Dancefloor Diaspora

I first heard ellen.j play on the roof of Honeys on July 5, 2025. Until then, ours was one of those distinctly New York friendships: parasocial by proximity. We'd never properly met, but we'd orbited one another for months through my documentary page about raving in New York, mutual friends, and the sprawling web of people that makes the city's dance community feel impossibly large until, suddenly, it doesn't.

She arrived by bus. I arrived by bike. As I was locking mine outside, she was standing on the sidewalk with a back-up USB plugged into her phone, smiling with the kind of calm that only comes after you've accepted there's nothing left to do. "I lost my USB on the bus," she laughed.

For most DJs, that's nightmare fuel. Months of collecting tracks, hours of planning a journey, all somewhere between Bed-Stuy and Bushwick. Instead of panicking, she built a set from whatever was sitting on her phone. Eighties dance records gave way to modern house, then to pop songs she'd forgotten she'd even downloaded. It wasn't polished, and that was exactly why it worked. Girls danced with drinks still in their hands. Men who had spent the first half of the night pretending not to know the words couldn't help themselves once Whitney came on. Everyone smiled. No one cared that this wasn't the plan.

Watching ellen.j that night, I realized that the best DJs aren't remembered because they play the perfect records. They're remembered because they make a room believe, if only for a few hours, that everyone inside it belongs to one another.

Long after the roof emptied and everyone drifted back into the Brooklyn night, I kept thinking about that set. Not because she'd salvaged a disaster, but because she'd revealed something about dance music that often gets overlooked. The best DJs aren't simply selectors. They're caretakers of temporary communities, quietly shaping the emotional architecture of a room where strangers dance together, flirt together, grieve together, and occasionally leave together.

That's what made me want to sit down with ellen.j. In the middle of Pride Month, when she's playing 13 shows across New York City, she's thinking about dance floors from every angle: as a DJ; as a researcher; and as someone deeply interested in how music shapes intimacy, pleasure, and queer community. We spoke about Pride as both celebration and labor, queer nightlife as a place of diaspora and belonging, and why, in an increasingly isolated world, there are few places more radical than a room full of strangers choosing to dance together.

AC: You have a crazy month ahead — you’re playing thirteen Pride events. What does Pride season actually feel like from your perspective?

EJ: It's interesting. This is only my second Pride DJing professionally and being more visible in the scene. It feels both really celebratory and really exhausting. I'm up all night, but my regular life doesn't stop, so balancing the two is a strange juxtaposition.

It’s also one of the most interesting times of year to be on a dance floor. You get people who are just coming out, or who don't normally participate in nightlife, stepping into queer spaces for the first time because they want to experience queer life. There are so many beautiful parts of that, but there are challenges, too.

AC: Can you spot a newly minted dancer in the crowd?

EJ: You can. I don't always know if it's literally their first time, but you can tell when someone is new to nightlife. Then you talk to them and they say, "This is my first time!"

There's this excitement about them. They're a little shaky, like a deer taking its first steps. It's honestly one of the sweetest parts of Pride. There are more daytime parties; people stay out longer; they actually get to know each other. It always feels like the real beginning of summer.

AC: Do you have a lot of back-to-back sets?

EJ: Oh yeah. Between the 25th and 27th, I have six gigs.

AC: (Laughs.) That's basically two days.

EJ: (Laughs.) The sets themselves aren't the hard part. I have plenty of music — I could play four hours without thinking twice. The challenge is the logistics. It's like, "Okay, now I have to figure out my Uber schedule," because if I don't have rides lined up, I'm not making it to the next gig.

AC: Do you think your relationship to Pride has shifted since you first started going out and DJing?

EJ: Completely.

The funny thing is, I don't actually get to go out for fun anymore. If I'm not DJing, I'm usually trying to sleep. I wish I were one of those DJs who's like, "I'm out every single night," but I'm almost thirty. I need sleep.

AC: I feel the same way. I can rock a darty like nobody's business — you've seen me at Public Service — but once it's 12:30, I'm like, "Alright, I gotta go home."

EJ: (Laughs.) Exactly. When your workday starts at two in the morning, your relationship to nightlife changes.

AC: So how has it shifted?

EJ: Well, for one, I'm just more visible now. I'm kind of ... a character in the nightlife scene.

AC: Oh yeah. I've had people come up to me and start talking, and I'm just standing there thinking, "How do you know me?" Then they tell me they recognized my silhouette.

EJ: Exactly! And what's funny is Ellen isn't even my name.

