Tash York Shares an Artist’s Insight into the Adelaide Fringe, Accessibility & Burnout

Few artists embody the unfiltered spirit of Adelaide Fringe quite like Tash York. A compelling performer who first graced the Fringe stage in 2016, Tash has since carved a transformative path that intersects cabaret, comedy, and deeply personal storytelling. Over nearly a decade, she has witnessed the festival evolve from an intimate gathering of boundary-pushers to a platform that can simultaneously celebrate and overshadow independent talent. And her perspective is riveting.

In this candid interview, Tash peels back the curtain on the highs and lows of her Fringe journey: from grappling with shifting algorithms on social media and ever-tightening arts budgets, to forging new alliances with emerging creators. Her honesty about burnout, self-doubt, and the societal forces that shape artists’ livelihoods makes this conversation feel urgent and necessary. Yet Tash’s narrative is also brimming with hope—she embraces adversity as an opportunity to reshape the future of fringe festivals, calling for greater inclusivity and financial transparency to ensure the next generation of innovators has its chance to thrive.

Prepare to discover an artist whose fearless perspective reveals not only how far we’ve come, but who also dares us to imagine what lies ahead when passion, resilience, and authenticity lead the way.

Looking back on your nine years at Adelaide Fringe, how has your perception of both the festival and your own trajectory as an artist evolved over time? What key shifts—positive or negative—have you noticed in the festival landscape?

Let me start by saying I wouldn’t be anywhere in this industry without the ecosystem of Fringe festivals, especially Adelaide Fringe, which has been pivotal in my career. I started in 2016, back when Gluttony had only about five tents and the largest venue was the 400-seat Octagon. At that time, TV comedians were a rarity on the circuit, shows with casts over five were uncommon, and there were actually more than four reviewers helping to spread the word. Social media was also a vital (and largely organic) tool for independent artists to connect with audiences—before it became saturated with ads and algorithms. I’m not sure anything has truly filled that gap since.

While the number of events hasn’t increased drastically (around 1,100 in 2016 compared to about 1,300 now), the gap between the largest and smallest shows has widened significantly. To put it in perspective, the festival generated $14.8 million in 2016, compared to $25.6 million in 2024. I fully support arts organisations thriving, but it raises an important question: where is that money going, and how much of it is truly benefiting emerging artists?

Some venues now seat over 1,400 people, hosting acts that could easily sell those numbers outside a festival setting. Financially, it makes sense for them to participate, but what does this mean for up-and-coming artists? If the breeding ground for new talent is increasingly occupied by large-scale productions, celebrity acts, and budgets that most indie artists can only dream of, how do we ensure space for the next generation to develop and be discovered? And if audiences are spending over $100 on a single ticket, then that would be at least 4 tickets to a regular fringe show that is now not being bought now, as audiences are feeling the pinch too.

As a full-time performer, I want to emphasise that this isn’t a critique of high-end commercial art. But when we corporatise art, then how do we  maintain the Fringe’s original spirit, a space where fresh, independent voices can break through—while balancing the presence of big-ticket productions.

Do you feel the face of the festival has changed in recent years with the appearance of larger scale commercial theatre? Can you talk more about the pressures indie artists face when competing with bigger budgets, and how this reality impacts your creative process?

I mentor a lot of emerging artists, and I often tell them it was far easier for me to make a name for myself than it will be for them. The competition is immense, not just in the sheer number of shows but also in the skill set required to stand out. Today, independent artists aren’t just performers; they’re mini-entrepreneurs, managing their own marketing, PR, social media, music production, editing, and more, all while competing with productions backed by entire teams of specialists.

Even established indie acts, like BRIEFS and SWAMPLESQUE, who I’ve had the privilege of working with, are feeling the financial strain. After 12 years under a Liberal government that gutted arts funding, the effects have rippled through the entire industry. Factor in a global pandemic, inflation, and the cost-of-living crisis, and it’s not just artists struggling, audiences are too.

The rise of large-scale commercial theatre at Fringe isn’t inherently a bad thing, but it does raise important questions about accessibility. When ticket prices climb and marketing budgets soar, how do emerging artists find their audience in an increasingly crowded and commercialised landscape? That’s the challenge we’re up against.

You’ve spoken passionately about inclusive representation in your shows. How did you first identify inclusivity as a priority, and in what ways has championing diversity shaped your work and the communities around you?

