Loose legs, loud voices: Helena Lauwaert's blueprint
It starts with a bassline and a body. A small, intimate venue in Ghent pulses with warm lights and deep grooves, a crowd locked into a breakbeat edit that rolls like thunder across the dance floor. Behind the decks, Helena Lauwaert raises her hand and smiles, not because the drop is coming, but because the room feels exactly right. This isn't just a party. This is Loose Legs, a night built on belonging, sweat, and sound.
In a club scene where diversity often ends at the flyer, Belgian DJ and producer Helena Lauwaert is pushing for something real, something grounded, euphoric, and unapologetically queer. Loose Legs, her new event series, is more than a party; it's a manifesto disguised as a dancefloor.
Rooted in UK garage, speed house, hard house, and speed garage, Loose Legs is Helena's answer to a nightlife that often leaves both her sound and her identity out of the spotlight.
"I've been to so many queer nights where the intention is there, but the music doesn't hit, it leans too experimental, too underground, Loose Legs came from a need to merge both sides of myself: the DJ who wants to dance to UKG all night, and the queer woman who wants to feel seen in the crowd."
It's fitting that she chose Ghent as her launchpad. The city is close to her heart, but not without its gaps. While a few events cater to the LGBTQ+ community, Helena found little space for the genres she's most drawn to.
"There just isn't much focus on the kind of music I want to champion. So I created it myself, it's about building a crowd who gets it, who wants to let go to a sound that isn't mainstream, but is still completely infectious."
She sees Loose Legs as a response to both sonic and social absence: a place where rhythms hit hard, but the ethos runs deeper.
"I want people to show up and know: I can fully be myself here. I don't have to filter how I dress, dance, or express."
The night is also deeply collaborative. Helena's partner, a visual artist, is part of the core team that builds each edition of Loose Legs. From custom lighting setups to sensory-friendly rest spaces, every detail serves a purpose.
"Art and music are hard spaces to survive in, if we collaborate, we lift each other. We grow together."
That intention extends to the front door. Loose Legs doesn't just claim to be inclusive; it sets the tone from the moment you arrive.
"We're super intentional about the venue, the staff, and the welcome. Not every club is ready to host a queer party. You need people who get it, who'll take responsibility alongside you. We say it upfront: this is a queer event, made for FLINTA, queer, and POC communities. That means not everyone is the target audience. And that's okay."
Creating a safe space isn't about policing. It's about resonance.
"Inclusion isn't something you cross off a checklist," she says. "It's something you build, in every layer of the experience, not just the lineup."
Of course, the lineup matters too. Helena is a self-described selector, someone who curates rather than performs. Her sets are a masterclass in energy control and emotional arc.
"Every weekend, I build a playlist tailored to the gig. I know what tracks open things up, what raises the energy, what brings people back into their bodies."
Digging is an obsessive practice. She blends new finds from SoundCloud with long-lost favorites saved in Rekordbox, forming blends and moments that feel fresh but familiar.
"I'm not someone who keeps the energy at 100 the whole time," she explains. "I want people to experience peaks, but also dips, surprises, and emotional shifts. It's not just about banging it out. It's about storytelling."
That sensitivity was hard-won. Helena has spoken openly about anxiety and panic attacks in her early years behind the decks.
"Confidence changed everything," she reflects. "Once I'd played a few big festivals, I could remind myself: you've done this before. You can do it again."
With experience came a desire to take the next step: production. But perfectionism held her back.
"I felt like I had to come out with a fully original, fully formed sound, and that pressure just blocked me."
What finally helped was collaboration. Her debut remix, a rework of "Girl" by The Internet, alongside Dr. G, became a way to bridge emotion and execution.
"That song was the soundtrack to one of the first times I felt normal in a queer space, remixing it was like closing a circle."
Dr. G brought technical expertise and a fearless mindset.
"He's all about getting it done. No overthinking. That mindset helped me leap."
As a producer, Helena is shaping a voice that draws from her past, incorporating Latin percussion, tech house grooves, and chunky basslines, but moves at a different tempo.
"I love vocals you can sing to, or that hit you somewhere deeper, I like to take those elements and twist them, speed them up, cut them, make them weird."
Loose Legs is still new, but its vision is already resonating far beyond Ghent. Helena hopes to bring the concept to other cities and evolve it into a label or collective.
"This is how it can be, a party where the music hits, the visuals are magic, and the people in the room feel like they belong. That's what I want Loose Legs to be, no compromises."
Helena Lauwaert stands out as a deeply intentional artist, not just about what she plays, but also about how and why she creates space.
What's striking is how she moves across different roles: DJ, producer, curator, and organizer, but maintains a coherent ethos in all of them: community care, sound clarity, and visibility for those who are often sidelined. She's not chasing a scene; she's shaping one.
Her project, Loose Legs, isn't just cool or culturally relevant; it's structurally essential. She's addressing problems in nightlife that many people acknowledge but few solve: tokenism in lineups, unsafe club environments, and a disconnect between queer identity and musical programming. Helena doesn't just name those issues; she designs around them.
Artistically, her combination of UKG, speed house, hard house, and vocal-driven edits is bold and euphoric. It's a sound that demands both physical movement and emotional presence, just like her spaces.
And then there's the vulnerability. Being open about mental health and production anxiety, while still pushing forward with big ideas, shows a kind of courage and leadership that's rare, especially in a scene that often rewards surface-level coolness over depth.
In short, Helena isn't just one to watch; she's one to learn from.
