If you ever found yourself wondering what happens when cowboy hats meet queer liberation, and no I’m not talking about Brokeback Mountain, then a night with Spurs line dancing in Toronto is in your crosshairs.
The queer line dancing collective has slowly been gaining traction since their debut last year.
One of their regulars happens to be someone I know. A couple months back, I went to check out Friday nights with Spurs for myself.
I spent the days leading up to the event combing through thrift stores and drugstore makeup aisles look for the perfect outfit. I couldn’t imagine a large crowd of queer people lining up for some country, but alas, I was proven wrong.
The people behind the event are the collective’s founder, Law & Order Toronto actress Kathleen Munroe and her friend Veronique Beaudet.
Of course, I was just as shocked as the next person to find out that in between seasons of Canada’s newest hit show, the star was running parties while getting down to Shania Twain.
“I’m not a dancer,” Munroe told me, laughing. “Like, I didn’t grow up dancing, and I was always a bit intimidated. But when I went to this line dancing night in Los Angeles called Stud Country, it totally shifted something in me.”
Stud Country is a queer offshoot of the legendary Oil Can Harry’s in L.A.’s San Fernando Valley, a queer casualty during the pandemic. As someone who does like to indulge in queer nigthlife, it definitely feels like we lost a generation of beloved spaces because of condos or COVID, all the way from Toronto to L.A. where I used to live.
These queer bars have played an important role in introducing us to the world of communal cowboy boots and synchronized joy.
And when Munroe returned to Toronto, she says the void was palpable.
“There wasn’t a space like it here,” Beaudet, a professional dancer by trade, asserted. “I’ve danced my whole life, but this was different. It wasn’t about mirrors or perfection. It was just fun—step-touching with a flair.”
A crowd of dancers getting down at a recent event.
Late last year, Munroe organized the first Spurs event, gaining the attention of locals like Beaudet, who were curious and just wanted to dance. Eventually, Beaudet’s passion for the collective shifted into a more ‘hands-on’ position, as she became a regular.
So, “What’s the vibe?” you might ask.
Imagine a room where cowboy hats mingle with unapologetic queerness, where the playlist hops from Dolly to Christina and the Queens, and, of course, an obligatory night playing my album of the year, “Brat.”
“We call it collective effervescence,” Munroe explains, leaning into her inner science nerd. “It’s this phenomenon where people moving in sync actually co-regulate their cortisol levels. Basically, dancing together makes us all happier, calmer, and just better. And when it’s a queer space? Forget it. Pure magic.”
The best part? It’s an accessible community.
“You can show up alone, drink or not drink, and feel at home. It’s $10 at the door—DIY to the core—and everyone is welcome, whether it’s your first line dance or your fiftieth,” adds Beaudet.
The co-founders acknowledge the sometimes-problematic roots of cowboy culture.
“Cowboys weren’t exactly this symbol of inclusion,” Munroe admits. “But there’s this untold queer history in line dancing—like how Oil Can Harry’s gave men a way to dance together when it was illegal. Plus, let’s be honest, cowboys have always been a little gay.”
The collective aims to lean into this history, occasionally swapping out “yikes” country songs for gay anthems.
“If a dance doesn’t feel euphoric with the original song, we find one that does. Brandi Carlile, Shania Twin, whatever gets the boots stomping,” says the founder on the topic of music choice.
As for what’s next? They’re not here to reinvent the wheel—or the cowboy boot—but they do have dreams of longevity.
“We’re not here for the business of it,” remarks Beaudet, “we’re just here to keep the doors open, the dances spinning, and the community growing. People have made lifelong friends here. Some have even fallen in love. It’s bigger than dancing—it’s about connection.”
Dancers step in formation for the winter celebrations.
And they’re a collective that actually does reach out to the community.
“We’ve done nights with Steers and Queers, teamed up with queer artists, and brought different generations of the LGBTQ+ community together,” Munroe adds. “Line dancing is unexpectedly the center of a Venn diagram between so many amazing groups. We’re just here to keep the overlap alive.”
The collective returns to the dance floor on Nov. 24, taking over the Owls Club at 847 Dovercourt Rd. Additional information on upcoming lessons and other events are available on the collective’s Instagram page.
Perhaps I will be dusting off my boots, throwing on some sort of queer, chic cowboy look, and join the night for some steps and spins.
“You don’t have to be good,” they remind me. “Just show up and dance. That’s all it takes.”
