8 hours ago
Bimini gives Rolling Stone UK their rundown of top queer artists for Pride Month
Happy Pride Month from all of us at Rolling Stone UK! We've decided to mark the occasion by handing our platform over to Bimini. We all know them as the breakout star of RuPaul's Drag Race, but it goes without saying they've done so much more since then, including a successful foray into music which included 2023's When The Party Ends EP.
So, to mark Pride, who better than to guide us through some of the UK's leading Queer musical artists? Over to you, Bimini!
Big Wett doesn't just push boundaries, they show up with a wrecking ball and smash the entire binary. From the moment they hit the scene it was clear this wasn't pop as usual. This was sweaty, sex-positive, femme-fronted rebellion with a bassline. Big Wett makes music that sounds like a chaotic night out where you end up on someone's shoulders, lipstick smeared, screaming the lyrics with your top half off and your whole heart out. It's a full-body experience filthy in the best way but underpinned by a cheeky, clever sensibility that flips the male gaze on its head. They've taken this deliciously dirty DIY pop energy and turned it into a movement one that says sexuality can be absurd, loud, joyful, and political. Big Wett isn't just performing they're liberating the dancefloor one horny, glorious track at a time.
Kiimi exists in that sweet, rare space where technical brilliance meets emotional depth. They're a classically trained musician who traded scores for synths and thank the rave gods they did. There's something almost celestial about the way they build tracks glitchy, haunting, cinematic, then suddenly plunging into pulsating, chest-rattling drops that feel like therapy through BPM. Their sound is duality delicate and destructive. It makes you want to throw your head back and sob under a strobe light. But it's more than just music it's healing architecture. And as a non-binary producer in a space that's long been hyper-masculine and gatekept, Kiimi is quietly but radically reshaping who gets to make the noise and what that noise can say. Artful, emotive, and defiantly expansive.
What Rebecca Black has done is nothing short of cultural reclamation. She went from being the internet's punchline to becoming a defiant queer icon, and not through apology or rebranding, but by owning the chaos and flipping the script. Her hyperpop renaissance isn't just catchy it's cathartic. It screams 'You thought you knew me? Watch this.' Her vocals have matured into something wild and elastic, dancing across glitchy production with a kind of empowered theatricality that gives shades of Charli XCX, but with a revenge-arc edge. And let's not forget this is someone who was dragged globally at 13. Now she's dropping bangers in latex, collaborating with queers across the genre, and proving that resilience can be art. This isn't a story about just surviving, bitch she thrived. That's punk.
I. JORDAN's music doesn't ask for permission it grabs your hand and drags you to the dancefloor. Their sound is urgent, sweaty, bright and explosive, like being chased through a neon maze of joy and rage. But beneath the rave chaos, there's precision. You can feel the structure the tension and release, the political bite buried under euphoric highs. They remixed mine and ABSOLUTE. tune Keep On Dancing and injected it with this turbo-charged queer stamina that makes you want to march, scream, kiss, and spin all at once. And culturally? I. JORDAN is walking the talk. Their openness about identity, their refusal to box themselves in, and their commitment to accessibility in dance spaces is as much a part of the work as the beats themselves. This is music as resistance raw, radical, and real.
Before most people knew the term 'queer techno revival,' ABSOLUTE. was already leading the charge. Their journey from underground London clubs to international festival stages has been built on pure vision, community power, and that unmistakable sixth sense behind the decks. When ABSOLUTE. plays it's not just a DJ set it's a sermon in sweat, ecstasy, and queer transcendence. There's an emotional arc to their sound hard yet hopeful, relentless yet healing. And just when you think they've peaked they surprise you. Their project Night Maneuvers with Dot Major? That's them again pushing forward blending club euphoria with live performance in a way that reimagines what rave culture can look and feel like. They aren't just serving beats they're curating emotional awakenings. Queer liberation but make it four to the floor.
Geo Jordan is what happens when soul, identity, and production collide in all the right ways. Their work doesn't just sound good it feels important. Geo's sonic world is tender but tough, rooted in R&B and electronic textures, but pushed into something altogether more fluid and futuristic. Their new music (which I am lucky enough to have HEARD before it's released) It's genreless in the most beautiful way. Their voice floats over minimalist beats like a balm soft, aching, purposeful. But it's not just about the sound it's the message. Geo is creating space for trans joy, trans grief, and everything in between. Their art isn't performance it's a practice. They're not just making music they're making room for people to feel seen. In an industry that still sidelines Black queer voices, Geo is offering something rare vulnerability that doesn't beg for approval, but demands to be heard.
Jaguar – has always had that presence that makes you lean in. For years she was the tastemaker and gatekeeper of the underground, championing queer talent, Black excellence, and femme-forward dance music on BBC Introducing and beyond. She curated the soundtrack for our sweaty late-night liberation before most people even knew her name. But now she is flipping the mic on herself and thank God for that. Her move into releasing her own music feels less like a pivot and more like an ascension. It gives range, rage, and renaissance. Her voice cuts through you. It is soul and steel all at once. One moment you are dancing and the next you are spiralling about your ex. Jaguar does not just sing she channels. Her sound holds space for softness and strength, emotion and euphoria, and the result is a beautifully femme, powerfully queer spiritual experience in club form. The scene is better because she is in it and now that she is on the mic too there is no stopping her. She is a true force and we are lucky to witness the glow up and the takeover.
Bentley isn't writing breakup songs he's scoring full pop operas of emotional destruction and post-heartache glamour. Think if Robyn made out with Troye Sivan in the bathroom of a glitter-covered gay club at 3am that's the vibe. His voice glides across tracks with this perfect mix of heartbreak and hedonism, sadness and sass. He's taken what could have been trauma and turned it into a disco ball. Bentley is unapologetically pop but make it flesh and blood pop. And in a time where queer male artists are still often boxed into clichés, Bentley's showing you can be emotional and extra, damaged and divine. His songs don't just slap they validate. Heartbreak has never sounded so anthemic or looked so good in thigh-high boots.
