I’m DJing at Mighty Hoopla in Brockwell Park this year — and I have no intention of cancelling. Not because I’m indifferent to Gaza — far from it. Like many, I’m horrified by the ongoing violence and despair. The loss of life and scale of suffering among Palestinians is deeply harrowing. But I can’t believe that boycotting a queer music festival in south London will bring justice to Gaza.
Mighty Hoopla is a celebration of queer culture, pop music and inclusivity. It’s a space that has offered joy, representation and community to thousands — especially to LGBTQ+ people who don’t often feel safe elsewhere. Yet this year, the festival finds itself in the crosshairs of boycott campaigns led by groups such as Ravers For Palestine. The target? Not the festival itself, but its parent company, Superstruct, and by extension, its parent’s parent — the American investment giant KKR.
KKR, for those unfamiliar, is a private equity titan with fingers in more pies than you can count — from margarine brands to book publishing, guitars to pharmaceuticals. Their portfolio is vast, and yes, some of those investments raise serious ethical questions, including alleged ties to companies linked with Israeli settlement developments and weapons manufacturers.
But if KKR’s investment footprint becomes the standard by which all artists are judged, we are on a very slippery slope. KKR previously owned Boots, they own part of Thames Water, and they still own Simon & Schuster, publisher of pro-Palestinian voices like Noam Chomsky and Ilan Pappé. Should authors now withdraw their books? Should shoppers boycott their own bathwater?
And herein lies the crux of my unease. The logic of this kind of boycott demands purity in a world that’s anything but. Of course, BDS has had powerful effects — economic and symbolic. But it only works when it is targeted, strategic and inclusive. Picking off individual DJs, or shaming LGBTQ+ festival organisers for indirect links to a conglomerate’s holdings, feels misdirected — and worse, it risks becoming alienating.
I don’t say this lightly. As a working artist, I’m aware I benefit from this booking. It pays well — better than many events that expect artists to perform for “exposure” or worse, their own travel fare. But even if I weren’t being paid, I’d still find this particular boycott campaign deeply fraught. We all make choices in a messy world. I recycle, I donate, I protest. And yes, I want to live ethically. But I don’t believe that playing a set to a crowd of queer revellers makes me complicit in international war crimes.
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Some may say this is a cop-out. That if I really cared, I’d pull out. But where do we draw the line? Is a DJ more culpable than a person streaming Netflix (whose profits benefit shareholders like KKR)? Or buying from Amazon? Or flying to a family funeral on an airline with ethically questionable backers?
It is not apathy that guides me — it’s realism. And a desire for solidarity movements to be inclusive, not puritanical. If the aim is to shift power structures, then build alliances, not isolate communities. Go after the investment firms directly. Pressure lawmakers. Campaign for corporate accountability at scale.
I’ll be on stage at Hoopla — not because I don’t care, but because I do. Because queer joy matters too. Because artists deserve dignity and fair pay. Because shaming soft targets won’t dismantle global capitalism. And because, frankly, this festival — at its heart — stands for many of the same things I believe in: expression, love, and unity.
And no, a dancefloor won’t free Palestine. But neither will silence.
