Gay Guys SUCK

Graphic by Sofia Giarrusso

by nathan hilyard

It’s 2010. I’m running around my carpeted basement, probably in some themed onesie. My iPod Shuffle is clicked into a Five Below speaker and Ke$ha is blasting. Wheeling through the air, tripping on a multicolored gymnastic mat and landing face down on the scratchy carpet with a thud, one fear realizes in my mind: What if I’m not cut out to be a pop star? 

As a kid growing up in the 2010s, pop stars were coming at me from all directions. I remember standing barefoot in my front lawn listening to “The Edge of Glory” as it debuted on the radio. I remember watching Ariana Grande and Mac Miller dance to “The Way” on my parent’s bedroom TV. I remember telling my entire first grade classroom that I was Ke$ha’s biggest fan, I even named the creek in the backyard of my grandpa’s house “Ke$ha Creek” (which it is still called to this day). Basically, I loved pop music (still do!). 

I wanted to be pop music. But one day, when I was shuffling through iTunes on my parents computer, a chill shot through my body as I recognized that all the pop music I liked was made by women. Were there ANY guys making good pop music? I flipped feverishly back and forth: Gwen Stefani, Lady Gaga, Madonna, Britney Spears, Beyoncé, and (PHEW) Usher! Bless! Boys can make pop music. Usher does it! But can it be good? 

Listener, if you haven't figured it out yet (I hadn’t at the time either)...I am gay. This likely explains why I have so many formative memories with Ke$ha. Regardless, as I grew up and continued to explore the music around me, I gathered minimal evidence that guys can make good music, or even just music I wanted to listen to. 

Fast forward to 2020, Covid’s just struck New England and I’m curled up in the very same basement, now tending to my dear Twitter account. I found myself in a strange digital space (Björk stan Twitter) where I was introduced to artists like Kate Bush, PJ Harvey, Joanna Newsom, Fiona Apple, Tori Amos…basically, as my mother describes them, white women that scream. These dear ladies formed a foundation of all the music I love today, and the moots and oomfs who introduced them into my lives will forever be dear to me. 

But, still no men. I recall dming aforementioned oomfs and asking why one in particular didn’t listen to male musicians. His answer: “Men just don’t make good music ¯\_(ツ)_/¯”. And at such an impressionable time–I believed him. Men weren’t singing about things that interested me; the ladies of art pop had me covered. Björk’s peculiarity, Fiona’s loneliness, Joanna’s epicly mythic lyricism, and PJ’s bicurious rage (“A Perfect Day Elise”) all struck me in ways a male musician never did. 

Around this time I became much more in tune with my own identity. A curiosity around myself and my own queerness grew. Spending almost all of my sixteenth year in lockdown forced all the usual teenage self-actualization to happen at breakneck speed, almost wholly dependent on these digital spaces. Just as Brightbill the duck imprinted upon Rozz the emotionless robot in The Wild Robot, I blindly trusted the guidance and beliefs of these musicians and friends who lived entirely in my phone, despite the fact that our connections were less than genuine and entirely dependent on a cold, digital landscape that could disappear with the click of a button. The time came for me to find some of my own pack. Thing is–I was so resistant to anything made by a gay guy. 

I remember thinking Elton John looked stupid. I remember listening to Troye Sivan’s “Bloom” and rolling my eyes (still corny, sorry). I remember hearing that Lil Nas X came out and making a note to not listen to his music. I kept gay guys at distance with a ten foot pole. It’s not that I felt I couldn’t relate to what they had to say or even that I disliked them, I just really didn’t care. See, there were plenty of queer artists creating music I could connect with. Take Arca: she resonated with my own gay-guyness which seemed too obtuse to be relayed through a typical pop structure. I wanted music that really forced me out of my comfort zone, despite not really having a comfort zone to begin with. I feared the gay man’s music because I might just end up seeing myself within it. 

Jump forward another year. I’m about to graduate high school and my high school math teacher comes out as gay during my graduation ceremony. I’m pissed. This is my day! Around the same time I stumbled upon this strange album called World of Echo. A darkly fluorescent cover with spaced-out chunky white letters. It’s by some man named Arthur Russell. It was puzzling to me in the same exciting way all those white women that scream were exciting. Huge washes of noise, clicks and thumps of a reverb-ed cello, almost whispered, barely distinguishable lyrics, all of it came together for me. Here was the artist I was waiting for all these years, esoteric and meaningful and strange and…gay! I finally found one! A gay man who made good music! Arthur Russell sure made good music, but any quick peek as his Wikipedia page reveals a less than savory life. He died at age 40 of AIDS related illness, and was often described as really withdrawing from life as he got older. Feverishly, he practiced and recorded his whole life, simply fading away into the music.

Listening and understanding all of his catalog feels like getting to know him intimately, from the finger plucked ballads of Iowa Dream, to the bombastic love songs on Love Is Overtaking Me. It seemed I only allowed myself to enjoy this music made from deep strife. Music made in a time where queerness often pointed towards death, artistry often pointed towards poverty.

Now, three years after graduation and three years into obsessing over Arthur Russell, I am thinking of pieces to write for Hate Week and here’s the only thing I can reliably say: I hate music made by gay men. But that’s just plain, simple, and too sad. A depressing take at best, deeply hateful at worst. Every time I share this idea with a peer they immediately shoot back names of talented gay musicians: Freddy Mercury, Xiu Xiu, Sylvester, Model/Actriz, Troye Sivan, Elton John…hell, even RuPaul! Get in here RuPaul! 

In writing this and dissecting my own hatred of gay men, it seems that the real call is coming from inside the house. Don’t ever let the world (aka Twitter oomfs) plant enough hatred in your heart that you think all gay men are terrible. The femme gays and the twinks, those are our strongest soldiers! Fighting in the trenches so the rest of us boring, earth-tone-wearing gay guys can cuff our jeans and scoff in their faces. It’s just not right. Wear pink! Write songs about anal! Be crass and nasty and sing it all with a high-pitched twang! I am excited at the prospect of looking back at gay pop throughout the years. I’m excited at the prospect of learning to love something that is so silly and performative at heart. I hated gay music because if I looked closely enough, it might just convince me that gay guys are cool and fun. Now it’s my job to see if that’s true.