– Hanna Granlund for Supermarket Art Magazine 2025
I am lounging by a doorway. It has been partially obscured by the zig-zag shape of a folding wall. Maintenance pipes run along the wall and dig into my back.
To the left of me is a crowded dance floor. The look of the crowd differs slightly from the more mainstream clubs; the general impression to an outside viewer is somewhere between Elvira: Mistress of the Dark and the vampire rave scene from Blade. The DJ podium has a skull sitting on one corner, and the DJ herself is playing a techno remix of Annie Lennox’ Sweet Dreams. One person looking like Edward Scissorhands in a latex corset is dancing with another person mostly dressed in fishnets and leather straps. Graffiti written in invisible ink flash in the UV lights. There are people on leashes, plunging necklines on black satin dresses, foppish French aristocrats and sparkling fairies.
To the right of me is the Darkroom. At the moment, there are maybe twenty people in there. We spent some time earlier this evening laying out foam mattresses, arranging the plastic chairs and vinyl sofas, putting out lube and condoms and deciding where to place the trash can. Now some of the club goers are putting all of it to good use. Darkrooms are, if not a staple, then at least a common feature of queer nightlife, offering a safe space for sexual encounters to those who may have difficulty finding a private space. They are dimly lit and meant for those who wish to elaborate on an anonymous encounter on the dance floor, as well as those who come to the club with a significant other or others. Not exactly secret, but certainly informal.
I am here to ensure that the etiquette of the Darkroom is adhered to. No singles may enter, couples or groups only. No small talk about the weather. And of course, absolutely no phones or cameras. I have developed a somewhat awkward routine of glancing across the room at regular intervals without directly staring. In twenty minutes I will trade places with the other member of the awareness team at Climax Club and keep an eye on the dance floor.
My day job is in the field of public art and mostly involves administrative work, so how did I end up volunteering at a nightclub for queer goths? Why do I spend the occasional Saturday between 21.30 and 03.00 in this incredibly loud, dark place? Why did I take on the responsibility of checking up on the club goers without being allowed to drink or make out myself? Why do I endure the winding roads of the night bus back to my apartment afterwards?
Why this place specifically? I’ve been dressing and listening to goth music since I was thirteen years old. I don’t quite remember how I heard about this club in particular, but let’s just say that it is amazing what kind of people you get to know in university English class. After attending Climax Club a few times as a regular visitor, I got a tip at a bar hang-out that they needed extra members for the awareness team at Lilith, which is a sister club serving the sapphic crowd. I decided to give it a try, and a few weeks later I was standing in a reflective vest trying to look authoritative but approachable.
Close-up of the DJ podium at Climax Club, 2024, photo: Hanna Granlund
Why volunteer at all? That is more difficult to answer. Financially speaking, volunteering is not worth the effort to most working adults. 700 kr in Ica gift cards is nice and all, but why would you opt to be one of the ‘responsible’ ones when you could be one of the people in the throng, or at home sleeping?
There is, of course, the social aspect. Despite my long interest in the goth subculture I didn’t have much experience with the active scene in Stockholm before 2024, much less in the clubbing scene. Because of this the predictability of the volunteer role is another reason I chose the gig. I am simply more comfortable when I am assigned a role to play. When I contacted the club manager I was sent a document with instructions for what to do and how to behave as a member of the awareness team; Do not consume alcohol or other drugs during work, do not engage in sexual encounters, notify the real security guards if someone acts violent…if only all aspects of life came with an instruction list! Still, as a volunteer you also take on a small amount of the responsibility for the safety of other people. It is not exactly fun to navigate your way through the blaring music and crowd with two people in tow to give the bouncer a description of someone who needs to be thrown out.
But when everything is going alright…you cannot imagine what a wonderful scene this is. It is the closest thing I’ve ever experienced to being transported to another world. Everyone, and I mean everyone, are just so incredibly beautiful. Metal studs gleam, platform boots slam against the floor, UV contact lenses peer out at me from dark corners…as far as I am concerned, I am hanging out with the most amazing two hundred people on the planet. I am inside every music video I ever conjured up in my teenage head. I am part of the most sublime masquerade. It is as far from the bureaucracy of my day job as I can possibly get, it is underground and real and sticky. The people here live many different kinds of day lives – some are in the culture sector like myself and a few are even working in the queer culture field full-time – but most are shop clerks, archivists, students, IT consultants… There are many of us who feel the need to escape to something different.
I think passion is the deepest, truest reason I got this side job. I care about this subculture and I want to do my part to keep it running. You could think of it as a form of community service. I keep this space a little more safe, so that a lesbian goth couple decked out in leather and glitter can go at it for three hours on a dingy vinyl sofa.
