It's not a phase, son

City Rat gatecrashes a steampunk convention

After publishing a whopping one article on this Substack, I decided it was time for a break. So, some friends and I decamped to Whitby, a seaside retreat that makes its money from two things: Dracula, and fridge magnets of Dracula.

Things went roughly how you’d expect – fish and chips, England flags and signs in gift shops about The Wife – until the steampunk enthusiasts arrived.

First it was in dribs and drabs. Then, by the weekend, they were everywhere, and as it turned out, extremely chatty.

They were in town for the Whitby Steampunk Weekend, held twice a year since 2017. According to organiser Andy Dolan, attendance is somewhere in the region of 4,000 to 5,000, and on the rise.

A key part of proceedings that weekend seemed to be walking down the street to see how many civilians would stop you for photos.

“That’s 17 now,” one said from underneath a Mandalorian helmet as I took his picture.

After I let them go, he and his companion managed three steps before they were made to strike the exact same pose by another holidaymaker.

Like with most subcultures, we tend to picture cosplayers as young. However, the overwhelming majority of ‘steampunkers’ on the coastal catwalk were middle-aged, if not older. Mostly, it was retired couples enjoying a day out, either by themselves or as part of a double date (sometimes triple).

The few attendants who were in their teens or twenties tended to dress with the least flare. Where the retirees donned hats, spiked goggles, purple waistcoats, modified toy guns and much, much more, the younger crowd contented themselves with a black corset and jeans. As I was talking to one steampunker, their child appeared from inside a nearby cafe, dressed in completely ordinary clothes. Life must be pretty simple when your only option for teenage rebellion is a nice hoodie.

“Young people care too much about what other people think,” a millennial convention attendant told me. At a certain age, though, you think “I don't give a fuck anymore. I’m gonna walk down the middle of Whitby with propellers on my head. Why not?”

Those propellers, plus their many bells and whistles, aren’t cheap. Headpieces at the convention centre were going for something in the region of £100. Good vintage leather sellers were also there, making a killing. It tends only to be older people who can afford this, theorised a local jeweller, who has observed proceedings from outside their shop window for years. This leaves younger scenesters more likely to gravitate towards something simpler and cheaper, like the Goth look. 

“Steampunk is what Goths do when they get too old for Goth,” a convention attendant said, their child in tow. 

Whitby does also play host to a bi-annual Goth Weekend, but Andy Dolan – who organises both – was clear that the two are distinct communities.  

That’s not to say either are cliquey. Steampunk is made up in no small part by people who were fed up with gatekeeping in their old hobbies. A group of four told me they migrated over from 1940s reenactment, whose historical-accuracy-obsessed fans tend to nitpick over outfits. With steampunk, however, whatever looks best works best. 

Members of other fandoms, from fairies to Star Wars, are free to come and go as they please in steampunk circles. A few pirates were dotted around the convention centre, and there were whispers of a Borg (who I was unable to track down). The subculture gels particularly well with the Goth scene because both take their cues from the Victorian era, a woman running a convention stall told me. Where the Goths are interested in the Gothic Revival, steampunkers are fans of the Industrial Revolution, she explained. 

It’s a community in which everybody helps everybody, she added warmly. Bucking the age trend, steampunk conventions are a good day out for children with special needs, she said.

“People can create their own Victorian/explorer alter ego and ensemble in inclusive surroundings [amongst] a very large, supportive community,” Dolan told City Rat.

Creating that ensemble is a full-time commitment. One steampunker spent four months sourcing a top hat that fit him. Another devoted six weeks to hand-sewing a dress, which started life as a bedsheet. A couple sat across from me and my friends in the pub had torso-sized dragon puppets. Whitby Steampunk Weekend takes place in February and July, meaning attendants tend to put together two outfits, one for winter and another for summer.   

I asked a particularly dedicated steampunker about a metal display piece poking out of his thick, white facial hair. 

“Would you call it a… beard broach?” I asked nervously.

“Yes,” he replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

I came back from the convention centre eager to tell my friends what I’d discovered (not least Ravens Morris, the steampunk Morris dancing troupe). Where I was wide-eyed about the whole thing, the others were a little more tepid. After all, isn’t grown adults dressing up in corsets a bit… cringe?

Put simply, no. Well, okay, maybe, but that’s sort of the point. Let me explain. 

Later that night, I heard rock music blaring out from a pub on the other side of the River Esk. Intrigued, I walked over the world-famous Whitby Swing Bridge to investigate. Could this be the steampunkers enjoying one last hurrah as the sun went down on the first day of the weekend? A rage against the very scenic seaside machine, which doesn’t even have a nightclub? A Hail Mary for a writer not above using hackneyed cliches to end their articles, perhaps? 

Alas, no. I didn’t spot a single steampunker in the pub. On my way back, though, I found a few pirates on the other side of the river. They were on the beach, quietly working an impressively sized fire as skull-and-crossbones flags drifted against the breeze a few feet away. 

The scene brought back a memory from earlier that day. Returning from the convention, the image of spiked goggles still burnt onto my retinas, I saw another group of pirates. Instead of committed steampunkers, though, these were people in cheap three-pointed hats they looked embarrassed to be wearing for someone’s 50th. A couple of them had foam swords, but the birthday girl hadn’t even bothered with a hat. 

On the face of it, the convention attendants and birthday revellers were doing the same thing. Both were playing dress-up in a way that risked attracting Gen Z scorn. The difference was in the execution. The steampunkers understood that if you’re not going for out-and-out, balls-to-the-wall, Victorian-era-mechanical-guns-blazing, mortify-your-teenagers-level commitment, what’s the point?

Part of being cringe – maybe even its core component – is enthusiasm. But it’s also how you liberate yourself from the fear of being cringe. 

I asked one steampunker if he minded the photo I’d taken of him going online. He replied with a laugh:

“We’re not shy.”

Images: City Rat