How Bimini Found Their Voice Again (And Refused to Soften It)

There’s something unmistakable happening in Bimini‘s new music. It’s not just bigger—it’s louder in all the right ways. After years of post-Drag Race public life, a packed DJ calendar, and navigating the heavy glare of visibility, they’ve made a decisive return to form. ‘Keep On Dancing’ with longtime friend and collaborator ABSOLUTE. captures that moment with a kind of precision that doesn’t just land—it punches through. Built around a no-messing-around Korg piano hook and a beat that drops like it’s 1996 again, the single isn’t nostalgia, it’s reclamation.

Bimini and ABSOLUTE. met over a decade ago on the East London queer club circuit—sweaty basements, no phones, no agenda beyond presence. That same energy pulses through this release. And while the track feels like springtime euphoria on the surface, it’s rooted in something deeper: urgency. The urgency to hold onto the spaces that shaped them. The urgency to create from a place that feels honest, even defiant. In the interview below, Bimini speaks directly to that shift—how fame can flatten nuance, how clarity doesn’t always make the work easier, and why rawness always beats perfection.

Now their recent life-affirming hit with ABSOLUTE, ‘Keep On Dancing’ has been remixed by I. Jordan, out on Relentless Records.

With upcoming Pride sets across Europe and a growing catalog of bold, high-energy singles, Bimini is re-centering it around their own voice—messy, loud, and gloriously unfiltered.

BIMINI on Soundcloud / Spotify  / Instagram 

When did you start to feel like you actually had your own voice, and how did that change the way you worked?

I realised my voice wasn’t something I had to chase down—it had always been there, just buried beneath years of conditioning, shame, and survival tactics.

On stage, especially in the early East London days, I always had that voice. It was loud, raw, political, sexy, outrageous—and it meant something. But somewhere around Drag Race UK, when the spotlight got brighter and the audience got bigger, I started to lose grip on it. People began shaping a version of me that wasn’t mine. I felt flattened into a narrative that didn’t fit. I tried to keep everyone happy, and in doing that, I lost some of my creative soul.

But now? I’m back in my “fuck it” era. I’m not creating to be palatable—I’m creating to be honest. The work I make now is more defiant, more unfiltered, more me. It’s like shedding a second skin. And yeah, it’s messier—but it’s also more beautiful than ever.

What’s something you used to force in your music that you’ve since let go of?

Perfection. And control. I used to treat every track like it had to prove something—that I was clever, marketable, on-trend. But honestly? That mindset was suffocating. I was smoothing out all the edges, and in doing that, I was sanding off the soul. Now, I let the mess in. If I cry during a take, I leave it in. If my voice cracks but the emotion is true, I keep it. Because I’m not trying to be pristine—I’m trying to be real.

And in a world where so much feels fake, where politicians lie daily and queerness is still politicised just for existing, truth is radical. Emotion is radical. Art that risks something—that says something—that’s the art I want to make.

Have you had moments where your ideas got clearer—even if the process didn’t get easier?

Constantly. Sometimes clarity hits you like lightning and it burns through the fog and you know exactly what you want to say. But just because the vision’s clear doesn’t mean the path is smooth. In fact, the clearer I have got, the more daunting the task has become. Because then there’s no excuse.

You can’t pretend you’re unsure. You know the truth, and now you have to build the mountain to reach it. But I’ve learned to trust that part of the process. Even when it’s painful. Even when it’s frustrating. Because clarity without ease means you’re stretching—and that’s where the good shit lives.

How do you track your growth when there’s no obvious before-and-after?

For me, growth isn’t a transformation montage. It’s quiet, daily, often invisible. It shows up in the decisions I make when no one’s watching. In the way I speak to myself when I fuck up.

In how willing I am to take risks that might flop but also might be brilliant. I used to look for external markers like streams, followers and press. Now I ask myself: Am I freer than I was last year? Am I kinder to myself? Am I more unapologetically Bimini? If the answer’s yes, then I’m growing. Even if it doesn’t fit neatly into a “before-and-after” narrative.

Do you think your music reflects who you are more now than it used to—and if so, what shifted?

Oh, absolutely. The music I was releasing in 2023? It didn’t feel like me. I was being guided, or pushed into a version of Bimini that was safe, sellable, and diluted. There was no real room for my rage, my softness, my camp absurdity, or my pain. But something snapped. I stopped performing an idea of myself and started creating as myself.

I’ve gone through heartbreak, sobriety, relapse, guilt, shame, sex, homophobia, healing, and a lot of self-reckoning—and now I’m making music from that place. The songs I’m writing now? They’re the most honest things I’ve ever made. And performing again after over a year away? It reminded me what I’m here for. Not just to entertain, but to connect. That’s the shift. It’s personal now.

What helps you stay connected to your own point of view, especially when the outside noise picks up?

I’ve had to do the inner work. Therapy, journaling, letting myself feel the uncomfortable shit instead of avoiding it. I went on antidepressants and came off them. I got diagnosed with ADHD. I’ve spent a lot of time sitting in silence, confronting parts of myself I used to hide or shame.

And now, I don’t get scared at my own complexity and a lot of my friends say that I’m the lightest they’ve ever seen me. I also surround myself with people who see me—not the public version, not the drag persona, but the human underneath. That helps keep me grounded. And the noise? It’s loud, but I’ve learned to use it as fuel. Every time the world tries to silence us, I get louder.

Every time someone tries to define me, I redefine myself. That’s power.

When you look at what you’re making now, how can you tell it’s coming from a more honest place?

Because it terrifies me. There are songs I’ve written recently that made me cry when I finished them—not because they were sad, but because they were true. When you create from a place of raw honesty, there’s no hiding.

You’re offering your heart up on a plate and saying, “Here. Judge it if you want but this is the shit I should always be doing.” And for me, that fear is the signal. If it’s a little too vulnerable, a little too messy, a little too much… then I know I’m making something real. And I’ll always choose real over perfect. Every time.