You can use one world to circumvent the negative aspects of the other. Jobs got you down? Go out. Brain not functioning from excess? Lock In. The critical factor to this is that these worlds remain separate. Recognise a colleague? Run a mile. Talking about your tasks on the dance floor? Leave. And this is the way that it has been since forever. Earlier generations didn’t have to hold so much concern for this. In the 80s and 90s, a more pronounced separation of church and state existed between an individual and their job. Today this line has been muddied.

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Then, slowly but surely, culture began to conform towards a mass of unison. What do I mean by that? Well, before people who invested in lifestyles and ideas that were primarily for expression rather than revenue creation were left to their own devices. Disliked by governments and initially disregarded by capitalists, they sought an escape from the mundane with experimentation. It wasn’t consistent, often had problems, and you couldn’t easily quantify it in a marketing deck, but it was real and certainly honest.

Quietly in the background, corporations and the venture capitalists began to build an understanding of these modes of expression and their perceived usefulness. Small but gradual changes began to occur in the background that were, at the time, ignorable. The organic nature of any hobby still required work. The party information came from someone you knew, posters in the right location, and the building of trust. Music often gatekept, while of course initially unfair, did reward the effort of those who cared enough.

Online spaces created excitement when they landed and, at the start, retained the basis that made the system function. Gatekeeping transferred to a measurable output of trawling through messageboards, blogs, and piracy services, acting as an obstacle that kept people away from something they didn’t understand. The lack of value in mundane effort protected the real knowledge base from those outside. That was nice while it lasted.

Then one day we woke up, and it was all gone. We blinked, and the internet became monopolised. Your best friend is trying to sell you their new dropshipped streetwear brand, online communities were bought, sold and quantified into a shadow of their former selves, and anyone who wanted to do anything was de facto forced into using a select number of platforms. What was once intentionally for those who knew and understood became a commercially viable output for all. And as I stood in Pano toilets, a quip landed on me hard.

“Ohhh, honey, you still think this is about the music?”

Every single creative and cultural output known to man has been boiled down to content. Content is for all. That’s the point: to make it grow. Treating creative expression solely as a content vehicle for revenue, clout, and growth creates a Frankenstein that we now have to endure collectively. The promotional tools we rely on over-incentivise personality and invitations to react rather than craft. Bypassing quality for a chance to sit with the cool kids is tragic. (Sorry I’m still bitter that this was never and can never be me)

When a creative output is boiled down to its visual, most eye-catching, emotion-inducing, and reel-oriented apparatus, you lose the architecture that makes up the very thing itself. The knowledge and appreciation required to move forward becomes ornamental. Simplicity is the best way to sell something to someone. If you wish to succeed, then dumb down your output or product. Requiring anything to be thought-provoking or difficult to engage will cut out your audience and your appeal. You’ll see it in real-time. A producer arrives with substance, and as time progresses, the initial idea has vanished and what remains is better left unacknowledged.

The clubpeak preference we find ourselves in is the opium of the uninformed and lazy. This is rehashing music into a concentrated form that is repulsive to the taste. Dilution, space, time, and exploration are non-existent in the sound and the venues. If this is your idea of a good time, I’d advise you to get the Victoria line at rush hour and listen to your earphones. The experience is directly transferable and cheaper.

Expression veered in this direction because, socially, laboriously, and culturally, we have collectively chosen (or been persuaded) to go with the illusion of progress through flash and excess. Work environments where we spend the majority of our time reward performative actions. To be seen rather than to do. Conversational hot takes reverberate for a brief moment before moving forward to the next. The collective mindset has never been more orchestrated towards the short-term reward.

Never before have we lived in a world where people who know the bare minimum about what they champion make as much money or clout. Creator-capitalists who sit on culture as a vehicle for their own agenda miss the mark repeatedly while dictating a point of view absent from the music and spaces they supposedly champion. The authority given willingly creates an endless loop of, on one hand, contributing to the continued detriment, and on the other, pondering why nothing feels right. The guilt is collectively shared by all, as there is no escape from this (as always, this article took longer than anticipated because I was doomscrolling researching people that frustrate me). We are forced to interact through the vehicle and the revelation of material that is designed to keep us permanently disappointed and always looking for more. You either disengage or worry about falling behind.

This shift in mindset becomes a reality of behaviour change. The term NPC, or Non-Playable Character, entered the modern lexicon in the 2000s. Originally taken from role-playing games (Dungeons & Dragons), the modern understanding pulls from characters that populate video games that the user can’t control. They appear frequently limited to a handful of phrases and movements that fill the main character’s journey with indifference, annoyance and sometimes humour. They lack agency. Their purpose is to fill the space, cycle through their limited motions, and remain consistent throughout. A character will leave the starting point of a map, traverse mountains, have adventures and grow and develop. When they eventually return to the starting point, they’ll find the same NPCs in the same place doing the same things.

^{Helmut Smits’ work embodies the idea of the NPC.}

This term is almost guaranteed to be found in the comment section of the majority of overstylised techno performances and is frequently used to diminish the authenticity of the crowd. Techno, like any good subculture, emphasises substance and backbone over fast results. These crowds are relegated to bad actors moving to generic loops because it is in trend.

Several things are going on here. First and foremost, YouTube comment sections, once bastions of positivity, are now cesspools that prioritise negativity to garner reactions over any meaningful discourse. In this author’s case, it’s certainly working. What you read must be taken with a pinch of salt. The psychology of crowds and mass movement means that people who lack an understanding of what they are dealing with will migrate towards what the others are doing. We copy to feel accepted, and people value the inclusion more than a thorough understanding. The behaviour is, like it or not, human.

With this understood, it can also be seen that the inflated sense of self that’s common to all aspects of modern life is firmly on display in these stylised videos. While it’s normal to copy for acceptance, the problems within the experience snowball when the majority of the participants take this role. The experience turns in on itself. Aesthetically reaching yet tangibly slipping. The modern-day currency of performative opulence replaces the authenticity that was once sought, and what’s left feels empty and gaudy.

Separation, of course, exists. Sounds are for some, not for all, and the immediate response usually entails “If you don’t like it, go elsewhere”. Sure. The problem with this linear take is that it fails to address the ever-growing popularity snowball. We’ve veered so far away from the initial concept that what’s in the space is simply an imitation of a lifestyle fed to an individual through an algorithm. A copy, of a copy, of a distorted copy, of a lie. Deep frying the culture in its own grandeur has created an atmosphere of self-parody that leaks into every crack and corner.

