s about noticing who a space is for, and helping make sure those folks can actually access it. The idea was in the back of my mind as we tried to find the optimal steam-blowing-off spot in front.

Party Dozen, an experimental duo from Australia, opened the show with an explosive performance (have you ever seen someone make beats by screaming into a saxophone?). In the short break between sets, swarms of people packed in, taking up the coveted front-half-of-venue space.

Soon after, Lambrini Girls took the stage. Bassist Lilly Macieira’s riffs ricocheted off the walls, singer/guitarist Phoebe Lundy’s screamed lyrics about misogyny and queerness electrified the air, bodies surged forward, sweat and eyeliner blurred, and still…something felt off. As soon as Lundy sang in the first song: “Big dick energy, I don’t owe you anything / Your woke persona is completely fucking terrifying,” I noticed it.

All around us, dominating the front row, were shoulder-to-shoulder dudes, elbows out. I found myself watching the crowd as much as the band.

After their first song, Phoebe Lundy asked everyone in the audience to raise their hands if they identified as queer. Besides my friend groups’ raised hands, I was surprised that only one of the men taking up the front row held their hand up.

Lundy then started scream-singing, “Help me, I’m gay! Yeah, everything I do is for the male gaze,” I watched the sweaty, shouting, seemingly straight men around me obliviously occupying the prime space.

Lambrini Girls were proclaiming their lived experience—being silenced, being watched, being groped. And the men in the front were yelling along, moshing, filming while young queer people behind them tiptoed to see. They were loving the music, sure. But missing the message.

At one point, Lundy asked the men in the audience to use their privilege to call out male friends out when they saw domestic abuse, sexual assault, or homophobia. The men in the front row all cheered and nodded. These men seemed like they understood, but how many of them disregarded the comment? Did their quick agreement indicate it couldn’t be about them or their squeaky clean friends? There seemed to be a lack of self awareness.

What does it really mean to support a marginalized artist? When an artist is singing about their marginalized experiences, are we making sure folks represented in the lyrics have space to dance? Is it enough to show up—or do we have to learn how to step back, too?

There’s, of course, an intersectionality to this issue that must be addressed beyond my white queer perspective. People of color, especially LGBTQ+ ones, aren’t always granted space at artist’s shows they deeply resonate with, especially in a predominantly white city like Denver. This topic is nuanced, of course, and identity isn’t always visible. But what we can do is recognize our own identity in a space, and make adjustments from there.

So here’s my ask to all music lovers: the next time you’re at a show—especially one by an artist speaking from the margins, look around. Notice who’s trying to be seen. If you’re up front, ask yourself if someone else might need that space more.

Supporting queer, feminist, or POC artists isn’t just about loving their sound, it’s about loving their communities, listening to what they need, and making room for the people they’re empowering in their songs. That may mean stepping back, literally and metaphorically. It doesn’t make you less of a fan. It makes you more of the type of fan we need. In fact, it means you’re actually listening.