Rocky GerungA persistent "Pineapple Express" downpour was reaching its zenith as the author and her husband, Aaron, stepped into Stud Country, a vibrant hub for country dance enthusiasts. Donning N95 masks and shedding raincoats to reveal matching jeans, cowboy boots, and belts, their attire bespoke a familiar comfort, yet their presence on a Thursday school night signaled an uncharacteristic deviation from routine. They had arrived at Los Globos, the venue for Stud Country’s country dance events, with the specific intention of mastering the two-step. This return to the historic Silver Lake neighborhood of Los Angeles held personal resonance, recalling evenings spent in her early twenties at the same club, immersed in late-night techno-house DJ sets and weekday salsa lessons. Tonight, however, the focus was on a beginner’s two-step class, a pursuit born from a recent courthouse wedding and a desire for a meaningful first dance at their upcoming spring reception. The couple’s decision to marry prior to a potential Supreme Court ruling that could jeopardize same-sex marriage rights underscored the urgency and significance of their personal milestones.
Stud Country has carved a niche for itself by specializing in classic and 1990s country dances, set to a soundtrack of Western anthems and contemporary pop hits. In recent years, its events have surged in popularity across California, extending the legacy of Los Angeles’s half-century-old tradition of queer line dancing and LGBTQ+ cowboy culture. This burgeoning phenomenon has even transcended the West Coast, with similar events gaining traction in New York City and merchandise, like muscle tees emblazoned with "I’m Bi for Stud Country," highlighting the growing community’s embrace.
As the dance floor remained sparsely populated, the melancholic twang of a dobro signaled the evening’s official start. The lights dimmed, a disco ball began its hypnotic spin, and Stud Country co-founder Sean Monaghan, alongside esteemed Los Angeles queer country figure Anthony Ivancich, launched into an elegant two-step demonstration. Their fluid movements, characterized by looping twirls and graceful embraces, captivated the onlookers, drawing parallels to the striking courtship displays of the greater sage grouse, a symbol of natural elegance and territorial assertion. This performance, however, was not a display of dominance but a testament to intergenerational camaraderie and shared passion for dance.
The genesis of Stud Country in 2021 was closely tied to the closure of Oil Can Harry’s, a legendary gay country-western bar that had served as a cornerstone of the Los Angeles queer community for decades. Anthony Ivancich himself had graced its dance floor for over fifty years. Situated in Studio City, Oil Can Harry’s was not merely one of the oldest queer establishments in the region but a significant historical landmark in the United States, having operated since 1968. Throughout its existence, it provided a sanctuary for diverse forms of self-expression, from the pulsating beats of disco to the subcultural nuances of leather communities. The bar demonstrated remarkable resilience, weathering targeted police raids on LGBTQ+ spaces in the late 1960s and the devastating AIDS crisis of the 1980s, transforming into a vital hub for mutual aid and community support. Ultimately, however, the COVID-19 pandemic proved insurmountable, leading to its closure.
The building that once housed Oil Can Harry’s, alongside other pivotal Los Angeles LGBTQ+ sites like The Black Cat – a venue that hosted some of the earliest LGBTQ+ protests in the United States, predating the Stonewall Uprising – is now recognized as a historic-cultural monument by the Los Angeles Conservancy. In the wake of such closures, Stud Country has embraced the mantle of queer country entertainment, organizing events at various venues across Los Angeles and, increasingly, nationwide. This model of pop-up parties has become a prevalent response to the escalating rents and gentrification that continue to displace LGBTQ+ bars across the country, threatening to erase vital community spaces.
Sean Monaghan, in a poignant documentary by the Los Angeles Times, reflected on the significance of Stud Country’s clientele: "Remembering that the elders that come to Stud Country now literally got arrested for trying to create this culture is remarkable. They laid the foundation for what we do now." This sentiment underscores the deep historical roots and the ongoing struggle for LGBTQ+ visibility and acceptance that informs the modern queer country dance scene.
During the beginner’s class, the author followed Aaron’s lead, their hands clasped and their bodies moving in a counterclockwise orbit around the dance floor with over twenty other pairs. The instructor’s rhythmic calls of "Quick, quick, slow, slow!" guided the dancers through the six-count pattern of the two-step. Despite moments of foot tangling, the author found solace in closing her eyes and embracing the rhythm, a practice that mirrored the confidence of the sage grouse and reinforced the fundamental principle of partnership: trust.
The two-step, a dance form rich with regional variations, includes unique queer traditions, such as "shadow dancing." This intimate style involves partners facing the same direction, fostering a close connection without conventional leading and following cues. The instructor emphasized that two-stepping transcended mere partner dancing; it served as a powerful mechanism for fostering intergenerational connections and strengthening community bonds, effectively bridging generational divides.
Just as Aaron and the author began to find their rhythm, the instructor initiated a partner rotation, a common practice in dance classes designed to expose students to different leading and following styles. The author found herself partnered with a series of individuals, each with their unique approach to guiding the dance. The experience of being spun by partners of varying genders and heights while navigating new steps offered a playful and dynamic learning environment, fostering collaboration and shared discovery.
Following the class, the couple walked back to their car, the rhythm of the two-step seemingly embedded in their steps despite the continuing downpour. The author found herself envisioning their future first dance, contemplating the possibility of performing the two-step to "Cowboy Take Me Away" by The Chicks, a song that held deep personal significance. This song, a poignant choice sung by a friend at their courthouse ceremony, resonated with their shared experiences of traveling across the Southwest, witnessing desert blooms, and stargazing under vast skies, mirroring the evocative imagery of the lyrics. For this queer couple, the song was more than just a melody; it was a narrative of their journey and aspirations. The challenge ahead, they acknowledged, was to refine their skills, "oil their weaves," and master shadow dancing to truly honor the song and extend the legacy of their queer ancestors on a dusty desert dance floor.
This exploration of queer country dancing and its cultural significance is part of the "Confetti Westerns" column, which delves into the queer natural and cultural histories of the American Southwest.