For me, art has always been both an expression and an escape. Performing on the fringe circuit, I’ve encountered a vast range of performances, cultures, and identities, all of which have shaped the rich tapestry of my own work. Historically, art has been a refuge for those trying to make sense of the world, and often, those who have experienced marginalisation have the deepest well of emotions to draw from. As a cabaret performer, my connection with an audience is built on shared experience, relatability, and the ongoing journey of self-discovery.

I firmly believe that if you want to celebrate queer, POC, or disabled art, you must actively include those artists in your lineups. For me, this isn’t just a conscious decision, it’s a natural extension of my community. The artists I work with are my friends, my colleagues, and the people who inspire me. Representation isn’t a box to check; it’s about ensuring the stage reflects the world we live in.

The current social and political climate, rising living costs, and the lingering effects of COVID have created tough obstacles for many artists. Where do you find the resilience or inspiration to keep going, and what are some strategies you use to combat burnout?

To be brutally honest, I’m not sure if I combat burnout or just exist in a constant state of it right now—haha! COVID hit me hard, both mentally and financially, but I was one of the lucky ones. I have a supportive partner and had access to government subsidies, which gave me a safety net that many didn’t have. Since then, I’ve felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude just to be able to work again, which led me to take on everything and anything simply because I felt that pressure of “being grateful to be back”.

In the last six months, though, my mindset has shifted. I’ve realised that I need to back myself and prioritise my work in the arts as work! It is not just something I should be grateful I “get” to do, I work really hard like anyone else who is passionate about their career.

Over the past year, I’ve taken a step back from producing as much as I used to and focused on festivals and seasons I know tend to be more successful for me in the past. But even those aren’t hitting as they once did. I’ve also leaned more on creating work with government funding rather than relying solely on ticket sales… but again that can be unpaid labour when the grant isn’t successful and with budgets getting tighter, the competition is even more fierce.

If COVID taught me anything, it’s the importance of diversifying income streams because you never know which wheels might fall off. I’ve taken on more work in other people’s shows (where there’s a guaranteed wage) and expanded my focus on mentoring and dramaturgy.

At the end of the day, I can’t see myself doing anything else. I love this community too much to walk away. My love for it keeps me going… and, occasionally, a bit of spite toward those who never believed in me does too, haha!

Fringe festivals are often seen as nurturing grounds for risk-taking and boundary-pushing art. In your view, how well is the festival circuit currently supporting that spirit, and what changes would you like to see to better empower independent producers?

There are absolutely still hubs and venues at Fringe that remain breeding grounds for these types of shows. In Adelaide Fringe, spaces like Courtyard of Curiosities and Arthur’s Art Bar are working tirelessly to keep that original Fringe spirit alive. The issue isn’t that these spaces don’t exist, it’s that audiences often don’t know they do. The places people once turned to for experimental work are now filled with more commercial shows, making it harder for indie artists to be discovered.

There’s also a fine line between taking creative risks and pushing yourself to financial ruin. So as artists, we look to be included in those bigger hubs because as much as we want to create daring, unconventional work….we still have to pay our bills.

Fringe festivals have made some efforts in recent years to highlight “non-hub” venues, ensuring reviewers and awards judges visit them. I worked with the Melbourne Fringe Festival as part of their artist council which was a collective of artists from all disciplines to help highlight some of the disparities between the hub venues (the ones supported by the fringe or the likes of Gluttony and the Garden) vs the more indie venues.

There is more to be done. Maybe the festival could take a smaller inside fee (the fee the festival charges to the artist per ticket which is usually anywhere between $1.50-4.50 per ticket) or waive booking fees the audience pays for small venues ($4.80 per transaction is a significant cost for audiences which is the current fee for Adl Fringe).

We need to help audiences understand the difference between big business Fringe and Fringe Fringe.

And honestly, even saying big business Fringe feels wild. Fringe as a concept started in Edinburgh as a protest against the curated Edinburgh Festival, which excluded more “Fringy” shows back in the day  (Fringy aka alternative, poc, trans, queer, female led etc etc) performances…

That said, the landscape has shifted since then too.  The larger arts festivals that Fringe originally existed in opposition to have also had their funding gutted. In some cases, Fringe has now outgrown them in both scale and notoriety.  If the line between independent and commercial art keeps blurring, as it has done for years now, it may be hard to even define what fringe even once was.