Through channels of communication and on the dance floor, the belonging sought is somewhat hollow. It’s there on paper and mission statements. Can you belong to a product? I can like it, I can buy it, I can talk about it, I can sell it to you, but I think I belong to it rather than it belongs to me (and it knows this). A product wants to take its moment in the sun, and that taking exists because the gain is larger than it has ever been before. So… Do we need what’s gone up to come down? Ye probably. Will it be satisfactory? Absolutely not. Will it clear out the background noise? Yes definitely. Is it possible? Well, I thought it was, and that was several years back; these days I’m not so sure.

Arriving in New York during the summer of 2018 would prove to be a taxing but worthwhile experiment in self-discovery. People place this city in high regard, and for good reason. Despite the gravitational pull, my integration into its crowd of admirers felt like a complex netherworld of wrong turns, missed subways, and loneliness. The overwhelming essence of an idea much larger than myself rendered my ability to be me useless.

The energy needed to operate functionally, adapt, and attempt to thrive in a city that leered over my existence is one I’m still paying debts on. It’s funny how we do this. Fight to be part of something that doesn’t initially want us. See me, notice me, accept me. The experience acted in defiance of previous lessons in growth or adaptation. The constant assumption that I was shrinking and reverting past the point of no return, to slowly and painfully come out the other side with the ability to self-preserve. Ventures through techno lay by the wayside as I attempted to navigate a culture and lifestyle that existed in an uncanny valley from the world I was familiar with.

Familiarisation, routine and escapism emerged from the concrete grid. Initially, taking up residence in the likes of Birdy’s, Carmelo’s and Happy Fun Hideaway that populate the infamous intersection between Bed Stuy and Bushwick. These nights travelled onwards into the likes of Bossa, Nowadays, Good Room and Elsewhere. Hints of familiarity and small revelations of the comfortable variety began to return to my existence. Mutual understanding can be found on dancefloors the world over. Coming face-to-face with it provides reassurance for your decisions. Of immigration, of going out, of being in that space at that time. In big cities, social contracts are of endless quantity and little value. Despite their reputation, it was through them that the idea of visiting Detroit for Memorial weekend was encountered. Why would I refuse?

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We hit the tarmac on an overcast but humid afternoon. Detroit Metro Airport exists in its own world outside the atmosphere of the city. The vacuum of the terminal sits in the quintessential hospital lighting and off-white flooring familiar to all major terminals, featuring a red monorail that oscillates from top to bottom. Order and formality within the placelessness felt disruptive to the mindset of this retreat.

Departing this liminal space via taxi, the landscape of Wayne County invites the viewer to stare into an expanse of past, present and future. As a European, the ability to acclimate to the sheer size of the Midwest landscape could never be achieved. I sat small in the back seat, trying to break down the highway, imprinted with direct intention, suburban property holding hands with nature as it succumbed to blight, and the unending openness.

Approaching the city limits, clusters of towers downtown broke the skyline. Beige and grey office blocks perch along roads as wide as the highway that run through downtown. At sudden points, the height of buildings drops, giving way to redbrick dive bars, pillared banks, and European-esque churches. Craning my neck reveals the two-car monorail known as the People Mover. A relic of the ideal public transport system envisioned for the American public from yesterday’s tomorrow.

You can spend a large portion of your life curious about a certain part of the world. Curiosity can often seem futile when you reach the destination. No documentary or research will equate to the feeling of a city built for the many that houses a few. Quiet heaviness amplified by humidity hangs on every street corner. This openness is deafening, a feeling that the mind can’t compartmentalise within the urban sprawl.

The story of Detroit is a rise and fall of such extreme proportions that it decimated the city’s population by over 60%. Defining itself as a car manufacturing hub in the early 20th century, Ford, General Motors, and Chrysler, among others, established automotive factories that employed millions. The promise of equal wages and autonomy drew large waves of African American migrants from the southern states during the Great Migration, developing the city into a post-war industrial powerhouse.

The city peaked, growing to a population of 1.85 million in the 1950s, leading to the large expansion of the currently vacant suburbs that characterise the landscape. It’s here that a domino effect of events begins to cascade. White residents began to exit the city in droves, utilising racially discriminatory mortgage policies. Suburbs such as Dearborn, Warren, and Grosse Pointe expanded rapidly in population. These spaces defined themselves as all-white and aggressively declined integration.

Simultaneously, Black neighbourhoods such as Paradise Valley and Black Bottom were eroded under the guise of urban renewal. The I-375 and the Chrysler Freeway were built on top of a thriving entertainment district and Black-owned businesses, firmly eroding the temporary illusion of equality. The automotive industry stalled, and foreign competition from Japan and Germany kick-started a long stream of layoffs that would continue into the 1970s, exacerbated by the oil crisis, bailouts, and factory closures.

Racial tensions hit a breaking point during “The Long Hot Summer of 1967” with the Detroit Uprising. Housing segregation, job losses due to automation, tensions with the police and the KKK’s presence in Michigan had simmered for too long. A police raid on a speakeasy began five days of riots and looting, resulting in 43 dead, 7200 arrested and 2000 buildings burned. The fallout accelerated the further exodus of residents and businesses throughout the 70s and 80s.

By the 1990s and 2000s, Detroit’s population dropped to 700,000, the crack epidemic and murder rate picked away at the remains of what was left, and the city took long shots at revitalisation through the construction of casinos. In 2013, the city filed for bankruptcy, revealing debts of $18-20 billion. As a microcosm of the American condition, Detroit culminated every social and financial growth and disorder that has characterised the USA.

With this behemoth manifesting in the background, we turn to the tale of techno. In the 1980s, in the suburb of Belleville, Juan Atkins, Derrick May, and Kevin Saunderson began to lay the foundations. Simultaneously, they recognised the possibilities stemming from European synth pop (Kraftwerk, Giorgio Moroder, Cabaret Voltaire) and the harmony achieved between man and machine during the automotive boom. As descendants of the Great Migration, they sat on a vantage point that pointed their gaze towards a technology-based future, radical spaces of integration (Music Institute), and self-preservation through creation.

Detroit synth pop walked so techno could run. The releases began to unfold, beginning with the idiomatic Cybotron - Alleys of Your Mind. Arriving in 1980 but labelled 1981 to prescribe futurism. Electro in stature, eerie in theme, with a stiff and mechanical groove that oozes with retrofuturist glow. This is the control condition formed by Juan Atkins and Richard Davis, from which everything that would follow would develop.

Development continued with Techno City. Looking inwards through the city for inspiration, the track coated in gloss and melancholy exhumes the 80s in all its anxious and restless glory.

