I planned to spend three months in Buenos Aires writing my manuscript. Instead, I was swept into its transcendent music festival scene.
I experienced the city’s penchant for music from day one. A close friend, a straight American couple, already lived there as expats.
In Buenos Aires, you had to purchase tickets in advance to enter many club parties. We went to Makena Cantina Club, a popular bar that hosts popular bands on Sundays.
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I met Bianca, a tipsy redhead wearing a leather jacket and fishnet stockings, and her best friend Mafer, a short, thick lesbian with a pixie cut. They were 24-year-old locals working entry-level creative jobs, but they didn’t let a financially crippling ongoing recession in the country stop them from having fun.
Sebas, the Peruvian host of the party, had bought their tickets. He retired from his nomad lifestyle and relocated to the city because of the catastrophic economy; it was lucrative for people who earned salaries in foreign currencies.
The music festival scene rules nightlife in Buenos Aires
Entering Makena felt like a Bob Marley concert on April 20th. At this point, I was a few drinks deep. The Rastafari Spanish music and the carefree energy of the crowd were entrancing.
A man kept bumping shoulders with me. I noticed from the corner of my eye that he was tall and hot, but got nervous. So I continued dancing, and so did he, and when I finally gathered the courage to turn around, he was gone.
I was in a straight venue; in gay bars, flirting with an attractive stranger could happen at any moment, but this person caught me off guard. I couldn’t face the risk of his gayness being a projection of my desire.
At 1 am, my friends decided to go home, so I agreed to share an Uber.
Sebas and Bianca chased after me and stopped me. They convinced me to go with them to Bresh. I assumed it was another bar and agreed for the sake of solidifying new friends abroad.
Sebas quickly bought everyone’s ticket while we were in the Uber. But when we arrived at Bosques de Palermo, a large city park, I was confused. It occurred to me that I got into a car with strangers without asking questions.
Bresh: “The most beautiful party in the world”
I stopped wondering once we walked into the late-night music festival. The closest thing I could compare it to was a circuit party sans the shirtless male crowd and the dark rooms. There were plenty of gay men mixed in the crowd. Don’t ask me how; I just knew, even if my anxiety didn’t let me trust my gut.
The party surrounded a massive stage spewing strobe lights into the night sky. We danced to reggaetón, Latin pop, and old-school hits with myriad performances, smoke, and light shows throughout the early morning. I typically never let myself dance to the full extent of my sex appeal unless I’m in a gay space – and I certainly didn’t plan on unleashing my groove in Latin America.
But I forgot the fluidity of music festivals. In an open field, there was no infrastructure to label a space straight or queer. But the walls of gay bars don’t make them safe – the patrons inside do.
I hadn’t attended music festivals since high school in Miami, where the Ultra Music Festival was treated like a rite of passage. My friends and I started going our freshman year; I went until graduation.
In my junior year, a random muscular man offered to carry me on his shoulders so I could see the stage better. It didn’t feel like he was hitting on me; it just seemed like he genuinely thought I’d enjoy it.
At this point, I wasn’t fully conscious I was gay. But when he kneeled so I could wrap my legs around his neck and he firmly held my thigh with his right hand, it felt like ecstasy. Then the beat dropped, and I danced, held up in the air with a perfect view of unencumbered humanity. He never loosened his grip.
At Bresh, known as “la fiesta mas linda del mundo” (the most beautiful party in the world), I felt that same euphoria of being lost in music without any awareness of the space I took up. I had forgotten how inclusive music festivals were. They created common ground for nearly every community to gather and rejoice.
Songs have a way of taking us back to specific moments in time while simultaneously grounding us in the present. Music is universal; at this festival, LGBTQ people were welcomed as far as the sound reached.
Music gave me a community beyond queerness
My newfound friends continued inviting me to music festivals every weekend. There was an entire subculture around it. Groups of friends, acquaintances, and strangers would gather at Sebas’ to pre-game, and at around 1–3 am, we’d order a string of Ubers and head out like Calvary, off to slay the night until dawn.
We went to festivals that were straight, mixed, and unhinged with gayness. It didn’t seem to matter to my friends what crowd the parties catered to – they focused on the type of music or performers. I loved this approach to life and having fun.
However, my eyes would light up whenever I heard we were going to Bresh. The party started in Argentina and now happens worldwide, but Porteños promise they do it best.
The beauty extended beyond the impressive production and fabulous music. We threw ourselves into the crowd, and I felt invisible in the best ways. The presence of gayness was like a shot of adrenaline.
Sometimes, I locked eyes with a stranger because of mutual attraction; other times, it was just the acknowledgment of queerness. But at the peak of every night, my favorite moments were when the crowd felt like one. It was palpable when the music took over individuality. I never thought a herd mentality could be liberating until funky beats led it.
Bresh has achieved a cult following, with over 2 million Instagram followers. Like the best music festivals in the world, it welcomes people from all walks of life. But I’ll be the first to argue it wouldn’t be the “most fun” without such a noticeable queer presence. Although gay bars are sacred, the fluidity of music festivals helped me appreciate a new lens on liberation – and inhibition.
On my last night at Bresh, I decided to go home early at 5 am. Ubers were all busy, and after 30 minutes, I walked to the highway and prayed for a taxi to pass. None. Eventually, a guy stopped. He was cute and offered to give me a ride. I got in the car.
We had a wonderful chat about nothing on the way to my building. He stopped the car at my entrance, and we both faced forward. I dared turn to the side and look at him to see if he’d kiss me, but he stayed facing forward.
I decided not to try to kiss the lovely man who drove me home. It didn’t mean I felt unsafe; I just feared rejection. And isn’t that the appeal of spaces labeled gay? The feeling of safety emboldens the multitude of ways queer people who are attracted to each other express their sexuality – and themselves on the dance floor.