The issue of being shadow banned or suppressed on social media has become increasingly common for queer and female artists. How has this affected your ability to reach audiences, and do you see any effective workarounds or alternative platforms that could help level the playing field?

I touched on this earlier—when I first started, social media was a game changer. It gave independent artists a real chance to connect with audiences. But with the increasing corporatisation of these platforms, you now have to pay just to get your content seen—especially on Meta. And even when you do, the algorithm often serves it up to trolls who eat up your ad budget by flooding your post with hate.

As a female drag queen, I get the added joy of explaining my existence to transphobes who assume I must either be a man or a trans woman. My usual response? Laugh about it online and turn their nonsense into content. Social media thrives on drama, and frustratingly, posts with conflict or controversy perform better than posts that simply celebrate art for art’s sake.

It’s exhausting. I try to stay engaged with other artists’ profiles because I know firsthand how difficult it is to maintain an online presence that’s both authentic and visible without getting flagged or sent to “Facebook jail.” With Trump’s influence over the people who own Meta, Google, and X, it’s no surprise that staying online as a queer or female artist feels like an uphill battle.

Shadowbanning is another beast—when platforms quietly restrict your content, making it harder for your own followers to see your posts, let alone for new people to find you unless they search your exact username. Worse, I’ve heard from friends that their content has been deliberately pushed to far-right users, essentially baiting them into receiving abuse. It’s a toxic combination of bots and chronically online people (who probably don’t have jobs because they refuse to be vaccinated… sigh!)

As someone who’s worked hard to include marginalised voices in your productions, what has been the most rewarding aspect of bringing diverse talents together? Conversely, what barriers have you encountered that prevent inclusivity from being an effortless norm in the industry?

As I mentioned earlier, I mentor a lot of people across all aspects of the arts: producing, marketing, publicity, dramaturgy, and sometimes just being a cheerleader for those who need it! One of my most valuable mentees has been my co-producer, Matthew Liersch, whom I met at Adelaide Fringe in 2022. He showed a keen interest (and natural ability) in stage management and producing. Matt is queer, autistic, and ADHD, and he’s faced many barriers when it comes to people engaging with him in ways that are both comfortable and aligned with his pace. As someone who is also ADHD and queer, we found that we just got each other—we speak the same language.

For years, I handled all my own producing because I had no other choice because like Matt, no one got me either. But as my career grew, doing everything alone became unsustainable. So, I mentored Matt with everything I knew until he eventually became my co-producer / BLT (Bossy Little Twink haha). Since then, he’s toured with me on almost all my shows, and this year, he’s stepped up as co-producer for my current Adelaide Fringe season of TASH YORK’S CHAOS CABARET. He’s also producing his partner’s show, A FRIEND OF DOROTHY: ANTHEMS OF PRIDE by Lindsay Prodea, which has had an almost sold-out run this year (go check it out—one more show left!).

This is where inclusivity breeds more inclusivity. When more voices are given seats at the table, they help pave the way for the next generation too. The biggest barrier isn’t a lack of talent… it’s that people are sometimes afraid of getting things wrong. They worry they’ll say the wrong thing or won’t have all the answers. But if you lead with kindness and genuine intention rather than tokenism, you’ll find that having a diverse range of people in your life isn’t just valuable, it’s one of the most incredible things ever.

Finally, for those who look up to you as an established figure in the cabaret scene, what realities—financial, emotional, or otherwise—do you wish more aspiring artists understood about sustaining a life in the performing arts? And what keeps you hopeful amidst the challenges?

You know what’s funny? I started making cabaret shows because, as a POC, neurodivergent, queer performer who isn’t conventionally attractive, I couldn’t find a place in musical theatre. I graduated from the Queensland Conservatorium in 2013, and after about a year of rejection, I stumbled into musical improv with Impromptunes. That led me to traveling the fringe circuit, which eventually led me to writing my own cabarets, thanks in part to a workshop with the incredible Queenie van de Zandt, who is still my mentor to this day.

I share all this because these festivals, this life, this industry is where I found my place in the arts. It’s where I found my voice. It’s where I found my people.

And that’s what keeps me going, the hope that I can help make sure spaces like this still exist for the next generation of artists who, like me, might not fit neatly into traditional boxes. Because the moment you stop waiting for a seat at the table and start building your own? That’s when the magic happens.

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Tash York is currently appearing at Adelaide Fringe in Chaos Cabaret.

For more information and to book tickets CLICK HERE.