NO UFO’S by Model 500 can be considered the first fully formed techno production released on the first fully dedicated techno label, Metroplex. Released in 1985, it achieves a complex yet clear essence, with so many attributes developing and revolving throughout its six-minute runtime. Within the callousness of the environment, out of sight from the rest of the world, a genre composed of radicalness and longevity was digging its heels in defiance. Strings Of Life, Beyond The Dance, Good Life, and The Chase would go on to ground the genre and set the stage for what transpired thereafter.

Deservingly so, the Detroit retreat has developed into an escape that is placed on a higher pedestal than most weekenders. For pilgrims, waypoints must be attended to before the festival. Submerge Recordings, developed by Ade’ Mainor and Mad Mike Banks, runs sold-out tours to the small but iconic “Exhibit 300” from their red stone three-storey on The Boulevard. The only techno museum in existence, it houses a collection of synths, drum machines and platinum editions of Strings of Life and Good Life. It’s a story you’ve read many times before, told from the perspective of those who lived it.

Community is a term that’s sprinkled on electronic music with varying degrees of success. We like the idea, but let it slip through the cracks due to our individualistic nature. Submerge and their next-door neighbours, Underground Music Academy, do their best to circumvent this through education. Production, DJ’ing, and songwriting are taught through the values of Underground Resistance, continuing the tradition through the youth of Detroit.

The pre-parties began on Thursday that week. While, of course, Movement festival acts as the anchor to this marathon, the truth of the city is found in the unending expanse of events that populate the edges of the long weekend. Familiar faces such as Bound provided a taste of NYC’s EBM and hotel fetish scene through Vatican Shadow, Becka Diamond and Minimal Violence.

The highlight of these pre-parties is, of course, the annual Sound Signature, Music Gallery Detroit. From behind a curtain open to close, Theo Parrish writes a novel of juggernaut transitions, soul, funk and history in the dimly lit Artist Village. In the absence of the DJ focal point, music takes centre stage with Theo’s narrative being blasted in every crevice of the expansive venue. Clusters of dancers gel together sporadically across the venue, following no rhyme or reason. It works as intended, ideally it’s the sound you wish to prescribe to before a weekend of ever creeping BPMs presented authentically and absent of ego. The early hours draw in, and for the briefest moments, the curtain unveils for acknowledgement to be granted between Theo and the crowd before returning to the final tracks.

Hart Plaza acts as a basecamp for the weekend. The plaza, designed by Isamu Noguchi, was developed as a gathering space for residents, operating in stark contrast to the city’s traditional layout. He lovingly referred to it as a “horizon for the people”. Sitting on the banks of the Detroit River with a view of neighbouring Windsor in Canada, the location provides its own take on festival landscapes. The topography feels stacked as stages are tetrised amongst the tight concrete space, combined with the rise and fall of the plaza, elevating the exploratory nature of the weekend. Movement’s logo seems to pull from the “Transcending” monument situated at the front of the plaza. Formed of steel gears stretching 63 feet into the sky to honour the tradition of blue-collar work in its symbolic home, designers David Barr and Sergio de Giusti inadvertently provided a piece aesthetically linked to futurism and science fiction that feels situationally relevant for the weekend around it.

The festival’s history (like the city) is complex. Beginning in 2000 as a revitalisation initiative, Detroit Electronic Music Festival (DEMF) was the first-ever house and techno-focused festival in the USA. With a free entrance policy, it drew over 1 million attendees. Artistic direction provided by Carl Craig was initially made with Detroit and Chicago at the forefront. In six years, it went on to have three changes in direction (Derrick May, Kevin Saunderson, Paxahau), three changes in name (Focus Detroit Electronic Music Festival, Fuse-In Detroit, Movement), a financial collapse and a resurgence in its final form starting in 2006 onwards. From then, it continued in an upward and commercial direction under Paxahau’s control.

The time of year allows for pristine conditions for the weekend to be enjoyed. The sun screams down, bouncing back off the grey tarmac, adding to the heated anticipation of the weekend. The lineup of 2019 had migrated from the festival’s initial Detroit forward anchor, expanding towards the shores of Friday night tech-house with appearances from Hot Since 82, Fisher, and MK. Thanks to tunnel vision, the array of quality performances and crowd types was easily sought between this mashup. Octave One did what they did best, following an on-stage introduction by a representative of the Detroit police (the bizarreness of this adding a cherry on top to the performance), blasted out the high-tech soul national anthem Blackwater. The strings arrived eloquently and profoundly in the sun-kissed urban park. In the years prior to this, I’d been finding myself at early morning parties, the type that no one has any business being at that fill you with anxious excitement and a week of dread following your roll in the mud. At each of them, Blackwater’s appearance would be as reliable as the dishevelled faces you saw weekly. Greeting the track in the flesh in the location where it stemmed from was euphoric enough to justify the travel and ticket costs alone.

The roster bolsters representation from the neoclassical range of North American techno. While artists such as Volvox and the Detroit Techno Militia may ring a bell for European audiences, what’s beneath the surface can’t be denied. Noncompliant’s modern channelling of the Midwest sound, filled with the empty spaces and crassness, ricocheted off the low ceiling that enclosed the Resident Advisor Underground Stage. Originally championed back in the 90s, thanks to artists like Akilah Bryant, DJ Skull, and DJ Hyperactive, the Midwest scene and sound stretched far beyond the obvious locations of Detroit and Chicago. Milwaukee, Columbus, Indianapolis, and Grand Rapids operated as an intersection for Acid, Detroit Techno, and Ghetto House. The sound of the groove on steroids that’s resurfaced in recent times is not relevant here. This is a chunky party soundtrack that travels through a stretched path, acknowledging various elements. A nod to the throb of acid, a wave to a chopped vocal sample, a revisit to a classic. The difference is harmonised with vigour across her 90-minute set.

The Midwest is a no-frills, diligent, and determined culture of bizarreness where the strange and peculiar optimise the dancefloor. In its early days, the scene amalgamated a variety of subcultures towards a commonality. Goths, candy kids, breakdancers, graffiti writers and people who rejected the predetermined expectations of 90s American society found a place amongst the chaos. The performativity and glossiness that exist in New York, LA, and Miami are shunned in favour of getting down to brass tacks. Realness has been characteristic of all subcultures that stem from this part of the world. Whether it’s the brutally ugly yet somehow alluring Juggalo way of life or the staunch straight-edge hardcore scene stemming from Columbus and Chicago. Sincerity, the insular topography of the Midwest, and creation as a response to the cultural vacuum drive these modes of being.

