Tight-fitting lederhosen, elaborate embroidery, and men dancing in circles – There is no place more conservative than a Bavarian traditional dress club. A walk through the Glockenbach district with the ‘Schwuhplattler’, who have been combining gayness and tradition for decades.
Two men are waiting outside St Willibrord Church. The younger one, in traditional dress and with a perfectly twirled moustache, stands beside an older man who is holding his own traditional attire wrapped in a jute bag, labelled: “Bavaria – traditionally different“. It would be the perfect motto for the Schwuhplattler, of which the two are members. This Munich association combines gay identity (German: Schwulsein) with Bavarian customs, or more precisely, with the traditional Schuhplattler dance. This centuries-old Bavarian dance is believed originally to have mimiced the mating dance of the capercaillie and is still performed today by many local and traditional dress clubs in Upper Bavaria, Tyrol and Salzburg – and also in Munich's Glockenbachviertel.
This Munich association combines gay identity (German: Schwulsein) with Bavarian customs, or more precisely, with the traditional Schuhplattler dance.
The younger man with the impressive moustache is Christoph Häckner, 27, the youngest member of the Schwuhplattler. Christian Schumann, 44, is the rehearsal director of the group, which was founded in 1997 by 72-year-old Sepp Stückl. And it's this Stückl everyone is waiting for at the moment, because he is not only the founder of the Schwuhplattler, but also has the key to the Döllinger Hall in the red-bricked Old Catholic Church, where the rehearsals normally take place. Today, however, the Schwuhplattler, representing three generations, have only dressed up, because they want to present their Glockenbachviertel – in full lederhosen costume, of course. After all, tradition and traditional dress, homeland solidarity and homosexuality have always gone hand in hand, even if for a long time hardly anyone dared to recognise this connection.
Especially not the church. Now Sepp Stückl arrives and unlocks the rehearsal room. Stückl is a devout Catholic, but that wasn't enough for his church back then: being gay was considered a sin and a disease. “Mei Geld wollten's scho', aber mi wollten's ned“, “They wanted my money, but they didn't want me,“ Stückl says with a mischievous grin. So he explored other parishes. He tried joining the Protestant Christians, but it lacked the “Bavarian baroque“ flair, as he puts it. His fate was sealed when he accidentally recited “I believe in the holy Catholic Church“ a little too loudly during a Protestant service: It became clear that this wouldn't work.
After all, tradition and traditional dress, homeland solidarity and homosexuality have always gone hand in hand, even if for a long time hardly anyone dared to recognise this connection.
In the 1990s, Stückl attended an AIDS memorial service at the same Old Catholic Church where the Schwuhplattler gather today. What he heard there was almost unbelievable. A priest and a bishop openly distanced themselves from the widespread belief at the time that AIDS was a punishment, a “scourge of God.“ Stückl remained with the Old Catholic Church, which had split from the Roman mother church after the First Vatican Council, because it disagreed with the idea of infallibility and the sole authority of the pope. “The name is a bit misleading, because everyone thinks that the Old Catholic Church is more conservative than the Catholic Church,“ Stückl explains. In fact, the Old Catholic Church rejects celibacy, allows women to become priests, homosexuals to marry and provides a rehearsal space for the Schwuhplattler. They have been rehearsing there for 27 years now.
Christian Schumann, the rehearsal leader, guides the group to our first destination, the Sub in Müllerstrasse – a gay communication and cultural centre with a bar. “Centres like the Sub or its lesbian counterpart LeZ are simply important. If you're in the process of coming out and perhaps still struggling with your own barriers, these are safe places to go,“ says Schumann. The Glockenbachviertel is Munich's queer “in“ district, with Müllerstrasse as its centre. Next, the three Schwuhplattlers head to the Fesch, a queer Bavarian pub with a taproom. The Schwuhplattler have been dancing here at the opening of the Oktoberfest for more than 20 years. Right next door is the diversity Café, a space for queer people up to the age of 27. “Christoph is still allowed in here, but Sepp and I are no longer. The café came after us,“ says Schumann as he walks past. “Back then, people weren't so young when they came out as gay,“ says Sepp Stückl, the eldest.
In fact, the Old Catholic Church rejects celibacy, allows women to become priests, homosexuals to marry and provides a rehearsal space for the Schwuhplattler. They have been rehearsing there for 27 years now.
The group is now standing in front of the glass windows of the Sub, while Stückl recalls his first trips from his home on Staffelsee (lake) to Munich in the mid-1980s, “when I realised that I was gay“. Back then, the Sub wasn't located directly on Müllerstrasse, but hidden in the basement of a rear building. “It was really tucked away – insane,“ he says, peering through the windows of the Sub, whose façade is now of course draped in rainbow flags. No matter how hidden away they were, Stückl relied on groups like these, since there was no Internet back then yet.
“I only know the world with the Internet and I only know Munich as a gay city,“ says Häckner, the youngest. When he moved to Munich in 2019 for professional reasons, everything was already in place: the Schwuhplattler, his gay uncle, his queer rugby team – the Munich Monks. But Häckner knows that even today, it's not always easy. He comes from a Franconian village near Schweinfurt, “there, you don't get 20 gay pubs,“ he says. But traditional dress has always existed there, in every generation. All three agree on that.
