Icon: Vicky Lee
(Picture: Cîroc Iconic Ball)Thirty years in any gig a fair stretch by most counts, but for WayOut club night co-founder and host Vicky Lee being honoured for three decades of work still came as something of “a surprise — I really wasn’t expecting it. When you do something for 30 years it becomes part of you, and you don’t see it as anything special.”
But special Lee is. Last night, her trailblazing life — dedicated in large part to the WayOut trans-inclusive club nights started at a time when the “T” wasn’t yet part of the LGBT movement (and decades ahead of LGBTQIA+) — was recognised at the inaugural Cîroc Iconic Ball in Koko, held to mark 50 years of the Pride in London movement.
Lee’s story is a remarkable one; when WayOut began in 1993, almost nothing like it existed. “It is remarkable what Vicky Lee achieved in an era when they were so disregarded before securing a regular trans club night,” says designer Michael Halpern. “Today’s community is so lucky that they strived to create safe spaces for the trans community.”
Halpern’s admiration is shared by the likes of Giles Deacon — who calls Lee “a barrier-breaking, valued advocate who has paved the way for so many” — and model Jourdan Dunn, who dubs her a “shining beacon of hope”.
Yet Lee tells her story with an offhand modesty. WayOut, she says, started because there were so few lines of communication between like-minded people. “Back in those days, we were limited for language — we didn’t really have the word transgender at the time. So we were all looking out for words that might interest us: you knew how you felt but finding other people with that in their head was difficult,” she remembers. Pre-internet, it meant flicking through copies of Time Out on the hunt for “little indicators, words, expressions — ‘dress to impress! New night in Soho!’ And then you’d go along and there would be four people… in jeans.”
WayOut was founded by Lee and Steffan Whitfield as they “looked to create a space where people could express themselves, be creative as themselves, or network.” To get the word out, they turned to the same pages they’d used themselves — more “dress to impress!” — as well as some more unusual routes. “There was a magazine where you could buy nails, screws, working clothes, that sort of thing. But at the back there was a section where you could get thigh high boots and kinky knickers and stuff — so we would put an advert in saying people who cross-dressed were welcome.” Word of mouth followed; Lee and Whitfield “were doing drag shows in gay venues, and they were very helpful to us and let us do promotions and welcomed us to bring people along [to WayOut].” The first night in ‘93, more than 100 people turned up; they’ve never had fewer since.
While drag acts in clubs were already established, Lee and Whitfield wanted something subtly different. “Drag breaks through because it’s colourful and loud — but trans is still in the background because trans people don’t necessarily want to be seen in that way, many just want to pass in society and be accepted.” WayOut, then, wasn’t necessarily about standing out, but more about helping people feel as though they had a space where they fitted in. “When you walked in, you might think you were in a straight nightclub — you know, we had guys and girls — but then you’d look a little closer.”
We looked to create a space where people could express themselves, be creative as themselves, or network
What kept WayOut going as it moved across the city — before it settled in its current home in the Minories building by Tower Hill — was the “colour and spice” of Lee and Whitfield’s entertainment. “We encouraged the creatives who came along to join in. We had catwalk pageants, we recreated MTV videos, we did musicals — the Wizard of Oz, Cinderella — so over 30 years we did hundreds and hundred of shows! Sometimes we’d have 20 people in a show. They were quite extraordinary! We just wanted people to join in.”
Join in they did, even in the face of club owners and a public who weren’t always understanding of what WayOut wanted to achieve. Lee seems remarkably cool about the circumstances — or, as Pam Hogg puts it: “Searching to find a home for a trans club in the West End early 90s would have been wide open to the threat of abuse. Walking the streets was a minefield for those determined to brave it out.”
Brave it out they did. Last night’s honouring at the Cîroc Iconic Ball, where Lee was celebrated as an icon of the scene, recognised her instrumental role in raising awareness of the “T” part of LGBT, supporting those who fall under the broader umbrella of trans, including what Lee calls “the in-betweenies, those that aren’t definitely one thing or another but just themselves”.
Trans rights have, in recent times, dominated the headlines. With increased visibility comes increased prejudice — “we’ve probably gone 10 years backwards at this point”, sighs Lee — but the WayOut founder remains sanguine about the future. WayOut, then, still has a long way to go to keep pushing trans rights forward. “It’s a hump,” Lee says, “and we’ve got to get over that hump to where we just respect that everybody is different, is unique. You need respect, I need it, and we are who we are. We want to be free to get on with our lives, to be creative, to fly.”
