When journalist Lina Abascal noticed some friends were attending iterations of Stud Country—biweekly dance events described as a “Queer Church of Line Dance”—she began to investigate the scene, and discovered that LA has a decades-long history of gay line dancing spaces, many of which have since shut down. What began as a report on these gatherings soon became “Stud Country,” a short film created with her co-director Alexandra Kern. They tell Megan Wallace how they documented this long history, the characters that made it what it was and the gentrification that’s forcing so many of these vital community spaces off the map.
How can we know the dancer from the dance? In an era when we’re so often locked into the micro-worlds of our phones, dance offers a rare opportunity for collectivism and togetherness. It’s easy to lose yourself in the communal movement, the rhythm of the music and the interplay of legs, arms and feet.
This is one of the themes at the heart of Lina Abascal and Alexandra Kern’s short film immersing viewers in LA’s resilient queer line dancing scene. Abascal’s interest in the subculture was first sparked when she noticed friends in her circle attending iterations of Stud Country: biweekly dance events described as a “Queer Church of Line Dance”.
A journalist by trade, Abascal reported on these gatherings for an article in The Los Angeles Times—but soon realized that there was a much larger story at play. “I didn't get access to the larger story that wasn't just about Stud Country on Mondays and Thursdays, but about the backstory and the characters,” Abascal recalls. However, she soon discovered that queer line has a decades-long history in LA formerly centered around Oil Can Harry’s, a western themed gay bar in Studio City which shuttered in 2021.
After the venue closed, the community found a new space in Echo Park: Club Bahia, where Stud Country has found a home and a dancefloor. Taken by the venue’s vintage glamour and unique aesthetic, Abascal decided to venture out of writing and begin the journey towards making her first film. “Club Bahia is a really beautiful and unique space: it’s a mid-century Latin dance club, with old neon and murals,” she explains. “I just thought, ‘This is a story that should be visual.’”
While looking for a creative partner, a friend put her in contact with Kern, a documentary filmmaker. United by a shared passion for culture and a concern about the gentrification displacing LA’s communities, the duo began work. “The main question for me off the bat was, ‘Why are places like Oil Can Harry’s closing?’ What Lina and I found through going to the event together is that Club Bahia was also facing impending closure,” Kern explains. “A central focus for us in the film is the importance of preserving places that cultivate community, culture and art.”
The result of their collaboration is an immersive project harnessing the magnetism of line-dancing through bustling footage of the hooting, hollering from Club Bahia, paired alongside intimate interviews with dancers of different ages and life experiences, who explore their connection with the scene and the history of queer line dancing. “I'm a documentary filmmaker, so a lot of my projects make the audience feel like they're a part of the environment, like a fly on the wall,” Kern explains. “In ‘Stud Country,’ we wanted to make the audience feel like they’re on the dance floor as well.”
To find the people featured in the film, Kern and Abascal initially put out an open call on social media, but wound up discovering most of their interviewees on the ground, approaching event regulars and uncovering overlooked stories within the scene. “Our main character is Anthony, who’s in his 80s and is this founding father, unsung hero and mentor of this community, “ says Kern. “Finding him was such a privilege—he has dedicated his entire life to archiving and passing on line dances to the next generation.”
Through Anthony, Kern and Abascal were able to gain access to decades of videos and photos documenting the queer line dancing subculture across different bars and venues in LA. “We would go to his house, he would cook us a homemade meal, and then we would spend hours going through his archive while talking to him about his role in this community over the past 50 years,” says Kern.
They discovered that line dancing took off among LA’s queer community in the 1980s, at a time when gay men were looking for refuge from the misinformation and stigma which accompanied the biggest public health crisis of their time. “During the HIV crisis, there was not a lot known about the ways in which the disease spread and people were afraid to touch and embrace each other,” Kern adds. “Spaces like Oil Can Harry’s were places where people could come together, share a dance and feel safe.”
The duo weren’t just focused on the subculture’s past, but on how it’s evolved from a primarily gay male pursuit towards a queerer, more inclusive one. Alongside Anthony’s perspective, the film is underpinned by other voices including Sean, co-founder of Stud Country and a dance teacher passionate about the history of LGBTQ+ cowboy culture; Abby, a 40-something lesbian who has followed queer line dancing from Oil Can Harry’s to Club Bahia; and Zach, a young dancer who has been able to recontextualize the heteronormativity of his Georgia background thanks to Stud Country’s queering of Southern codes.
Undoubtedly, this diverse mix of characters is one of the key elements that make Kern and Abascal’s project so compelling. “In the film, Sean says; ‘If we can’t agree outside of the dance floor, we can share a dance if just that.’ That’s one of our favorite lines of the film, because it really describes this gathering of people from both an older generation and a newer generation,” says Kern. “There is a feeling of camaraderie and connection that you just don’t really get anywhere else—it’s so important to preserve spaces which cultivate that.”
‘Stud Country’ is Kern and Abascal’s homage to the joy and safety to be found within LA’s line-dancing scene as well as the clubs which have welcomed its patrons over the years. However, both creatives agree that community-driven spaces should be granted the protections they deserve before it’s too late.
They point to an example within the film itself: Oil Can Harry’s, which was designated a Historic-Cultural Monument by the Los Angeles City Council a year after shuttering. “That club was a huge part of LA history and eventually became a historic monument after it was closed,” says Abascal. “We need to save these places while they're alive, not just give them a little plaque.”