Staff WriterWhat happens when one of Dublin’s most beloved lesbian club nights outgrows the dancefloor? You get Dykonic, a brand new, community-rooted, FLINTA-focused day festival that’s rewriting the rulebook on queer celebration in Ireland.
Words: Michal Mencnarowski
Happening Saturday, 9th August at Orlagh House, Dykonic isn’t just a scaled-up version of their club night, Dykon – it’s a response to the desire for something more: a space where FLINTA artists can take the spotlight in a way that feels joyful, real, and unapologetic.
It’s a festival born from love, frustration, and a deep belief that queer celebration deserves daylight. We caught up with Mafi, festival founder/director, ahead of their first edition to talk about building community, pushing through the chaos, and what it means to bring queer joy out of the club and into the open.
What inspired the creation of Dykonic? Was it a natural evolution from the success of Dykon – now one of Dublin’s biggest lesbian club nights — or was there a specific moment when you realised that a festival like this was missing from the Irish queer scene?
Dykonic definitely evolved out of the energy and success of Dykon, but it was also driven by a kind of frustration. Dykon has been selling out nearly every month, proving there’s a massive appetite for queer women-centered spaces. But the truth is, no matter how big a club night gets, there’s a ceiling. I remember standing in the middle of a packed-out Dykon and thinking: we need more than this. A place outside a dark club, in the daylight, where we can actually see each other. Where queer artists can take a proper stage. That was the moment Dykonic became inevitable in my mind.
Can you give us a sense of what people can expect on the day? From sound to layout to atmosphere, what world are you trying to create?
It’s queer joy in the sun (if Irish weather is kind to us). Expect a mix of live performances from an amazing line-up of FLINTA artists across Europe, DJ takeovers, a queer market, but also places to breathe, talk, kiss, dance badly — or really well. We’re programming it with softness and madness in equal measure — live sets from queer artists and curated club takeovers from the best crews. Think queer picnic meets mini pride meets chaos rave — all held in a space that feels like it was built for us.
Earlier this year, Longitude got major backlash for announcing a lineup with just one female act — a moment that really brought the gender imbalance in festivals to the surface. Would I be right in saying Dykonic is Ireland’s first FLINTA-focused festival? And how important was it for you to create a space that truly centres gender diversity and marginalised voices?
Yes — Dykonic is, to my knowledge, Ireland’s first music festival with a FLINTA focus at its core, not just on the sidelines. We didn’t start with a DEI checklist — we started with the people who we never see on these stages, and built around them. We centre queer women, trans and non-binary artists, because we’re the ones usually on the margins, or only ever booked as the token “diverse” act. This isn’t about representation for its own sake — it’s about giving the mic to people who’ve had to scream just to be heard. The stage is theirs now. That’s what Dykonic is here to do.
Queer nightlife in Ireland has often operated on the fringes — underfunded, under-recognised, and constantly shifting. Do you see Dykonic as part of a bigger shift in how queer culture is being platformed here?
Absolutely. I think we’re at a cultural turning point. The queer scene here is vibrant and resilient, but we’ve been building with scraps — pop-ups, borrowed venues, no budgets, no support. Dykonic is a statement: we’re not asking to be included anymore — we’re building our own infrastructure. It’s not just a party, it’s proof that queer culture is powerful enough to stand on its own, outdoors, in daylight, in full view. And hopefully, it opens the door for more events, more funding, and more queer organisers to take up space.
In cities like Berlin or Barcelona, day festivals are a big part of queer culture — giving people a safer, more chill alternative to clubs. Do you feel like Ireland’s been missing something like that? And was it part of your vision to bring that kind of vibe to Dykonic?
One hundred percent. We’ve been missing spaces that are both fun and safe, hype and gentle. Club nights are important, but not everyone thrives in that setting. Daytime festivals offer room for connection, not just consumption. You can come early, stay late, or just lie in the grass with your friends and feel seen. I wanted to bring that to Ireland — a space that feels both electric and soft. A reminder that queer joy doesn’t only exist after midnight.
It feels like Dykonic is really rooted in community and collaboration. How has that influenced the way you’ve gone about organising the festival, and why was that important to you?
Community is literally the engine behind this. I’m not a big promoter with a corporate budget, I’m someone who built this idea out of love and frustration, and people showed up for it. Dykonic is only possible because of the artists we love and want to see on stage, and the community that keeps showing up. Now we’re building it together, with collectives like Rathaus, Aphrodisiac and more — crews who already know how to create magic and move people. This isn’t just my vision, it’s ours. And I think that’s why it resonates — because it’s being built by the same people it’s for.
With rising costs and tricky licensing laws, putting on festivals in Ireland isn’t easy. What kind of challenges did you face getting Dykonic off the ground, and how did you push through?
Everything about this has been hard. The budget is tight, the logistics are wild, and I’ve had moments of pure panic thinking, what if no one comes? But we’ve already launched Early Bird tickets, and they’re on their way to sell out in a little over a week! I’m self-funding most of it, and I’ve had to learn everything — insurance, power, toilets — things you don’t think about when you’re dreaming of music and sunshine. But the thing that keeps me going is knowing what it’ll mean to people once they’re there. That, and the DMs from strangers saying, “I’ve been waiting for something like this.” That’s what gets me through the fear.
What kind of impact would you love Dykonic to have, not just this year, but long term?
Long term? I want Dykonic to prove that queer women and FLINTA people are worth investing in. That we sell tickets. That we show up. That we’re not a niche — we’re a culture. If this goes well, I want to hand it off or grow it into something sustainable. But more than anything, I want someone to stand in the crowd this year and think: “This is the first time I’ve experienced something like this.” If we achieve that, even just for a few people, we’ve already won.
You can purchase final tickets here.
