Lina Bradford began her now 30-year DJ career on a dare.

The dare to get behind the decks came from no less a titan than the godfather of house music, Frankie Knuckles, whom Bradford considers her mentor.

The year was 1996. Bradford had already amassed a considerable nightlife resume as a host and performer known as Girlina. Having been born and raised in Manhattan, she had been dancing since age 4, and was eventually drawn to the club — frequenting legendary spots like the Paradise Garage, the Saint and the Sound Factory.

To those around her, making the transition from performer/personality to DJ made sense for Bradford. But in the overall scheme, it was a radical move.

Women DJs were few in the mid-90s. Trans women DJs were even rarer to behold. Bradford was at the vanguard of what would decades later become an identified movement of trans women on the ones and twos.

When discussing her career, though, Bradford is less focused on matters of identity.

“I am a woman of trans experience, yes, but I'm Lina before anything," she told Gothamist. "I'm gonna wear a label. I'm not a label."

Bradford has taken an opportunity and run with it — for 30 years. That's an accomplishment in any field, but especially so in the ever-changing world of nightlife.

Bradford had a rudimentary knowledge of DJing equipment when she started, and her initial mixes could be rough. (She considered early comparisons to the Garage’s Larry Levan, known for his jarring transitions, to be compliments.) But she figured out her way, weaving soulful house with remixes of her eclectic faves, like Led Zeppelin and the B-52s, into her sets.

Bradford has DJed all over the city, not to mention the world, and has a longstanding residency on Fridays at Cafeteria. Many know her best from her tenure on Fire Island, where she DJed clubs like Sip N Twirl every weekend from 2005 to 2015, defining the sound of the queer mecca. She also spins on a weekly show on Sirius, cohosts the podcast "The Cutting Up: A Kiki with Connie and Lina," and was a grand marshal at the 2025 Pride March.

On the occasion of Bradford’s 30th anniversary as a DJ, Gothamist reached her via Zoom to discuss her career, her clubgoing past, her trans identity and how New York nightlife has changed since what she considers its mid-’90s peak. She describes herself as an “Aries, spiritual, shape-shifting witch,” and that’s not even the half of it.

Gothamist: You were well known on the club scene before you started to DJ. How did you end up going from dancer/host to DJ?

Lina Bradford: It was at Club Life. I was hosting, and we were up in the booth, and Frankie [Knuckles] was like, “You know Lina, you'd be a f---ing amazing DJ.” And everybody's like, “Yeah!” And I'm like, “Y'all are f---ing on crack. What are you talking about?” They're like, “Girl, you've been turning out on the dance floor for years.” I'm like, “Yeah, I know music inside out,” you know, as a dancer. Frankie's like, “Well, that's the whole thing, is knowing music inside out. … I Pepsi Challenge you.”

It was a dare, and that was it. Two weeks later, I'm DJing on my birthday. It was Led Zeppelin. It was Depeche Mode. It was Nitzer Ebb. It was the B-52s, and then it was house. People were feeling me feel the music, and therefore they were feeling it right.

You’ve said that nightlife died in 1996. What happened?

When [Mayor Rudy] Giuliani came onto the scene, he really cracked down on New York. Then, when the early 2000s came, it was about bottle service, which took away all the essence of what underground New York used to be about.

There was this community. This “I got your back” that got taken away, and then also the drugs got darker. People became zombies. And the music got darker, and then it wasn't about the light and the music and the fashion anymore. It was just about being in a f---ing K-hole.

I've never done drugs, I don't judge, but how is that cute? Why do you want to be in a hole when there's music and people around? Like, I don’t get it. You know, give me a tequila and a shot and I'm good to go.

1996 is also when Michael Alig and Robert Riggs killed Angel Melendez.

God, [Angel] was such a sweetheart. That was crazy, but the odd thing is, when that happened, it was so hush-hush. But that's how New York was. New York was so gritty and edgy in a good way, but I always felt safe in New York.

I think I feel more unsafe now, even though I'll always be safe. If you know how to hold yourself as a New Yorker, you're never going to be approached. But if you cower and you don't look like you belong, that's when you become a victim. And I will say that this new mayor [Zohran Mamdani] has turned this city out. I am so happy to live in this city and see what I'm seeing with him. He's beautiful. Beautiful!

Do you feel unsafe specifically as a woman of trans experience?

No, no, no. I just meant people who maybe take the train or stuff like that. I've never felt unsafe in that regard, and I've also never taken a subway or a bus.

Literally?

No, no, no.

How are you getting from club to club to club?

Car service and driver. I love riding my bike. I ride like 30 miles a day.

What I was saying about that was before [Mamdani]. I think New York was starting to feel a little sketchy, especially after the pandemic. I mean, we didn't know tomorrow was planned. It was becoming very apocalyptic.

You were going to places that, at least at the time, were referred to as “gay clubs” by many and were objectively filled with cis gay men. Had you already transitioned when you started going out?

For me, there was never a transitional point. I think also because of how I grew up — I come from a biracial family. My father was white Irish and Jewish and Italian, and my mom was British, Dutch, Jewish, mixed with Black and white. And my grandmother was Black Wiccan. And she was a dominatrix. She had a female and male slave. So I come from a whole different show.

My grandmother's a famous opera singer. We lived across from Carnegie Hall. So being the spiritual goddess witch that she was, she helped my family understand me from the age of 4. Already at that point I was exuding all of this beautiful feminine and masculine energy. And yes, I present very feminine, but my masculinity and my femininity are very important to me.

You said on your podcast that your protest is everyday, getting up and going out. I wonder if you think of DJing as an act of protest.

Absolutely. I think that anything that I do is a protest. And it's funny, because I've never thought of it to be that way until other people made it known to me that we have to be that way as women with a trans experience.

You did 10 years on Fire Island, and then you were away for about 10, and then you did it again. Did you see a change?

When I started, I was the first to bring real diversity. I mean, mind you, I'm the first mixed-race woman out there. That was unheard of — only white DJs. No Blacks, no Jews, no gays.

When they approached me about [DJing at Sip N Twirl], I was like, “Oh s---, here comes that Pepsi Challenge again.” I'm glad I did. It was one of the best things I ever did for myself. People were coming out there that would normally not come out there, because I was there. It wasn't enough, but the bridge was open.

I started seeing a lot more fluidity toward the end. And then, on my 10th anniversary, I was like, “You know what? It's time for me to go.” Not for any bad reason, but it was just time for me to go. I never planned on being there that long. Then they asked me to come back for the 70th anniversary, which I did. That was about three years ago.

I then came back a year later for the Doll Invasion. And I said, “You know what? This is amazing to see all this f----try that was never there before. They’re doing a party for the dolls? This is mind-blowing!” They were like, “Lina, you're building a bridge between the old school and the new school.” And I was like, “I will gladly take that.”