Representation through merch is louder on these dancefloors than across Europe. The bootlegging tradition that stems from the Grateful Dead, metal, and hardcore scenes has well and truly seeped into the techno scene. At any one point over the long weekend, you are no more than five people away from a person wearing the classic UR logo tee. The t-shirt is so synonymous with this part of the world that purchasing one is almost a rite of passage. Party series and labels decorate the dancefloor, featuring familiars like Inter Dimensional Transmissions, Moodymann, Sistrum Recordings, Drexiya and the occasional glimpses of party series tees such as Fourth World and Tronic Treatment from the 2005 edition of Movement. While black is always the majority colour, the discretion and cooler than you trends that come with the clothing and European perspective were refreshingly absent as Stacey Pullen merged generations and lifestyles to the sound of Samuel L. Session and Chez Damier following Octave One.

Back in the bunker, Discwoman co-founder Umfang let loose a texturally crunching array of somatic techno. Anonymous, stripped-back kick drums created the frame, accompanied by granularity, obscure and strange sounds through cyclical drive. This coarse and rough approach that merges 90s sounds with a diy feel of drum machine experimentation creates an atmosphere of a circuit board tipping into overdrive in the best way possible. With a background from the Midwest, Umfang’s career began in large Kansas warehouse parties, migrating to the likes of Bossa Nova in New York with the Technofeminism series, her residency in Nowadays, and frequent appearances across Europe, Seoul, and London. Umfang, like Submerge and Underground Music Academy, invests in education. Consistently providing FLINTA and LGBTQ focused workshops that promote exposure and accessibility for electronic music goes hand in hand with Discwoman’s mission statement of “Amplify Each Other”.

The climax that year came in the form of the temporarily short-lived but coincidentally returning this year LSD. Luke Slater, Steve Bicknell, and Dave Somers’ project of seismic proportions turned the concrete casing into a sauna illuminated by the fog of blue lighting. The sound of sonic enormity, decorated with static, dread, and the larger-than-life essence that falls from this trio, encompassed the space and minds of attendees. An excess of energy ruptured and ran riot amongst the crowd. This momentum, while extracting energy, fortunately gifted new life to travel back into the expanse of the night.

“Variety is the spice of life” is well and truly compartmentalised by promoters across Memorial weekend. The never-ending timetable across multiple venues would give even your most organised friend stress over the logistics of the weekend. Thankfully, many artists and DJs traverse across different collectives playing to different spaces, allowing some breathing room for attendees. Marble Bar hosted Texture that weekend, who disregarded a clear tone for the evening in favour of quality variance. Egyptian Lover, RRose, Anthony Parasole, Dr Rubinstein, PLO Man and a Staub showcase rarely hang out together on a lineup, but this weekend didn’t necessarily follow a formula. Transporting from LSD into the precision of Egyptian Lover, while jarring, also operated as the necessary antidote to conserve energy. The crisp clacks and electro tinged hip hop sounded wide and detailed thanks to his significantly slower BPM. Lover’s aura is undeniable. One of the last remnants of the old school that seemingly perfected his act in the 1980s, his set exhumes technical excellence that enthrals and excels.

As the dawn began to rise and Anthony Parasole was beginning his onslaught of bright, clean movement inducers, the exit was made towards Lincoln Street Art Park. The space was bathed in that special glow only relevant to the sleep-deprived and early risers. The grass decorated with obtuse, irregular metal structures painted in bright neon colours, their relevance and placement feel at home at this moment in time, dotted amongst hundreds of attendees, well and truly in the grips of day 1 fever.

Techno can be heard as a hum in the background. While sound is ever-present, its relevance has been downgraded to accompaniment rather than a main event. Fire pits pull groups in, and rampant chatter flows around the space. Nitrous balloons the size of over-inflated footballs are sold amongst the chaos, with the whoosh of canisters adding to the cacophony of the environment. For a brief and distinct moment, a freight train crosses the rail line that overhangs the end of the park. It simultaneously pulls the attention of all in attendance and lets rip the distinct sound of a Nathan K5LA horn. The entire Art Park explodes in cheers louder than the sound system as the rusted graffiti-clad juggernaut rips through this moment of delirium.

Taxi, golden hour, interim, return, exhale, shower, eyes shut, can’t sleep, eyes open, retreat, give in. Post-party routine is still the same, no matter where I am. Sunday consists of carb loading, not moving as fast as I want to, drinking a beer slowly, and awaiting the energy to return. The novelty of this festival includes your residence in a Courtyard by Marriott. The onsite pool returns some essence to my soul before my indulgence in the mozzarella sticks from the downstairs Applebee’s promptly steals it again. On the return to Hart Plaza, the noise and heat of this Midwest arcade hit harder than previously. Hare Krishnas cover the sidewalk, their upbeat energy and soft orange garb acting as a counterweight to the sea of black-clad festival goers. I’m handed a flyer by a scientologist in candy raver cosplay, attempting to draw my attention toward an afternoon of diagnostics. I spend too long trying to decipher it in the queue and hastily throw it in the bin before it leaches any more mental calories from me. Ryan Elliot soothes my day two inner turmoil as he plays Ben Sims - Work It (Vincent D Mix) throughout his very non-Panorama-Bar-esque set. The role and review of hard groove can and will bring you back to life.

Moving to Chris Liebing for nostalgic reasons (to grow up on the CLR podcast was a youth worth living), the sun begins to set against the backdrop of the Detroit River. Boats traverse across the background of the stage as the bounce of modern Drumcode fills the tiered amphitheatre. The orange hue, momentary pause through transition, and the gratitude of this brief moment ground the evening in solid foundations. Returning to the RA bunker, Oscar Mulero is midway through his standard procedure of creating waves of deep hypnosis. The liquidity of sounds spread around the room and thrust the crowd through waves of deep explorative momentum. As the final track comes to a close, I realise in no time at all I’m back to where I started 24 hours previously. There’s less haste in my steps this time as we walk down East Jefferson Ave towards the hotel, holding onto energy. The focal point of the weekend is only a few hours away.

Interdimensional Transmissions started their journey in 1995. Founded by Ectomorph (BMG & Erika), the label’s ethos towards sound as a vessel to see beyond the norm through futurism, depth, exploration of the strange and non-linear answers to big questions has created experiences that exist outside of any standard partying circuit. Electro, abstract techno and sounds that push the idea of what electronic music is became the weapon of choice to establish an environment of submersion.

Inspired by the aesthetic and ethos of Detroit circuit in the 90s, BMG approached marathon set champions Derek Plaslaiko, Carlos Souffront and Patrick Russell about doing a 12-hour party with only four DJs on the roster. Beginning in 2007, No Way Back (NWB) took its tentative steps forward that continued into an annual tradition with a strong cult following. Twelve years after its inception, I was lucky enough to find myself in attendance.

