Eurovision: the song contest that went queer and never asked for permission
Today, 28 June, International LGBTIQ+ Pride Day, we raise flags, voices and – inevitably – the volume on our televisions. And if one programme has marched in step with the community for decades, glitter in hand, it is Eurovision.
Television is full of shows designed to charm the broadest possible audience. Eurovision, on the other hand, was invented to patch up post‑war Europe and somehow ended up uniting millions of queer viewers in a pop cult so exuberant that even the FA Cup Final feels understated by comparison.
What makes this affair so intense? History, for a start. Feather boas. And a crooner named Jean‑Claude Pascal, who in 1961 whispered about a forbidden romance at a time when loving another man was illegal in most of Europe. His ballad “Nous les amoureux” never spelled it out – it didn’t dare – yet it won in glorious black‑and‑white and gave the contest its first clandestine wink.
Fast‑forward to 1997. Iceland dispatches Páll Óskar, the first openly gay contestant, sat in a white leather armchair as though auditioning for a Bond film set in Reykjavík. Jaws drop, queer fans take notes: here, at last, you can be precisely who you are.
One year later Dana International sashays in from Israel wearing Jean‑Paul Gaultier and claims victory with “Diva”. Trans, glamorous and magnificently unapologetic, she lifts the crystal microphone while certain broadcasters clutch their pearls. Eurovision has just declared itself queer‑friendly, live on public television.
Since then, every edition has added another layer of sequins to the saga. Marija Šerifović, proudly lesbian, wins for Serbia. Verka Serduchka, Ukraine’s tinfoil drag goddess, storms the stage with a star on her head. In 2013 Finland’s Krista Siegfrids seals her performance with a same‑sex kiss to demand marriage equality – Moscow fumes, Europe applauds. And of course there is Conchita Wurst: the bearded Austrian phoenix who in 2014 turns a Bond‑style power ballad into a political statement, torching prejudice while nailing a top C.
The contest, almost by accident, has become the continent’s largest queer safe space – the only prime‑time arena where a drag cellist from Cyprus can steal more headlines than the latest economic summit. It isn’t just what we see; it’s what hums beneath the glitter: that collective understanding of growing up different and finally finding, even for three minutes, a stage that doesn’t merely tolerate you – it celebrates you.
That is why Nemo triumphed in 2024. Their vocals were exquisite, yes, but what truly resonated was a non‑binary artist smashing the rulebook on live television. No permission requested, none required – Europe stood and cheered.
Why do we love it so fiercely? Because Eurovision doesn’t look at us strangely, invent excuses or ask us to turn the volume down. Instead, it hands us a spotlight, cues ten cameras and kindly suggests we dial up the sparkle.
It remains the only show where oddity is merit, difference is a hook and raw emotion is positively encouraged, even – especially – when the high note wobbles. As long as there are corners of the world where loving freely carries a cost, as long as someone somewhere dreams of shoving us back into the closet, Eurovision will be our parade, our barricade and our party, all rolled into one. And yes, it will do so in satin, but equally in memory, pride and unshakeable dignity.
