If you’ve ever found yourself squished into the nearly always sold-out audience of TUSH at Clock-Out Lounge on Beacon Hill, you’ll know that you need to expect the unexpected. You might see a drag queen do a beautiful rendition of a Beach House track, or another queen literally “ski” across the tables of the bar while “Chariots of Fire” blasts over the speakers. Either way, make sure you tip.
Led by Seattle powerhouse Betty Wetter, TUSH is a bimonthly drag- and burlesque-fueled show that continually feels fresh. The show’s cast is venerated, but the members aren’t precious or pretentious about their work. Rather, you get to see performers at their best and most experimental, playing around with ideas both silly and serious to a rapt crowd. It’s become a space where some of the coolest performance is happening right now. And, fuck, is it so much fun to watch.
Officially established in 2018, TUSH has assembled a boisterous cast—everyone brings something different to the party. There’s Miss Texas 1988, who’s been a cast member from the beginning and is a consistent kooky presence (she’s also a Stranger contributor and will cohost the Genius Awards). Pussy Willow ups TUSH’s raunch factor, and Moscato Sky brings burlesque and vocal prowess to the stage. Beau Degas (who, famously, beat then-future Drag Race competitor Bosco for her spot on the cast) marries high drag with deeply weird ideas, while Angel Baby Kill Kill, a bona fide storyteller, incorporates the freakiest touches to her numbers. Amora Namor serves fabulosity on a platter, and Stasia Coup—winner of a six-month residency via the 2026 CompeTUSHion—always has the most intricately unhinged set pieces.
Resident DJ dark wiley is behind the decks, fomenting a musical atmosphere that toes the line between nostalgic throwbacks and full-on turn up. And, of course, leading the chaos is Betty, the mistress of ceremonies, anchoring the show with her trademark wit and gay commentary. As TUSH’s ringleader, she conducts the madness in a way that makes the audience feel well taken care of, whether she’s asking the crowd to whoop for queens or giving everyone a political action item to do once they get home.
Rather than gesturing to this idea of “community” and calling it good, the TUSH cast takes their platform seriously.
Behind the scenes, Betty encourages her TUSH bedfellows to do whatever brings them joy. “There’s no theme, I don’t push anybody in any direction—I want them to chase the ideas they want,” says Betty. “I truly think that’s the core of what makes everybody so good.”
But TUSH’s definition of queer performance extends well beyond drag. TUSH brings art to its audience that they might not have come out for otherwise. Over the years, Clock-Out’s gold-curtained stage has welcomed all manner of queer performers including the Drama Tops, Woody Shticks, ATM, Quincy Yeoman, and 2015 Genius Award winner Cherdonna Shinatra. On a recent night, I watched dance duo the Bonnies roll around with cucumbers in their mouths, twirling on platform shoes made of pickle jars. It was as confounding as it was entrancing, an inspired, offbeat performance nestled perfectly amongst all the drag and burlesque numbers surrounding it.
That freewheeling approach to curation depends on a solid sense of trust between TUSH and its audience. “They’ll go with you on a journey, and I think this show has pushed me more than any other show,” says Miss Texas 1988. “They’re so supportive. I constantly want to do my best for them.”
That support is palpable at every show—the crowd is engaged, regularly hollering at the stage, tossing ones into the tip buckets that go around, and laughing their asses off. Their attention is its own presence in the room, empowering the performers to go out on a limb. It’s perhaps no surprise that this respectful, engaged crowd—hungry to be challenged—consists largely of lesbians and trans people. (More than once, I have gone to a TUSH show and felt like I’ve stepped into a vortex of friends’ exes and people who have ghosted me on Tinder.)
“Drag caters to white cis men so often. I would honestly say that they are the minority and the most picked on at our show,” says Betty. “Obviously everybody is welcome, but the lesbian and trans community have really lifted us up. And in return we want to make sure that they’re welcome and have a space to be and to see good entertainment.”
That attentive support has led to financial stability for the cast that’s often hard to find at other drag gigs. While they are by no means paid what they are worth (every queer performer deserves $1 million a year and free health care for life, full stop), a TUSH gig means consistent tips, merch sales, and sold-out shows at a venue that wants them to succeed. That stability and renown have expanded TUSH’s reach outside of Clock-Out and into other parts of the community—you may have seen TUSH at a Seattle Reign FC game, a Seattle Storm game, or Pride in the Park, spreading the gospel of queer performance to the masses.
“We’re in a place where we’re continuing to grow every month,” says Moscato Sky. “You ask [the audience], who’s new? And it’s constantly a loud roar of people screaming at you. I think that’s so beautiful.”
Rather than gesturing to this idea of “community” and calling it good once they take their final bows after each show, the TUSH cast takes their platform seriously. In 2024, Betty, along with Elby Brosch and Shane Donohue of Drama Tops, started the Queer Sick Pay Fund (qSPF), an organization that pays Seattle-area queer performers who have to miss their gigs due to illness or injury. Nightlife is a space with little in the way of a safety net, and artists routinely have to push through illness, injury, and burnout in order to make enough money to live. Finding a fiscal sponsor in Velocity Dance Center, qSPF is an effort to fill that gap, compensating queer artists for income lost when they need to take time off.
TUSH regulars have been some of the biggest supporters and donors of qSPF, Betty says. That support helped the organization to launch another community effort—the Gender Affirming Care Grant. Every quarter, qSPF gives out one $5,000 grant and five $1,000 grants to trans folks actively planning a gender-affirming surgery or procedure. So far this year, qSPF has raised nearly $40,000 in donations.
“It gives us a foundation to work off of. We constantly talk about having a platform, like, what do I do with this?” says Betty. “For myself, I don’t want to be famous. I just want to keep using it to do cool stuff.”
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