Pride is the dance between who I was told to be and who I actually am – and music is where I’ve always won that fight. I love music. Not just the kind that makes you want to throw your hands in the air at 2AM under neon lights, but the kind that tells you you’re enough, that your voice, your body, your love are valid. That’s what I’ve always wanted my music to do.
I grew up obsessing over the icons – Freddie Mercury, Michael Jackson, Lady Gaga – artists who weren’t afraid to take up space and gave us permission to celebrate ourselves. Still, I didn’t always feel like I had that permission. Growing up queer, you learn quickly how much of yourself to hide. Music became the one place I didn’t have to. Writing songs with substance, singing into a mic in my bedroom, building a chorus that felt bigger than me – it was my way of claiming space.
Finding my voice
I started out as a writer. A lot of people don’t realise how much of pop music is built in rooms where songwriters pour their hearts into melodies and toplines, sometimes for other artists to sing. I’ve been lucky to write for and with some incredible names, and there’s a strange joy in hearing your words come alive in someone else’s voice. For me, there came a moment when I couldn’t give away all of my stories anymore. Some of them were too personal. Too queer. Too me.
That’s where Dan Devlin was born – not just the writer, but the performer.
Why Pride matters to me
This year, I was lucky enough to play the Trafalgar Square stage at London Pride. Standing there, staring out at a sea of people in every colour imaginable, I felt like the kid I used to be would never have believed it. The same kid who was nervous to even sing too loud in his bedroom. Now, here I was, singing unapologetically queer pop anthems that I had written to tens of thousands. That moment wasn’t just for me – it was for anyone who’s ever felt like they needed to shrink themselves to fit in.
Pride is not just a celebration of love. It’s a protest – it’s joy in the face of everything that tells us not to be joyful. When I get on stage, when I write, when I release music, that’s the energy I’m carrying with me.
The birth of “Dance Like Diana”
My latest single, “Dance Like Diana”, came out of exactly that feeling. I wrote it alone in my London flat, dancing around my kitchen, imagining Princess Diana walking out and commanding the dancefloor without judgment. For me, Diana isn’t just an icon; she’s a symbol of self-possession, glamour, and unapologetic power.
Later, working with my close collaborators ZYRA and Matt Sampson at Collect All And Save, we turned that little kitchen dance into a full-on glittering queer anthem. The track has already commanded a magnitude of love, but what matters most to me is hearing from people who tell me it’s become their song to get ready to, cry to, dance to and fall back in love with themselves to.
That’s why I do this.
Writing for myself, writing for others
People often ask me what the difference is between writing for someone else and writing for myself. The truth is, both are acts of empathy. Writing for another artist means putting yourself in their shoes, their story, their emotional truth. Writing for myself means stripping away all of my armour and putting my own truth forward.
However, being an openly queer writer in those rooms also matters. It means queer stories find their way into songs that might otherwise not have told them. It means reminding the industry and the world that our perspectives aren’t niche —they’re universal. Love, heartbreak, euphoria, loneliness – we feel them all, and we sing them loudly.
Pride, to me
At the heart of it, my Pride is about visibility. Every time I walk on stage, I think about the people in the audience who might still be figuring themselves out. If one lyric or one performance makes them feel even a little less alone, then I’ve done my job.
Music saved me. Pride fuels me.
As long as I’m writing, I’ll keep shaping my stories into music that makes space for joy, heartbreak, and everything in between. So if you see me on stage or hear me through your headphones, dance with me. Dance louder. Love prouder.
