With abundant soul and piercing intellect, Jeremy Atherton Lin writes a loving elegy for the bars and clubs that continue to shape who he is today.
You step inside the bar feeling some mixture of trepidation and glee. Through the fog machine mist, a drag queen (or two, or three, or a dozen) tears through a Sylvester number that has the sweaty, dancing throng of twinks, daddies, bears, cruisers, pill-poppers, club kids and assorted deviants jumping so that the floors tremble with their weight. You order a drink, then another, and since the bartenders pour heavy, you’re already feeling some type of wonderful. Everyone at the bar is shouting over the music at their dates, or eyeing handsome strangers, if they haven’t already escaped to the dark, dank corners of the club to perform acts unmentionable in polite society. But this is no polite book. “Gay Bar: Why We Went Out” by Jeremy Atherton Lin seizes you be the hand and leads you to the dance floor. That feeling? Gay euphoria. Or someone just slipped some poppers into the fog machine.
“It’s starting to smell like penis in here. . .” the book begins, and you can imagine where it goes from there. The book veers through categories of nonfiction one would think incompatible: cultural critique within pornography, personal memoir beside centuries-old queer history, gay clubbing tales after meditations on longing and identity (namely, longing for identity, or an identity of longing). “We go out to be gay”, Atherton Lin declares. He spends the book figuring out what that entails. Between his vibrant voice, daring diction and raunchy reminiscences, Jeremy Atherton Lin simply can’t not be interesting.
Nowadays, you’re less likely to find the kinds of bars that were so formative to Atherton Lin’s queer coming-of-age. In an era of safe spaces and trigger warnings, he reflects, “ to be violated was my expectation back when I [first] ventured in”. Not that the new rules are unwelcome. “Gay Bar” bears witness to more than it judges the ebb and flow of queerness over the course of the author’s life. Historically speaking, his life passes through the end of the AIDS crisis, surges in homophobic violence and the gentrification of queer spaces. “The misogynistic old trope,” he writes, referencing the “fag hag” stereotype, “of a lonely heart attached to sexual criminals out of compatible ostracization had been replaced by one of basic bitches latching on because the gays turned out to be the winners”. What they won, however, is unclear.
“Gay is an identity of longing , and there is a wistfulness to beholding it in the form of a building,” Atherton Lin muses on gay bars. The dichotomy between the terms queer and gay acts as a schism between two generations of gay men, those two generations being Lin’s own and the kids who came after. Queer is “somehow both theoretically radical and appropriate in polite company”. Gay, however, is “like a joke or an elegy”. Indeed, “Gay Bar” reads like an elegy for the club scenes that seemed to be dying even at their pinnacles. Atherton Lin experiences gay clubs in Los Angeles, San Francisco and London, and though he often passes off personal experience as canonical gay history, his experience makes one fact undeniably clear: gay bars aren’t what they used to be.
At the same time, often in the same breath, Atherton Lin recognizes that “gay bars are actually transitioning–in that they’ve likely been something else, and will change again in the future”, but precious few are the historical records of these gay institutions. “Still now,” he writes, “when people say of East London It’s not like what it used to be. . . , I think: One could never really know what that means”. Very rarely do younger gay men seek out their own history either. As a self-proclaimed “daddy” conversing with younger twinks and twunks, Atherton Lin writes, “[t]hese boys don’t need my wisdom. Camaraderie, perhaps; it’s not guidance they’re after”. What’s left in the historical vacuum is rumor, hearsay, propaganda and a fair share of badmouthing. Certainly, the sins of gay bars are numerous–femmephobia, racist door policies and inappropriate groping. But “Gay Bar” asks the question: does rebellion against these institutions for their wrongs mortally endanger the communal memory on which the queer community is based?
Sadly, “Gay Bar” doesn’t answer this question, or many others. Nonfiction, once the venue for resolving inner turmoil and nagging questions, has become a genre for simply venting these confusions. Of course, a personal memoir needn’t answer to anybody or anything, but when Atherton Lin cites queer theorists like Judith Butler or Michael Warner, one gets the impression that he is using their erudition to suggest an argument he doesn’t want to run the risk of making. In true camp fashion, he ends most lines of argument with a witty quip, rather than a resolution to the passage’s central problem. For other writers, this would sunder the book, but since galavanting in camp fashion seems to be his primary goal, Atherton Lin still succeeds in winning the reader over, if through his electric prose and not his sound argumentation.
Still, like any gay bar, it’s hard not to love “Gay Bar”. Its endlessly interesting anecdotes, hilarious jokes and piercing reflections make for a polyphonic book that defies categorization. It is so much like the queer spaces that it describes: intersectional, cross-pollinating, intoxicating and above all fun. With countless bars–and many gay ones–closing under the stress of the COVID economy, Lin’s book provides the perfect elixir for cabin fever. When reading “Gay Bar”, you’ll often feel like you’re in one.
Michael McCarthy
Michael’s fiction, nonfiction, interviews, and book reviews have appeared in The Adroit Journal, Barzakh Magazine, Beyond Queer Words, and Prairie Schooner, among others. Currently, he is transferring from Haverford College to University of Carlos III in Madrid, Spain, where he intends to major in the Humanities. He is also seeking publication for his poetry chapbook Steve: An Unexpected Gift, written in memory of his late uncle. He can be reached at @michaelmccarthy8026.