Malaysia’s oldest drag club is an oasis for its queer community. Can it survive?

It’s shortly after 3am in the morning, when Blue Boy Club – Malaysia’s oldest drag bar – starts to empty out. As the last of the night’s guests stroll out arm-in-arm into a dimly lit alley in Bukit Bintang, Kuala Lumpur, the club’s metal shutters are pulled down and its front door is locked.

Inside, huddled around two tables cluttered with tall glasses, sit the bar manager, a few patrons and the night’s drag artists. The music is low and spotlights are dimmed from the panelled, technicoloured stage. Cigarette smoke plumes from the painted lips of the drag artists who have removed their wigs and eyelashes, and changed out of their sequined dresses. They sit slumped in their chairs, exhausted.

“Since I was very small, I loved to dance,” says Arisha von Stars, who led the night’s showstopper finale of Chaka Khan’s ​‘Ain’t Nobody’, after almost two-hours of high-energy performances by the six strong troupe.

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“My family used to laugh, even when I put on my sister’s dresses. But that was because I was very small. When I grew older, they became more against it… especially my father. That’s when I learnt to take care of myself.”

Arisha, who is trans, realised she was born in the wrong male body around the age of 11. After finishing school, she moved to the capital, Kuala Lumpur for work. Like many LGBTQ+ Malaysians, she found her community at Blue Boy Club.

In the ​’80s, the club was the beating heart of Kuala Lumpur’s nightlife. Long evenings would drift unknowingly into early mornings at the club, situated in the popular party area of the city. Its tightly packed walls would drip with sweat as crowds surged and heaved ever closer to the multi-coloured dancefloor as the club swelled to capacity.

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But recent years have seen Malaysian LGBTQ+ communities and their businesses such as Blue Boy be forced to contend with gradual degradations of their freedoms since the club’s heyday. ​“There used to be plenty of gay, dance and drag bars in Kuala Lumpur,” says Azizan, 45, who is both bar manager and lead choreographer at Blue Boy Club. ​“But the scene has really changed.”

In Malaysia, homosexuality and crossdressing are illegal. No anti-discrimination laws catering to sexual orientation and gender identity exist.

A hybrid legal system governs the country. Muslims – who make up the majority of the country’s population – must follow Islamic laws while non-Muslims are bound by secular civil law. But as support for conservative Islam steadily increases, a swathe of governments in the last ten years have taken a stronger, more rightwing line on civil issues, including a widening crackdown on LGBTQ+ rights, as they fought to gain support from sectors of the country’s Muslim population.

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Seven years ago, during the early hours of one Saturday morning in August 2018, the impact of the nationwide crackdown arrived at Blue Boy’s front door. Some regulars, including Laura, who is transgender and now works at the country’s only NGO that supports trans rights, recalls her ​“fear” as police and government officials rushed through the club’s front doors, switched off the music and turned on all the lights.

“They ordered men to stand on one side of the room, and women on the other,” she says. ​“I had no idea which way to walk.”

20 people were arrested that night and subsequently forced to attend counselling for ​“illicit behaviour” by the Federal Territory Islamic Religious Department of Malaysia. At the time, a government minister released a statement about why the raid was organised. ​“Hopefully this initiative can mitigate the LGBT culture from spreading into our society,” he said.

According to Human Rights Watch: ​“Discrimination against lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people is pervasive in Malaysia.” The Global Trans Rights Index ranked Malaysia as the second worst country in the world for transgender rights in 2023.

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Today, Blue Boy keeps a low profile. Performances are posted on social media, but events are not widely promoted. Tourists join a steady flow of locals and regulars for drag performances six nights per week. ​“We need to push ourselves to deliver something special every night,” says Azizan. ​“It’s what makes us proud. It’s also what keeps this place alive.”

Azizan centres his choreography around storytelling. A former dancer, his song choices range from heart-wrenching ballads to pumping electronic breakbeats, while dance routines are character-driven: sometimes elegant and graceful, other times, wild and animalistic. Inside, a powerful fiction written by the performers in their safe space distracts from a harsh reality facing the LGBTQ+ community outside.

But as the night draws to a close, most around the table have a positive outlook for their future. ​“This is our home, a place for the community and for everyone who wants to participate and support us.”

Tomorrow, the same group of performers will be back inside the club for rehearsals, which take place every day of the week. They will sing and dance to a completely new set. ​“We like to keep the crowd guessing,” Azizan continues, smirking. ​“They never know what to expect from us.”

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Gordon Cole-Schmidt is a freelance journalist. Follow him on Instagram.

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