We made haste towards the Tangent Gallery after a couple of hours of R&R. Departing the lights of downtown and onto the dimly lit freeway shifted the energy towards trepidation for this commitment. Turning off down a back street, we reached our destination. As far as diy spaces in non-descript urban environments go, Tangent Gallery is prime real estate. Situated on the corner of East Milwaukee Ave and Oakland St, the venue sits discreetly against the American industrial estate landscape. Devoid of niceties and illuminated by street lamps that stand too far away from each other, forcing the pedestrian to walk through tranches of the night, the uncanny essence feels appropriate for a doorway past normality.

Stepping inside feels transportive at a minimum. A humble parachute hung low and, with intention, envelops the dancefloor into a microclimate of sub bass, minimal rhythm, and garnishes the ability to push this sound as far as it can go. You move, submerged in an idea of freedom and expression. The space around you heaves from momentary openness to being sandwiched between several people. Squiggles of acidic signatures swim through the microclimate, becoming personified throughout the long, extended journey. Low-hanging material comforts and utilises, bringing the atmosphere inwards into a clear concentration of intentional energy intense to the senses. Reflections bounce across the nylon, creating layered visuals across their conical and elliptical spreads.

The tempo sits towards the bottom half of the index, retaining a throb that’s returned to consecutively amidst visits to sounds of the upper end of the harmonic scale across the proceedings of the night. The music goes so far into the absurd and abnormal that, at times, it’s clear the DJ is intentionally pushing the boundaries of what the audience can withstand. As much as this is a party, this is not a party that caters to all.

NWB is intention and depth, with a tried, tested and tweaked formula that personifies Midwest electro minimal, beloved and strange. Too new to be classic, far too weird for the norm, too itself to be anything else. A learning curve in the joys of how far left an idea can go.

Honestly | Viscerally | Sublime | Detroit

Exploratory is the only way to categorise the extent of the sound library you’re subjected to. Anchored by their own releases, artists such as Plaslaiko, Mike Servito, Erika, Patrick Russell, Eris Drew, and BMG guided NWB past the troposphere. The label seeks to fuse the futuristic and the cathartic with an open mind. Their poster-boy track, The True Story of Detroit Groove, by Plaslaiko and BMG menaces and glares right through a listener with its resonant creepiness. Ditching the sheen of the traditional techno tale of Detroit, what arrives is ugly wonkiness that keeps you upright at an angle, attentive but uncomfortable. Chromed Out from Ectomorph plays with both light ideas and forward momentum, contrasting against a precipice of the unknown and unfamiliar. Released post-my journey but as relevant as ever, Eris Drew’s Fluids of Emotion arrived in 2020. Almost immediately, Transcendental Access Point positioned itself as a classic of modern uplifting house. Bright keys radiate exuberance and joy that fills a listener with a rising delight that can’t be contained. Complemented with a sample from ethnobotanist Kathleen Harrison speaking about her first experiences with DMT from the cult classic DMT: The Spirit Molecule. This is quintessential Eris Drew, the bigger, wider feelings of zest, glee and effervescence compiled into six minutes with an appropriate nod to psychedelics.

That night spun into a mesh of orange, purple and blue hues. Tracks floated in and out of focus. The ominous roll and break of KGIV - Regulatory Capture cascades above me. The glints and whirs of DJ Red-Moon seduce and enchant the air around me. Soul Oddity - DJ Tokyo plays with the fabric of my reality. My legs don’t work. Something satisfying and appropriate lies in this loss of functionality.

As the sun rises, NWB spills out into the garden of Tangent Gallery. Time in the microclimate, while enthralling, makes you yearn for an equaliser, which comes thankfully in the form of the morning heat. The reopening of the bar calls for ice-cold waters to suit the occasion, and I become entrapped in a conversation. “These people are disgusting, selling water!? It’s a human right, they should be giving it to you for free!” he rants. At that moment, my memory is unable to pinpoint whether, at any point over the past week, I have seen complimentary water anywhere. I wonder why I’m allowing myself to go down this path of no results. Speech patterns of early morning outbursts are only relevant to those from whom they came. I retreat to the shade and allow the heaviness of the weekend to begin to cascade. Now is definitely the time to pull the plug.

I drift in and out of sleep while a whole diurnal transition occurs outside my window. The type of sleep when your body has no idea whether it’s coming or going. Coincidentally, the festival ends on a Monday, so I still haven’t missed my weekly ritual. A 40-minute shower with a mind full of squeaky electro and blown-out fuse ends. The night before gave everything but in turn took my lot. But less of that is important right now.

The cleanest items of clothing are paired together, and one heavy foot is put in front of the other. There’s only one solution to this conundrum, DJ Nobu. Crystal momentum heaves around the concrete bunker for the last time. Nobu’s Ichimaru creates a hypnotic centre point to gaze into, soothing the tired but attentive crowd. Weary two steps fill the dancefloor as I watch from the top level, nursing an oversized beer. The uninviting taste of Coors Banquet mimics the level of enthusiasm I currently hold. Attempting to peel off this Oscar the Grouch mentality I’ve earned myself, an obvious but correct choice has to be made. Floorplan.

Lack of sleep, extremities of sound, and new and strange places mix into a unique feeling that’s hard to pinpoint yet familiar to many. The merging of melancholy, sentimentality and exhaustion subsides as an emotional clusterfuck pushed to its peak through the high keys, upbeat sheen, and all-around heart-warming cheesiness of Floorplan. Confess lights up whatever I have left inside me, the temperate night air balances my inner regulation, and the performance puts an appropriate full stop to this marathon. Sleep arrives easier than ever on my final night in Detroit.

2019, unbeknownst at the time, became our reference point for the last normal before the pandemic. Blissful ignorance rested on that weekend, with no insight into what was unfortunately around the corner. The yearning for the patterns of those weekends only occurs because it can’t happen like that again. Despite intentions, you can’t shake off the new normal that has existed in electronic music post-reopening. A feeling elevated by the commercialisation that cemented itself in 2019, along with a sense of loss from a world event that is too big to break down. A visit to where this all started, while standing on the ledge of change, in hindsight, is a right place at the right time decision. In May 2019, it was simply a typical decision. The remainder of my time in New York was filled with Unter, Nowadays 24/7, Basement, Jack Dept, and not appreciating what I had until the floor collapsed in on itself in March 2020.

We’re always searching for insight in reflection. On the surface, not much has changed. Journeys to dancefloors elsewhere will continue as long as I feel the pull. The impact clearly lingers. I’m writing about this seven years later to attempt to understand a long passage of time that moved in the blink of an eye. Repetitive behaviour patterns seek comfort and predictability. This weekend removed both. The source of what we seek can never be close to the norm.

