Why?
A Smalltown Boy With a Big Time Falsetto
A couple of years ago, I wrote about LGBTQ+ Pride and highlighted a musical touchstone by Scottish singer Jimmy Somerville, best known as the vocalist for two iconic 1980s groups: Bronski Beat and The Communards. The song I focused on was “Smalltown Boy,” a track that has resurfaced time and again since its 1983 release. Its enduring power comes from its portrayal of what it meant—and still can mean—to be young and gay: the alienation, the quiet anguish, and the search for belonging. Paired with its unmistakable synth-pop sound and dancefloor energy, the song resonated widely, reaching No. 3 on the UK charts and finding international success, including in the United States. In many ways, it was ahead of its time.
What followed for Jimmy Somerville and Bronski Beat was an even more pointed and socially charged statement. Their next major release, “Why?” (1984), delivered a direct confrontation with anti-gay prejudice, again wrapped in a driving, danceable beat. Some accounts suggest the lyrics were inspired by the murder of gay playwright Drew Griffiths, while others point to a more personal origin—written for a friend named Martin, who was driven out of the country by his boyfriend’s violent family. Regardless of its exact inspiration, the song continued the narrative: the lived experience of being young and gay in a hostile world, and the persistent, haunting question—why does this hatred exist at all?
Then, as now.
The first time I heard “Why?” it triggered a memory of my own. In the late 1970s, leaving a bar in Phoenix, Arizona, with a couple of friends, I experienced something I would only later come to understand more fully. At the time, I was still very much in the closet—curious, cautious, but not outwardly identifiable in any way. The bar itself likely wasn’t even a gay bar; I rarely ventured into those spaces back then. Phoenix didn’t exactly invite that kind of exploration.
As we left, we were suddenly rushed by a group of men looking for a fight. I was hit from behind, and my head slammed into the ground before I even knew what was happening. Others kicked me while I was down. It was over almost as quickly as it began—my friends stunned, the attackers gone. No words exchanged, no explanation offered.
The irony is that none of us presented in a way that would have clearly marked us as gay. But perception—especially when fueled by alcohol, fear, and aggression—doesn’t require truth. It only requires a target. Was it a hate crime? At the time, I’m not even sure that language existed in a meaningful or enforceable way, certainly not in a way that would have protected someone like me. No one was ever caught. No one was charged. What remained were the physical injuries—and something deeper, quieter, and far more lasting.
Today, in the United States and across much of the world, we are witnessing a resurgence of that same kind of hostility. Some might argue it never truly disappeared. What has changed is how visibly it is being expressed—often amplified through political rhetoric and religious justification, creating new waves of “othering” aimed at anyone who exists outside narrowly defined norms. Violence and discrimination against gay men—and even more so against transgender individuals—are increasingly frequent and emboldened by the erosion of rights and the persistence of stigma.
So here we are, in 2026 and beyond, still returning to the same question first asked over forty years ago. A lyric that refuses to fade, because the conditions that gave rise to it have not fully gone away.
Why?
Contempt in your eyes
As I turn to kiss his lips
Broken I lie
All my feelings denied
Blood on your fist
Can you tell me why?
You in your false securities
Tear up my life
Condemning me
Name me an illness
Call me a sin
Never feel guilty
Never give in
Tell me why?
You and me together
Fighting for our love
Can you tell me why?