Basement retro disco, packed bodies, zero attitude: Palms is Oxford Street’s sweaty, glitter-splattered safe haven for pop tragics and late‑night lovers.
Head down the stairs at 124 Oxford Street and it feels like you’ve crashed the queer afterparty to every wedding you’ve ever skipped. Neon palms, a tropical mural, mirror balls and lasers bounce off a heaving, low-ceilinged dancefloor where the DJ is deep in a marathon of Kylie, Whitney, ABBA and every shameless remix your inner drama kid has ever demanded. It’s hot, it’s loud, it’s messy in the best way—and the crowd actually came to dance.
Palms is proudly queer-owned, staffed and run, with a door policy that protects the vibe: no hens, no bucks, no party buses, just people who get it. Expect a mostly 25–50s crowd, thick with locals, plus a rotating mix of drag shows, trivia, karaoke and camp theme nights during the week before Fridays and Saturdays slide into full-blown pop sweatbox until the early morning. Closed-in shoes are non-negotiable, and on busy nights the line snakes up Oxford, so aim for before 10pm if you hate queues.
When the lights finally flicker up on a Sunday and you’re still screaming along to a Grease medley with strangers who suddenly feel like cousins, you understand why Sydney fights to keep this place alive.
Long before it was Palms, this basement hosted Cabaret Conspiracy, an underground queer cabaret launching in the late 1970s and giving space to folks who didn’t fit straight Sydney. Today, Palms is one of several Oxford Street venues proposed for heritage listing, recognising its decades as a safe, gloriously camp refuge.