Raving as Folk Art
a.k.a. Why post-pandemic dance music feels fundamentally different.
For all intents and purposes, 2022 is the first year that dance music has been properly “back” after the onset of COVID. Things haven’t always gone smoothly, but even in the face of erratic attendance, staff shortages, inexperienced technical crews, dysfunctional airports and a litany of other challenges, the industry has soldiered on, gradually finding its feet as people reintroduce themselves to the dancefloor after two-plus years of lockdowns, club closures and festival postponements / cancellations. As the months have worn on, many of these logistical issues seem to have subsided—or perhaps artists and industry folks have simply gotten used to them and adjusted accordingly—but while things may now be running more smoothly, it doesn’t necessarily feel like everything is “back to normal.” On the contrary, there seems to be a stubbornly persistent narrative that dance music as a whole (i.e. the music, and especially the culture and industry that surround it) is fundamentally different than it was before.
Some of this narrative—which usually surfaces in the form of complaints from dance music’s older and more established corners—undoubtedly stems from the usual intergenerational tensions that rise up whenever a younger cohort of artists and fans begin to assert themselves within a musical subculture. Many of the most common gripes can be boiled down to some version of “kids these days are doing it wrong,” and depending on who you talk to, dance music has supposedly become too fast, too loud, too shallow, too commercial, too colorful, too pop, too formulaic and too obsessed with social media. Are any of those things true? Maybe so—the answer largely depends on one’s own perceptions and priorities—but the music and the parties march on anyways, and most youngsters taking part in the culture probably aren’t too concerned about whether or not they’re breaking any unwritten “rules” in the process.
Still, the idea that dance music has fundamentally changed can’t be entirely chalked up to the curmudgeonly musings of semi-retired ravers who now spend more time in Facebook comment sections than they do on actual dancefloors. Things do feel different, and if there’s any truth to the rumors that Berghain will be closing by the end of the year, then it would be fair to say that a defining era of club culture has come to an end. (Quick addendum: as this commentary by Groove magazine points out, the veracity of those rumors appears to be very questionable.)
The 2010s ushered in a global dance music boom, one in which Berlin—and, in many ways, Berghain itself—essentially functioned as the genre’s creative and aesthetic center. (No offense to London and New York, which also played major roles.) That time may be over, and while the dissolution of that system isn’t necessarily a bad thing—the last thing anyone needs is another black-clad crew / club / promoter trying (and most likely failing) to recreate a Berghain vibe in their hometown—there’s no guarantee that whatever emerges in its place will be better or more interesting. Recent years have seen a massive influx of new, younger and more diverse voices enter dance music, yet even in today’s post-pandemic landscape, where those voices are increasingly ascendant, the genre often feels creatively stagnant. Records are being made, parties are happening, production values are high and big tunes are abundant—though not many would qualify as proper anthems—but despite all that activity, the music itself, not to mention the ways in which it’s created and presented, has largely stopped innovating.
Those most excited about contemporary dance music often cite its increasing overlap with genres like pop, hip-hop, reggaeton and dancehall, and while that’s given rise to some intriguing new permutations of existing sounds, it’s hard to describe much of today’s offerings as something explicitly new. While the culture has always relied heavily on recycling, that impulse seems to have gone into overdrive in recent years; dance music’s most established genres (e.g. house, techno, jungle, electro, garage, dubstep, etc.) frequently sound as though they’re stuck in a neverending time loop, with sounds from the ’80s, ’90s and 2000s being constantly regurgitated for fresh crops of ravers. Considering that even the most dedicated club kids will usually cycle out of nightlife within a few years, this kind of creative stagnation is perhaps easier to get away with than it would be in other scenes, yet it’s still something that’s glaringly at odds with dance music’s supposedly “futurist” ethos.
Dance music often swaddles itself in sci-fi imagery and utopian fantasy, but in many ways, it’s become a deeply nostalgic realm, with a healthy fetish for formats (e.g. vinyl and cassettes), gear (e.g. vintage synths and drum machines) and general modes of operation that were once cutting edge, but are now frequently impractical, wildly expensive or both. And when it comes to presenting the music in a live setting, things might be a bit flashier these days, and the associated technology has certainly become easier to learn and manipulate, but the core concept of a night out (i.e. a lone DJ mixing tracks and holding sway over a pulsing dancefloor) is effectively the same now as it was 20, 30 or even 40 years ago.
None of this is necessarily a problem, and only the grumpiest of fans would assert that people on today’s dancefloors aren’t having powerful experiences and forging authentic connections with the music. Jeff Mills’ “The Bells” is more than 25 years old, but a fresh-faced raver who first hears the song—or any of the hundreds (thousands?) of similarly styled tunes that have come along during the past two-plus decades—in 2022 can still genuinely have their mind blown.
At the same time, the moment has probably arrived for dance music to relinquish its claim to not just futurism, but its “underground” credentials as well. For all of the genre’s history with illegal spaces, clandestine social networks, limited-edition releases and general activity outside the cultural mainstream, only the smallest remnants of those things still exist today. Dance music and DJ culture are no longer subversive, and arguably haven’t been for at least a decade; they’re now quite literally everywhere, to a point where they’re commonly being used by aspiring celebrities, social media influencers, international fashion houses and a litany of corporate brands, all for purposes—many of them blatantly commercial—that are anything but “underground” in nature.
Like many other musical subcultures, dance music has been commodified, flattened and largely subsumed by the wider pop culture. The average person still doesn’t know about the genre’s origins or the finer points of its culture and history, but terms like “DJ” and “rave” have become part of the vernacular, and in many cases, now sadly conjure unflattering images of some V-neck-wearing dickhead smugly leaning into his headphones and making “wocka wocka” hand motions as a dopey crowd goes wild. That’s a cartoonish stereotype of course—and one that EDM played a major role in cementing into the collective psyche—but even for those who regard the culture with a bit more nuance, the perceived parameters of dance music have by and large been set. DJs, clubs, the music itself—they’re all expected to look and / or sound a certain way, and at this point, those who seek out the culture generally aren’t interested in deviations from the norm.
As those expectations continue to calcify, it becomes necessary to place dance music in a different cultural framework, one that doesn’t revolve around ideas of innovation, futurism and pushing the envelope. In many ways, dance music is transitioning—or perhaps has already transitioned—into a kind of folk art, and regarding it as such could potentially allow its most dedicated defenders (myself included) to stop howling about the genre’s lack of new ideas, or at least make peace with its current place in the wider musical universe.