AC: Wait ... is it your middle name?

EJ: (Laughs.) No. A friend used to call me L.N.J. — Late Night Janae — and when you say it fast it sounds like Ellen J. I thought it'd be funny to become a nicer, gayer Ellen.

AC: (Laughs.) I love that.

EJ: So now people come up and say, "Ellen! How are you?" and I'm thinking, You don't actually know me.

AC: You could build an entire persona around Ellen.

EJ: Honestly. But I like it. It's sweet. The biggest difference is that I'm not anonymous anymore. I used to disappear into a crowd, dance until close, make out with people ... now I experience nightlife completely differently. Instead of just participating, I'm studying it.

AC: Coming at clubbing through an anthropological lens.

EJ: Truly. I became that meme.

When I go out now, I'm watching how crowds move. How a dance floor starts. What gets people going. What shuts them down. I'm paying attention to what people are drinking, what they're taking, how they're interacting. I want to understand who I'm actually playing for.

From the DJ booth, you have this bird's-eye view, but it's a very specific relationship to a crowd. When you're inside the crowd, you feel the ebb and flow. You understand the energy in a completely different way.

That's become a huge part of my research. I want to understand dance and movement, so after nights out, I'll literally ask people, "How are you feeling?"

AC: (Laughs.) You're getting peer reviews in real time.

EJ: (Laughs.) I really am. I'm probably incredibly annoying now.

AC: Hard pivot, but why do you think dancefloors have been gathering spaces for queer people? 

EJ: There are a million directions you could take that question.

One example I always think about is this dance event in Chicago — I'm terrible with dates — but there was a law that prohibited people from dancing with someone of the same sex unless they were masked. So people put on masks and danced anyway. Eventually, there were thousands of people showing up.

I love that story because it shows what dance floors have always been. They become spaces where people quietly push back against the rules they're given. Two people look at each other and say, "Can you believe this?" "No." Then they dance anyway.

That's happened over and over throughout queer history.

AC: Do you still think the dance floor functions as a place where people find community?

EJ: Yeah, but I've become a little more ... not jaded exactly, just more aware of what makes those experiences meaningful. You can tell when an event has a real reason for existing. When people aren't just showing up because it's another party, but because there's a heart behind it.

I wanted to go to that beach rave recently, but I was DJing. That's the kind of thing I mean. People were willing to travel all the way out there because they wanted an experience that doesn't exist in everyday life.

That feeling doesn't happen automatically just because there's music. It comes from the people in the room.

AC: As a DJ, do you feel like you're responsible for conducting that?

EJ: Completely. A lot of DJing is about connection. You have to look at the room, reflect it back to people, guess what they want, but also give them what they need.

My formula is usually one song everybody knows, then three where they're thinking, "Maybe ..." and then one that's just for me.

Back and forth.

You build trust. People learn, "Okay, I might not know this song, but she'll bring me back."

AC: What do you think people are actually looking for when they go out dancing? Assuming they're looking for anything at all.

EJ: I think they always are.

For me, there's something about dancing at night — in a dark room, surrounded by lights — that creates this womb-like effect.

AC: Did you ever go to Earthly Delights?

EJ: Ugh, no.

AC: I always said it felt like I was inside —

BOTH: A womb.

AC: Or Pinocchio inside the whale.

EJ: (Laughs.) That's why Jocelyn calls her party Swallowed.

When I'm on a dance floor — not DJing, not producing an event, just there — I use dancing to get back in touch with myself. It grounds me.

Some people are there for that. Some people don't even realize that's why they're there. Some are cruising. Some are making friends. Some are meeting people. There are countless reasons to go out, but underneath all of them is the same thing: connection.

People are trying to find something outside themselves that somehow brings them back to themselves. That's what fascinates me.

Over the course of a night, I watch people shed layers. They become more comfortable touching each other, talking to each other, existing beside each other. Of course, there are dangers in that. There are caveats to everything.

But when it's good, there's this energy that moves through a room that people become addicted to. It's the feeling of belonging to something bigger than yourself.

AC: Is there anything you're looking for when you go out?

EJ: (Laughs.) It depends on the night. Sometimes I'm looking for a good makeout. Sometimes I'm looking to work through my childhood grief.

AC: (Laughs.) It's a scale.

EJ: (Laughs.) It's absolutely a scale.

One night, I went to Nowadays after a family member had passed away. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't want anyone to look at me. I just wanted to be surrounded by music.

I remember standing on the dance floor with my eyes closed, and it felt like I was dancing with them. It was this strange experience where time collapsed. And I wasn't even on anything.

