Queerbaiting at Eurovision: Are We Being Played?

As Eurovision 2025 approaches, the glitter-strewn path to Basel reveals an increasingly complex relationship between what the popular press insists on calling Europe’s campest contest and the LGBTQ+ community it has long embraced. But in an era where rainbow capitalism infiltrates everything from corporate logos to music videos, we must ask: are Eurovision acts genuinely representing queer identities, or merely donning them for competitive advantage?

The rainbow-tinted glass ceiling

Eurovision’s relationship with queerness has evolved dramatically since Luxembourg’s Jean-Claude Pascal subtly alluded to a same-sex relationship in his 1961 winning song “Nous les amoureux.” As he later confirmed, the lyrics contained references to a homosexual relationship but were deliberately made ambiguous because “homosexuality was taboo at the time“. From these coded beginnings to 2024 winner Nemo’s triumphant celebration of non-binary identity in “The Code,” the contest has undeniably become a platform for authentic LGBTQ+ expression.

Yet as we approach the 2025 contest in Basel, Switzerland, a curious phenomenon emerges. The competition now features an unprecedented number of acts adopting queer aesthetics, language, and themes – raising questions about authenticity versus strategy in an event where LGBTQ+ fans constitute a powerful voting bloc.

“Eurovision has around 180 million global viewers, and contestants every year pull out the stops with bold extravagance and unashamed queerness that refuses to be toned down,” notes PinkNews in their analysis of the contest’s relationship with the LGBTQ+ community. This visibility represents genuine progress, but the commercialisation of queer identity demands closer examination.

When identity becomes strategy

The 2025 contest showcases several genuinely queer artists bringing authentic representation to the stage. Czechia’s ADONXS stands out as a prominent LGBTQ+ activist who has “participated in campaigns to increase queer visibility in Slovakia” and “lobbied for changes to the definition of ‘love’ in the Slovakian dictionary to be more inclusive of different sexualities and genders”. His participation represents a meaningful merging of artistry and advocacy.

Similarly, Malta’s Miriana Conte and Finland’s Erika Vikman bring genuine queer perspectives to their controversial entries. Vikman’s explicit “Ich Komme,” celebrating female sexual pleasure, has faced criticism that male performers exploring similar themes have largely escaped. As Rory Ganon, writing for That Eurovision Site noted, “Women are singing about the euphoria of orgasms – and they are doing it for THEMSELVES, and not the benefit of men”.

But alongside authentic representation, Eurovision’s history reveals moments of performative queerness designed primarily to shock, entertain, or gain points. Russia’s t.A.T.u, who performed at Eurovision 2003 and again in 2009, “aggressively cultivated a lesbian image” despite former member Julia Volkova later making “extreme homophobic comments“. Their manufactured queerness represents perhaps the most blatant example of Eurovision queerbaiting.

When allyship becomes appropriation

The line between genuine allyship and opportunistic appropriation grows increasingly blurred. Lithuania’s 2015 entry featured a calculated same-sex kiss that “did not beat around the bush, utilising all six permitted performers for a simultaneous male-male, male-female and female-female kiss”. While potentially well-intentioned, such performances risk reducing queer identity to a shocking moment designed primarily for competitive advantage.

Back to Rory: “The Eurovision fandom itself is a form of patriarchy,” he argues. “The vast majority of fans are men – many of whom are part of the LGBTQ+ community”. This dynamic creates a complex interplay between authentic representation and playing to an audience that increasingly expects and rewards certain types of queer performance.

Some Eurovision followers have begun questioning this trajectory. One gay fan commented on Digital Spy forums: “I’m sick to death of how Eurovision has slid into becoming an over the top, in-your-face camp-fest”. Another added: “As a gay guy myself I am finding that Eurovision is sliding down a ‘one-sided’ path and that it is exclusively for the LGBT community”.

These perspectives, while not universally shared, highlight the tension between celebration and commodification of queer identity. When even longtime LGBTQ+ fans question whether the contest has become “too gay,” we must consider whether queerness is being used as a marketing strategy rather than authentic expression.

The geopolitics of queerness

Eurovision’s embrace of LGBTQ+ themes also operates within a complex geopolitical landscape. Turkey “first pulled out of the contest in 2013, citing dissatisfaction in the voting rules; more recently Turkish broadcaster TRT have cited LGBTQ+ performances as “another reason for their continued boycott“. Hungary’s withdrawal in 2020 came “amid a rise in anti-LGBTQ+ sentiment in the Hungarian government of Viktor Orbán”.

These reactions demonstrate how Eurovision has become a battleground for competing visions of European identity, with LGBTQ+ rights serving as a potent dividing line. The contest increasingly positions itself as a beacon of progressive Western European values, with each rainbow flag and same-sex kiss sending a political message that transcends mere entertainment.

Cultural theorist Catherine Baker notes that Eurovision has shifted from “an emerging site of gay and trans visibility to, by 2008–14, part of a larger discursive circuit taking in international mega-events like the Olympics, international human-rights advocacy, Europe/Russia relations, and the politics of state homophobia and transphobia”. This evolution highlights how queerness at Eurovision serves multiple functions – personal, cultural, and geopolitical.

Finding authenticity amid the glitter

As we approach Eurovision 2025, the question isn’t whether queerness belongs in the contest – clearly, it does – but whether all expressions of it are equally authentic and respectful. The distinction between representation and exploitation often lies in intention and impact.

We might ask: Does an artist’s queerness extend beyond their three minutes on stage? Do they advocate for LGBTQ+ rights in less visible contexts? Does their performance challenge or reinforce stereotypes? And crucially, does their expression of queerness come at a cost to themselves, or is it merely a safe way to garner votes?

While some acts unquestionably bring genuine representation – like non-binary winner Nemo, whose song “The Code” was described as “an anthem for their acceptance of their nonbinary identity“– others may be riding the rainbow wave for competitive advantage.

Eurovision’s journey from coded allusions to explicit celebration of LGBTQ+ identity reflects broader social progress. But as with all progress, we must remain vigilant against its commodification. As the lights dim in Basel this May, viewers might consider not just which performance deserved douze points, but which expressions of queerness merit their deepest respect.

Because in a competition where everything is political – especially that which claims not to be – the most radical act might be authenticity itself.