No Way Back resident and Detroit native Carlos Souffront self-references:

I am very much an outsider and always have been. I like what I like, do what I do, roll with the freaks I’ve always rolled with, and ignore most everything.

If a person is a product of their environment, then the essence of these words was felt throughout the big and small experiences of my brief time in the city. Detroit is unabashedly itself. Tight-knit, unflinching, and focused on its own agenda. While the scene cycles onward outside the Midwest, they persevere inward for preservation. History, while relevant, is not the only structural support these parties use. Innovation and their own way of expression feed a beast that’s not easily experienced. Complex beauty, otherworldliness, and experiences that linger are at home in the birthplace of techno.

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Fast output for the sake of momentary attention steals the ability for a piece of work to truly become. In the same lane, our ability to connect with what’s in front of us is erased when the brain is screaming out for what’s next. The grass is greener syndrome for the next piece of “content” prevents us from being where we’re supposed to be, the present. Coerced and seduced by comfort means we want what’s good yesterday. Listening patterns of brief engagement before something clicks internally damage our relationship with the genre. Greed for immediacy will only give you theory and shiny objects. The depth of the expanse, the height of appreciation and the thoroughness of understanding stand to disappear unless we choose to slow down and look deeper. The exhaustion and 250mph feel of current existence doesn’t have to be what you subject yourself to. While we may feel inclined to go with the flow, the decision to halt, remove, and recalibrate is still very much ours to make.

My personal rants aside, easing to a gradual halt through sound works wonders. Reservation, somberness and hesitant cascades of textures exist within techno and deservedly so. It’s not always peaking at 4 am. If it were well, we’d never get any sleep. Looking back on 2025, a steady stream of releases has been lulling listeners into caressing sound blankets of gentle movement and persuasion. Previously mentioned Louis The 4th explores this in his alias erahcli. Gentle clamber and growth wash through “the nocturnal rites”, rising and disappearing into the atmosphere like wafts of smoke. Visually pulling naturalistic imagery and doubling down with bird call-like synth looping consistently throughout, what’s presented is transportative and calming, with the gentle rise and fall of the rhythm akin to waves of hills transgressing your viewpoint from the backseat of a car on a road trip. Louis is known to go hard and fast, but with this November release and the introductory album in June entitled The Thing, his approach clearly goes deeper than the obvious implications.

Tauceti’s sound has been meshing ambient with techno since she began releasing back in 2020. Guanyin, released on Denovali Records, is a collection of sounds stemming from her interest and love of video game and cinema soundtracks. Audio as narrative is clearly the intent, and as we know, storytelling and journey are something she does well, seen through her recent Monument mix. Beginning with Black Mamba’s hisses and exhumations of a dangerous energy contrasted with angelic orchestral sheets. Harmonising both sides, the brief weight of the temporal dark tones sits in tandem with the delicacy of the celestial choirs so as not to rip apart the moment for the listener.

Orchestral elements continue in Nabatieh as we travel to the Middle East at dusk, where, bathed in the blue and red hue of the environment, wind and violins carry a sentimentality pierced with foreboding. Named after the southern Lebanese city, Tauceti creates aural paintings that momentarily transport the listener into the background of this austere environment.

Tranquillity aside, reserved techno holds a home for the weird and strange, as we can see with Romanian artist Dream Artifact’s contribution to Aedi Records release Noss. IAM curiously slithers into focus with an obtuse-angled take on techno. The monologue running through the track maintains focus while the structure slowly evolves with a jungle-esque theme, layered with synths reminiscent of train horns. These stacked elements, though messy at the introduction, come together in discombobulated strangeness, developing intrigue. Cleanliness and perfection are evidently not the defining points of good and interesting music when we see works like these.

On the opposite end of the scale sits DJ HI-C. Never one to be associated with a lack of bravado. The turntablist and five-time DMC world champion turned techno producer spent 2025 furthering the development of his Kansai-based party MOMENT, and appearing across a string of European and Australian hotspots, including Eerste Communie, Kiosk Radio, Gold Haus, and Breakfast Club. Contained in this grand entrance and actualisation of his presence in techno was the stiff-breathed and full-bodied release Collingwood. Tension is wound and sits on the precipice of a calming expanse. Glued to the immediate present and with all fat and excess trimmed, the reserved quality blossoms with minimal elements used correctly and intently. Rolling and hyper rhythmic techno sets need elements such as these to provide momentary pauses within their journeys, as unfortunately, energy is not infinite and must be approached accordingly. Collingwood provides this rest pause through the round and chic aural aesthetic that defines the dancefloor of unison hip thrusts that has blossomed in popularity since Covid.

Returning to the peculiar Dave Huisman, an artist who tempers dubstep and techno aesthetics to develop a firm personal identity known as A Made Up Sound, returned with his ex_libris project. Beginning with creeks and steps #13-20, a track that weaves from ambience to familiar drum patterns before returning to the strange and cinematic. Operating with a stripped-back but slow ferocity akin to a wound-down comparison of the tin can granularity stylings of old LA Club Resource releases, this track oozes with the energy of scuffed edges, grubby fingernails, and artists rough work margin of a notebook.

Modern pioneers of injecting the sublime into the dancefloor, Barker and Efdemin, both had their opportunity to remind us of the reasons they are so revered with two captivating releases. Stochastic Dynamics In Non-Linear Systems is as much of a mouthful to say as it is a tender expression of delicacy and poignancy. Barker, when he steps away from the grand gestures we’re all familiar with, has this innate ability to tap into the magic of the quiet, still and personal moments dotted throughout the daily lived experience. Something bigger, silent triumphs, personal growth or new perspectives that see beyond the whats in our immediate line of sight. This track speaks volumes through subtlety, drawn from his quintessential sound patterns and synths that, despite continuous alternation throughout his eight releases, fail to grow stale.

Efdemin unfolded his release narrative with Poly, an album that evolves his sound into a new look while remaining recognisable before investigation. Returning as the first solo artist to release on Ostgut Ton since they momentarily retired the label in 2021 was perfectly fitting, given his original presence in Panorama Bar, transitioning to part of the furniture in Berghain. Speaking on Train Wrecks, he expresses passionately his love of quiet music. This yearning for softer textures, subtle expression and the absence of obvious musical elements is stitched throughout his works. It doesn’t have to be bold or brass; it’s honestly and triumphantly him. Irrlicht translates to wandering light, or more commonly known as will o’ the wisp. The track acts accordingly, precious glints and fragments suspended momentarily echo and vanish from earshot. A small snapshot of the supernatural and the maybe of something more drawn out and acknowledged. Perfectly fitting for those of us who choose chance over closure.