AC: (Laughs.) I was about to ask what you took.

EJ: (Laughs.) Actually, I wasn't at Nowadays — I was in the jungle. Maybe I'd had an edible, but that's it.

The dance floor is where I understand myself best. I understand what I want. I understand my desires, whether that's something I want to do with my life or someone I want to kiss.

Everything becomes clearer.

AC: I know exactly what you mean. Sometimes the thoughts I'd normally avoid don't feel scary anymore. I can actually sit with them.

EJ: Exactly. That should probably be a sign I need somatic therapy.

(Both laugh.)

But it's true. I find myself on the dance floor. I can hold all these different identities at once.

When I hear a song that speaks to my queerness, it feels incredible.

When I hear something that speaks to my Blackness, it feels incredible.

When I hear something that reflects my age, or the way I'm moving through the world, it feels incredible.

For a moment, it feels like you're hearing yourself. Like you're being seen.

AC: Sometimes I leave my apartment without even knowing what I'm looking for. I just know that whatever it is, I'll probably find it once I get there. 

AC: You've worked with Living Room Lectures on a presentation about the art of making out on the dance floor. Have you ever looked out from the booth and thought, "Oh ... a moment is about to happen"? Or even, "I want this to happen. Let's see if I can make it happen."

EJ: (Laughs.) It's happened so many times.

The one that always sticks with me was when I was playing the Model UN delegate ball at Terminal 5. It was all 18 to 25-year-olds having the absolute time of their lives.

AC: (Laughs.) Eighteen-year-olds are just so excited to be in a club.

EJ: Exactly.

I'd been playing for about four hours and was wrapping up the night. I usually close with "Ribs" by Lorde, and I'd noticed these two people standing at the front while all of their friends kept whispering to each other.

AC: God, I love a whisper session.

EJ: (Laughs.) Right? It's so fun to watch people realize their emotions in real time.

These two kept circling each other. Then "Ribs" started. It felt like everything was balancing on that one little moment —

AC: The part where everyone starts jumping.

EJ: Yes!

And then they kissed.

All their friends immediately started screaming, "OH MY GOD!" They were cheering, the two of them were laughing, kissing again … It was so sweet.

Then you play somewhere like FUTCH and …

(Laughs.)

… it gets feral.

AC: (Laughs.) You can smell the pheromones from a block away.

EJ: Truly.

At FUTCH, all you have to do is walk into the crowd, dance for a minute, and someone will be like, "Yeah ... let's make out." That's already the energy.

I build my sets around getting people to dance together, because they don't need me to convince them to kiss. I play a lot of house edits and pop edits that get people out of their heads. You have to move your body. Once people get over that initial hill of self-consciousness, they start looking around.

"Oh … who's next to me?"

Then the rest takes care of itself.

AC: (Laughs.) Bringing back the bump and grind.

EJ: Exactly.

Although ... There have definitely been moments where someone I liked was in the crowd. Then suddenly ...

I changed the song.

(Both laugh.)

I couldn't let them kiss somebody else.

AC: Well, you're playing 13 incredibly gay shows this month. Is there something about a queer dance floor that immediately makes it feel ... queer? Is there a social ingredient that makes everyone think, "This is where I belong," other than Lorde?

EJ: (Laughs.) Other than Lorde.

A lot of the parties I play, like Gaydar, started through internet communities. They're built on these parasocial relationships that eventually become real-life friendships. The internet actually does bring people together.

But there's also …

(Laughs.)

… a level of horniness that's just different.

People are much less ashamed of what they want and how they present themselves. It's comfortable.

I don't know if I can define what makes something specifically gay beyond the fact that ...

(Laughs.)

… gay stuff is happening.

AC: I ask because I'm bi, so I spend time in a lot of mixed spaces. Then I'll go somewhere like Footy With Friends or FUTCH, and the energy shifts completely.

I don't know if it's because there aren't men there — or if the men who are there are twinks — but there's a social dynamic that's palpably different.

EJ: Yeah. I DJ a lot of lesbian-centered events, and it's honestly hard to define because every party is different.

The crowd changes. The venue changes. But there is a kind of shared understanding. People go because they know it's a queer space. They're choosing to be somewhere they'll feel comfortable. That means you'll see every kind of gender expression, every way of dressing, every kind of dancer.

People let go. They get weirder. I mean that in the most loving way possible.

I think lesbians, especially, spend so much of their lives being pushed to the margins that, for one night, they're suddenly the center of attention.

