HOBART –
The queer arts scene in Hobart, Tasmania, is experiencing a structural shift in performance distribution, as drag king acts move from dedicated LGBTQIA+ spaces into mainstream, heteronormative venues.
This transition follows the 2020 closure of the city’s last dedicated gay bar during the COVID-19 pandemic. The loss of centralized queer infrastructure has resulted in a diversification of performance sites, expanding the audience reach for drag kings through comedy clubs and general-purpose event spaces across a city better known to visitors for its waterfront tourism and arts festivals than for its historically fragile queer nightlife.
The shift is unfolding against a national backdrop in which anti-discrimination protections for LGBTQIA+ people are defined at federal level by the Sex Discrimination Act 1984, while venue safety, liquor licensing and live performance are regulated by state and local authorities. Performers and producers say that, in practice, the disappearance of a dedicated bar has pushed queer artists to negotiate directly with mainstream operators over issues such as harassment policies, security and inclusive marketing.
Soph Keegan, who performs as the drag king Dirty Damo, is a central figure in this local movement. Keegan’s act utilizes a “bogan” persona, featuring lip-sync performances centered on Australian cultural touchstones, such as the Centrelink waiting music, and often plays to mixed crowds of tourists and locals in small-city venues more commonly associated with stand-up or live bands.
Keegan described the performance as a satirical take on traditional masculinity. “Being raised as a woman you go through these things of being told to not take up space, to be smaller, to be quiet,” Keegan said. “I realised there’s this side to me that loves being a larrikin and there’s that masculinity to me that we all have.”
Dirty Damo’s number about the Centrelink waiting music is a crowd favourite. (Supplied: Ash Carey Photography)
For performers, the change in venue availability has altered both the economics and the expectations of a night on stage. Instead of relying on one or two explicitly queer rooms, drag kings now stitch together regular gigs across multiple bars, comedy nights and ticketed events in a compact city centre that already markets itself as a creative destination to interstate visitors.
Shan Hooper, who performs as Gary Snow, noted that the shutdown of the gay bar widened the potential audience.
“I don’t think there’s a week that goes by that there’s not something drag now,” Hooper said, adding that mixed crowds now include regulars who might previously never have stepped into a queer venue.
Hooper and fellow performer Phoebe Adams operate as a duo act known as the Backdoor Boys. Hooper’s persona, Gary Snow, is a “drunk toddler” character whose aesthetic is informed by Hooper’s 24-year career in the automotive industry, a sector still dominated by men in Tasmania and across Australia.
“Gary is the kind of persona I had to build as Shan to get through the industry, to get through the toxic masculine ways I was encountering every day.”
Shan Hooper says Gary has made them more confident on stage. (Supplied: Ash Carey Photography )
That lived experience of blue-collar, male-dominated workplaces feeds directly into the Backdoor Boys’ material, which leans heavily on satire, physical comedy and exaggerated blokey behaviour. The duo’s presence on mixed bills has, in turn, made drag kings more visible to festival programmers and local councils commissioning entertainment for civic events.
Barry Bothways and Gary Snow are a duo called the Backdoor Boyz. (Supplied: Ash Carey Photography )
Phoebe Adams, who performs as Barry Bothways, has been active in the scene since 2013. Adams, who is non-binary, bases the character on post-war and traditional male masculinity, specifically drawing cues from their father and grandfather and from the kind of “everyday bloke” imagery still common in Tasmanian advertising and local sport.
Adams has used the persona to mentor new drag kings and establish connections with cisgender, heterosexual men, often in rooms where queer performers once appeared only as one-off novelties.
“Those type of dudes, we hang out with them and they feel seen, they like us and treat us like mates when we’re in drag,” Adams said. “We’ve managed to build this culture with these ‘cis’, heterosexual guys, that are allies.”
Phoebe Adams says their drag alter Barry Bothways is inspired by family members. (Supplied: Ash Carey Photography)
Barry Bothways has helped mentor many upcoming drag kings. (Supplied: Ash Carey Photography )
For local government and cultural funders, the growth of drag king shows inside mainstream rooms intersects with broader debates about who benefits from public arts investment. Hobart’s positioning as a boutique arts destination means councils and tourism agencies increasingly program queer work into festivals and precinct events, but performers say that visibility only translates into safety and sustainable income when venues also adopt clear inclusion policies and codes of conduct consistent with Tasmania’s anti-discrimination law.
The expansion into diverse venues has provided a platform for these artists to challenge patriarchal structures in real time. Adams stated that reducing the emphasis on rigid gender roles helps break down what they describe as the “patriarchal playing field,” particularly when stereotypically masculine behaviour is being deconstructed on stage in front of men who recognise themselves in the jokes.
Drag king performances now run regularly across Hobart venues for hosting, cabaret and comedy, embedding queer art more deeply into the city’s night-time economy and leaving policymakers, promoters and audiences to decide how enduring this post-pandemic redistribution of cultural space will be.