These releases bring hesitation through authentic forms.

Don’t forget to stop and admire the view.

There’s an absence that’s contained within the harder variety of modern “rhythmic” techno. Tracks that focus on stripping down techno to its bare elements often arrive boring and empty. In the higher bpm range, the meshing of ignorant-sounding clips feels constrained despite rocketing through the dancefloor untethered and with no purpose. Tonal variation, which can induce intrigue, is replaced by emphasising the tough exterior of the track. The aural cleanliness and high production values we’ve become accustomed to have brought the unfortunate side effect through the notable absence of aural grit. While these tracks are attempting to hammer incessantly, they often feel too smooth to be digested for what they claim to be. Dense high hat arrangements used as a tool often land hollow, sounding flashy and cheap. There’s also the established trend of using music of this variety solely for sets. Treating this sound as the be-all, end-all purpose of the dancefloor results in the energy becoming caught in a loop with no ability to breathe. Sets become banal, acting as one-trick ponies, and grow tiresome quickly. Perhaps seen as a response to the gimmicky, trance-induced bizarro world we all had to endure during Covid, this style digs its heels into short-breathed, stiff clicks, leaving the listener with a headspace akin to standing up too fast upon prolonged exposure.

Stripping tracks down to their bare elements that emphasise the more difficult-sounding structures of the genre is something that has been achieved before. Previous interpretations of the genre have allowed these elements to be understood with the inherent energy and crass gristle that bolsters this type of sound. To view these, we have to go back. The late 90s provide a window into the genre at a young maturity. The sound knows what it wants to do and is actualised, having previously meandered through the complexities of 80s and early 90s Detroit and Berlin. The combination of production techniques that enhance the listening experience due to imperfections and the analogue medium allowed for the development of tracks that ring timeless. The artistic expression still captivates despite all the technological limitations, fused with this feel of diy authenticity often absent from our current lived experience.

The skittishness and jumpy energy that hold Daze Maxim’s Track Tha’ Bitch pierce the air with unease. Released in 1998 on Serial Killers Haircut (SKH), this scratchy and sharp-angled track feels (in the best way possible) incomplete and difficult to digest. Smoothness is cast aside in favour of a take that arrives warts and all for the listener to break down. This is where the authenticity lies. Chaotic energy continually brews, pushing towards overstimulation and cold sweat leaking down the back of your neck.

SKH featured artist Justin Berkovi is an individual whose releases embody a vision of techno that extracts the best from the sound’s capabilities. Mein Nisika is this cute but bizarre release that utilises a soft and almost childlike riff with the coarseness and sharp bursts of crashing complexities. The marriage of two polarising sounds ends with a result of a track that comes with appealing looks but is clearly up to no good.

Chilean artist Cristian Vogel sits upon a library of 70 releases, where a stripped-back style sits front and centre. Vogel’s efforts delved into more experimental aspects of electronic music, but throughout his catalogue, the groundings of techno are never too far away. When highlighting particular releases, you’re spoilt for choice. The mind immediately travels to the likes of The Visit with its static pumping and wheezing, complemented by what sounds like a robotic cow mooing. Or who could forget the Jamie Lidell remix of (Don’t) Take More, a cacophony of chopped vocals that aurally operates like a glitched strobe light. Constantly in your face and relentless. His pièce de résistance from this period was the Absolute Time album, released on Tresor in 1996. The second-to-last track Comes grabs tentative tension and runs with it, holding this incessant drum roll amidst winding sweeps. Funk and minimal merge to create this see-saw hip shaker that permeates fun as much as movement.

Headroom, the brainchild of Patrick Skoog, Aon Flux and Henrik Larsson, went into an overdrive of releases during 1999. Hidden in a year that saw them release 10 records lies Moldavia. Arriving with deep asthmatic breaths that ruminate around a loop that sits somewhere between a mechanical and vocal sample. This one is short, sweet and to the point with its chaotic warning sounds of magnitude ricocheting throughout.

As we’ve moved into the present, this style has slowly evaporated from dancefloors, becoming a distant memory existing only in YouTube playlists and soundtracking strangers’ kitchens at 7 am. Some circulation is kept through individuals like Neil Landstrumm with re-releases. Originally arriving in 1995, Basic Bull Man, a stair-climbing, incessant vocal winder, bounced back in 2017 on Scandanavia Works. Landstrumm’s current releases have diverted away from this sound in favour of a style that emphasises his interest in grime and bass music, with releases on Swamp 81 and Sneaker Social Club.

The appeal of these sounds not only lies in the feel and musical structure of these sounds but also in the nostalgia factor. The sound capsule of late 90s techno is a window into a culturally idealised version of the genre. The idea of an underground still exists, and it’s bolstered by the cultural optimism of this point in time. Only a limited amount of this music exists in comparison to the never-ending stream of releases we are surrounded with daily. This makes it easier for us to comprehend and break down. Marie Montexier on Train Wrecks with Dustin Zahn highlighted

“Old tracks last longer in my sets, maybe because they’re produced in a different way, they are more timeless. Everything nowadays is produced really short and with a lot of stuff happening, and everything is so clean and so well produced, something is missing that I’ve found time to time back in old music”

Granularly breaking down this absence is a mountain to climb that I’m not even sure the words exist for yet. That unknown feeling formula of just the right balance of emotion and mood that creates the genre’s magic. If you can’t perceive it, you won’t get it. When its absence becomes apparent, it’s nearly impossible to ignore.

We clearly don’t want to escape the 90s. We insist on highlighting it through online media. The 90s Techno Instagram, Reddit posts of one person’s pursuit to listen to every single techno release from the 90s, and articles like the one I’ve just written, rejuvenate our inherent obsession to the point of cliché. But this is understandable. Present-day fatigue with certain expressions of the genre, melded with a nostalgic longing for a period of time that has ended, leads us to constantly revisit what makes us happy. The cultural nostalgia loop, despite promoting knowledge of the history of the genre, has the ability to stop the genre from creatively moving forward. Reiterations are essential to fully explore the genre’s capabilities, but our acceptance of these hits a metaphorical wall when we are surrounded by simulacra techno or techno that just doesn’t demand re-listening. The cultural authenticity of the music does not shine as brightly due to the corporate platforms on which we consume it. We are evidently stuck.