AC: That's such a powerful feeling. Especially because everyone else on the dance floor is experiencing some version of that too.

EJ: Exactly. It's emboldening.

The world usually isn't built for you. But for those few hours … it is.

You're not wondering whether the people around you understand you. You know they do — or at least that they'll meet you with curiosity instead of judgment. So you become willing to put your freakiest foot forward just to see what happens.

AC: Usually, it works.

EJ: Usually it does. That's where possibility lives. You see someone and think, "I want to look like that one day."

Or, "That was me two years ago."

You end up meeting different versions of yourself through complete strangers. That's something that doesn't happen very often outside queer spaces.

AC: Definitely not at a straight bar.

EJ: (Laughs.) Definitely not.

AC: Speaking of queer spaces, you were supposed to play Gingers this year. How are you feeling about everything that's happened there? I remember how excited you were because your friends were finally going to be able to come see you play.

EJ: (Laughs.) I know. I was so excited. I was going to play right after Dyke March.

What I love about Gingers is the crowd. It's every kind of person — every age, every body, every expression. 

AC: I love that it attracts older lesbians, too. Seeing a 20-year-old lesbian meet a 50-year-old lesbian on the dance floor is one of my favorite things. They're always shocked that the older lesbians are still down to party.

EJ: (Laughs.) They're like, "I'm the party. You're here because of me."

I'm really sad about Gingers. It seems like they're still programming events, just not at night anymore. I actually got interviewed by Hell Gate about it. I thought it was going to be a panel of DJs, but it ended up just being me.

I really went off.

It does feel targeted, especially because they've dealt with issues before. At the same time, it's a legal issue, and they have to do what's best to keep Gingers open. I just hope one day that includes dancing there again.

For now… the gentrifiers won.

AC: Those fuckers.

(Both laugh.)

If someone asked you why queer dance floors still matter today, what would you tell them?

EJ: They matter because queer people still aren't safe. Trans people still aren't safe. Showing that there's still this resilient heartbeat inside the queer community is incredibly important.

People always ask, "How can you be happy at a time like this?" But, when hasn't there been something horrible happening somewhere?

Joy isn't the opposite of struggle. It's how we survive it. You need somewhere to release everything you're carrying. Otherwise, trauma stays in the body. Your body keeps the damn score.

AC: (Laughs.) That's when you wake up wondering why your hips hurt.

Babe … you're traumatized.

EJ: (Laughs.) Exactly. Beyond that, it's important to show that queer spaces matter. Not to make everything about economics, but there is spending power in queer communities. We deserve spaces that are built for us.

It's incredible to watch people fill a room on a Wednesday night just because they want to dance together.

One thing I didn't realize until I started DJing is that the music is so loud people end up talking about things they'd never normally say.

AC: I have this terrible habit of bringing up something incredibly serious right before the music cuts out.

I'll accidentally yell, "SO ... HOW'S YOUR MOM? IS SHE STILL SICK?" Then the whole room goes silent.

EJ: (Laughs.) Exactly!

"Please ... somebody press play!"

But that's what I love about those spaces. They're convincing places. They're like church.

Places like Gingers get shut down because of noise complaints, or venues disappear, so queer nightlife is constantly rebuilding itself.

Pop up.

Rebuild.

Pop up.

Rebuild.

Over and over again.

But that's proof of life. We all have difficult jobs. Complicated families. Messy lives. Then, for a few hours… we get to be a little crazy together.

AC: Last question: What gives you hope about the future of queer nightlife?

EJ: My friends. The people I've met through dance music give me hope. You find real community on a dance floor in a way that you can't through your phone.

There's something so beautiful about walking into a room and starting to recognize people.

I also love that queer crowds keep embracing weirder and weirder music. Sometimes I'll think, "People are going to hate this." Then the entire room just starts screaming, "YEAH! PLAY IT LOUDER!"

AC: (Laughs.) That was me when you dropped that insane Phil Collins remix. I lost my mind.

EJ: (Laughs.) The "In the Air Tonight" remix!

I don't know … I just believe there will always be somewhere to dance.

After something terrible happens, there will always be a room where people can come together, let it out, and reconnect with each other.

Dance floors are sacred places. I hope they last forever.

People have been dancing since the beginning of time.

People have been queer since the beginning of time.

AC: Hell … they were probably gayer back then.

EJ: (Laughs.) Probably.

As long as people exist, there will be dancing. There will be queer people. They're both completely natural.

Knowing that we've always been here — and always will be — is what gives me hope.

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