Häckner pulls out his mobile phone and looks for a picture. “This is how I grew up,“ he says and shows an old photo – himself without a moustache, dressed in red and white traditional Franconian attire. He still wears the outfit today. Unlike many traditional dress clubs, the Schwuhplattler don't mandate a specific traditional dress; instead, everyone is encouraged to express their individuality. Each person's traditional attire reflects their personal life and history. Häckner's waistcoat embodies everything that defines him: the pin of his local traditional dress club “Die Semfelder“, a rainbow ribbon and his “Dancing Queen“ pin. “The traditional dress is our own identity, everyone has found their own way,“ says Schumann, the rehearsal leader.
Häckner comes from a Franconian village near Schweinfurt, “there, you don't get 20 gay pubs,“ he says. But traditional dress has always existed there, in every generation. All three agree on that.
Born in Hesse, Schumann has lived in Bavaria for 21 years. He doesn't have traditional dress from his homeland, but he does have one with his personal story embroidered on the braces: plants, trees, roses. His parents ran a tree nursery, where Schumann always helped graft the roses. And Sepp Stückl, the eldest? He wore a traditional dress every day of his childhood anyway, just like his siblings, his parents and his grandmother. All three are fans of traditional attire, holding on to it because it makes them feel comfortable and is part of their home, their upbringing, their personality – and because it simply looks good. “Well, you're always properly dressed in traditional costume,“ says Christoph Häckner.
So, we continue our walk, properly dressed, through the Glockenbachviertel, past the famous Deutsche Eiche, a traditional and world-renowned hotel with a restaurant, rooftop terrace and large men's sauna, heading towards Gärtnerplatz square. Häckner walks past the rondel, where flowers bloom not only in spring. He looks at the Staatstheater am Gärtnerplatz (theatre) with its classicist windows, columns and lanterns, smiles and says: “The opera world is buzzing.“ The Schwuhplattler are currently performing in the play “Der Vogelhändler“ (The Bird Seller) at the Gärtnerplatztheater – they were specifically asked to take part. “It's a whole new level of settling in,“ says Schumann, the rehearsal director.
Unlike many traditional dress clubs, the Schwuhplattler don't mandate a specific traditional dress; instead, everyone is encouraged to express their individuality. Each person's traditional attire reflects their personal life and history.
Sepp Stückl founded the Schwuhplattler years ago because, in the late 1990s, many homosexual people were not welcome in their local clubs. The fear of being different was still too great and understanding too limited. Stückl wanted to make it clear: Even members of traditional clubs can be gay, and here in Munich's Glockenbachviertel, there is a place for them. More than two decades later, the Schwuhplattler are performing on the state theatre stage, have a prime-time spot on Bavarian Radio's “Komödienstadel“, at strong beer and maypole festivals and are booked for CSD and Gay Sundays in the Bräurosl tent at the Oktoberfest. Some of the men who used to have problems in their local clubs now sit on their boards.
Bars, designer shops, galleries, and chic restaurants are dotted around Gärtnerplatz (square), making it one of Munich's most popular nightlife districts. There is not much left of the “Scherbenviertel“ (shard district), as the Glockenbachviertel was once called. But not far from Gärtnerplatz, a centuries-old piece of neighbourhood tradition has been preserved. To get there, the three Schwuhplattler turn into Klenzestrasse, then head right and stop in front of the Fraunhofer Wirtshaus, a historic pub with a small variety theatre and the alternative Werkstattkino cinema in the backyard.
Sepp Stückl founded the Schwuhplattler years ago because, in the late 1990s, many homosexual people were not welcome in their local clubs. The fear of being different was still too great and understanding too limited.
The pub is not yet open, so Stückl knocks on the window and calls out, “Beppi, can you open up?“ Josef “Beppi“ Bachmaier, the long-time proprietor of the Fraunhofer, of course, lets the Schwuhplattler in. Neither of them really remembers when they first met. Was it during an early morning pint with folk dancing at the proprietor's invitation? Or at an event organised by the local council? Well, they all agree that it was a long time ago – over 20 years. “It was way back when you guys weren't even allowed to be around,“ says proprietor Bachmaier with a grin. The three Schwuplatter laugh along.
From the bustling heart of the nightlife district, the Schwuhplattler want to make one more detour to the “Rosa Stangerl“ at Karl-Heinrich-Ulrichs-Platz (square). The maypole stands by the idyllic, overgrown Westermühlbach (stream), in a square named in honour of a pioneer of equal rights. Karl Heinrich Ulrichs, who publicly advocated the decriminalisation of same-sex relationships at the German Lawyers' Conference in 1867, played a significant role in advancing legal and social equality for homosexuals. From here, it's only a short walk to the Alter Südlichen Friedhof, a former plague cemetery, where many Munich celebrities rest today. Among them is Ignaz von Döllinger, the theologian after whom the hall and rehearsal room of the Schwuhplattler in St. Willibrord's Church is named.
The Schwuhplattler embody openness, tolerance, and good humour like no other Munich club.
Sepp Stückl recalls another story. When civil partnerships became legal, Stückl and his husband got married. After their church wedding, they went for coffee in the Döllinger Hall and then headed to a Bavarian pub in nearby Thalkirchner Strasse. One of Stückl's work colleagues, who is a member of a traditional dress club and enjoys dancing, was also invited. On her way to Munich, she said to her mum, “I'll definitely be dancing a lot today; there will be plenty of men there.“ But when she arrived, she realised, “Oh, now they're all dancing together.“ Despite her surprise, she must have felt welcome, because the Schwuhplattler embody openness, tolerance, and good humour like no other Munich club.