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Anonymity has been intertwined with electronic music on and off stage. Releasing records through anonymous white labels created a loophole to avoid paying for the rights to sample. Subsequently, this created a mythology and excitement in the early years of the genre that’s rarely seen nowadays. The peak of the 2000s file-sharing craze was marked by anonymous jungle and dubplate tracks doing the rounds over P2P services in the same attempts to avoid copyright infringement consequences. Producers such as Burial's anonymity embolden the mythological aura that surrounds him. His enigmatic identity is as relevant as his music, as he has contributed some of the most important releases to the culture, yet has avoided the highs and lows of fame.

Techno is a genre that is generally absent of human signifiers. Lack of obvious human traces allows it to be the ideal outlet for anonymity and facelessness. While true anonymity as described above is hard to find, what we are most familiar with are artists who operate in balaclavas and masks. The connotations and stark change to the norm that a piece of fabric can have on the dancefloor and individual is extremely noticeable. When the personality departs, the idea or character takes over, and the performance elevates into both a visual and sonic experience. In this article, I wanted to explore their stylistic choices, their reasoning behind it and how it's gone on to shape their progression and our understanding of them.

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Altern-8

Mark Archer and Chris Peats' quintessential early 90s rave act, Altern-8, defined the integration of the UK rave scene into the British musical psyche. Beginning in warehouses and continuing onto large chart music platforms such as Top of the Pops, their large and loud presence became a firm favourite of the underground and impossible to ignore by the BBC. With a sound that developed from Detroit pioneers such as Kevin Saunderson and Derrick May while pulling at inspirations closer to home, such as 808 State, they created an atmosphere of highly eclectic shows, trademarked with soft breaks, dry internet dial-up sounding synths leading into screeching, sometimes abrasive warehouse anthems. Altern-8 is fun, over-the-top, brass UK dance entertainment. Their current sets ooze with nostalgia and act as a brief window into an idealised version of dance music that the new can glimpse into and the old can revisit their past lives. Marked by their appearance of repurposed RAF, NBC chemical warfare suits (originally borrowed from Archer's brother) and painters' masks that began in bright yellow and moved to classic raver highlighter yellow. This look became the character of the music. As Archer states

“It became synonymous with us. People don’t even think of Altern 8 as people. You can be hanging round with someone you know and you put the suit on and come back in the room, and they’re like, ‘Fucking hell, it’s you’. It’s like you’re a different person.”

By removing their own identity and becoming characters that populated their shows, they mirrored and represented the carefree, fun for the sake of fun escapism and sillyness that is in the very heart of the Pontins and Butlins brigades. This sound didn’t need a personal representative; it needed a symbol, and the yellow painters mask embellished with an A (none too far away from the classic yellow raver smiley) encapsulated this perfectly.

Underground Resistance

The guerrilla-styled and pioneering Detroit techno collective of Jeff Mills, Mad Mike Banks and Robert Hood is one that few are unfamiliar with in the genre. The iconic collective holds a metaphorical weight of history, techno education, and the belief in the genre to be far more than hedonistic escape music. UR’s has set about building sonic techno communities outside of the mainstream understanding of the culture. This was done by building an exploratory and gritty sound that stood apart from the soft and graceful nature of songs such as “Strings of Life” and the funk-induced robotism of “No UFOs”. Against the backdrop of the Regan era politics of the time, UR wished to inspire self-reflectiveness and thinking patterns away from what was the cultural norm. Surrounded by an almost perfect case study of the extremes of capitalist failings, they sought to uplift African American identities with an alternative path for expression.

UR’s visual expression became synonymous with their ideology. The group progressed towards a minimalistic all black look that featured bandanas used as facemasks. This was done in a staunchly militant style that pulled inspiration from hip hop acts like Public Enemy and X-Clan, as well as funk groups like Parliament and Funkadelic. Visual unity that removed the individual and personal ego from members allowed an openness to the music and the opportunity for attendees to create their interpretation of the collective. The sound and idea were always held to a higher status than any one member. They created with the belief that their own identities were irrelevant to the concept of UR. Radical actions like this were far more plausible back then than they are now. Operating in the public sphere, while absent from your personal identity, is close to impossible these days, bar the noted few. The success of any group or individual will demand further information from the public, who develop a fascination with the lack of information. Mills and Hood went on to become the most successful artists from this point in time for techno, whose recognisability extends beyond the scene. Despite this, their artistic endeavours will always tie back to UR’s efforts in music integrity.

Headless Horseman

As far as hard techno mysticism goes, Headless Horseman's output is one to be acknowledged and highly regarded. Created by Bill Youngman as an outlet for his darker live sets, the Headless Horseman sound can be described as a vast and considered exploratory journey through the heavier shades of electronic music. Youngman's work outside of this alias drips with a different sort of intuitive creativeness, with cartoonish breaky electro reminiscent of Cristian Vogel. His technical skill with live sets is outstanding due to his seamless connection and knowledge of his setup. He moves eloquently from synthesiser to modular, traversing BPMs and sound types, climbing out of atmospheric hard techno synths hung on punching drums into graceful IDM-esque drum patterns with a smoothness not so commonly found in the lineups he appears on.

Youngman has previously stated his intentions by incorporating the mask into this project. After going through a difficult time in his life, featuring a break-up and the frustration felt with a job reaching a dead-end, he began pouring the negative energy into a project, which he hoped would result in something positive. Due to depression and not feeling connected with who he was, he chose to hide himself as he sought to rebuild a sense of identity through different means. This has certainly been achieved. Visually, his mask is unique, drawing historical inspiration from veils familiar to the Christian, Muslim and Jewish faiths. With an added bonus of apparent practicality for performances, keeping the hanging threads away from his face held by a cap's brim length, leaving room for airflow and increased visibility during his live sets.

While developing a character that leans so heavily to the dark and heavier tones of the genre, you risk being written off as cringeworthy or being seen as a gimmick. Headless Horseman negates these challenges by his level of skill and the inherent appeal of the character. His mask creates an honestly nightmarish feel to it. The cascading strings and vortex-like feel to this appearance can become uncomfortable to stare into especially when he plays out. The emptiness within the blackness thankfully draws your attention to his hands, revealing years of craftsmanship composited into tiny but impactful movements.

DJ Stingray

If UR were the pioneers, DJ Stingray is the leader of the climax community. An artist whose talent was developed by some of the leading figures of the Detroit scene, he can be seen as a modern amalgamation of the sounds of the city and the possibilities of electronic music as a whole. Taught to DJ by Kenny Dixon Jr., mentored and christened by James Stinson of Drexiya (Stingray eventually went on to appear as Mystic Tribe Ai with The Other People Place), Stingray 313 composites the knowledge of the past, presenting it with modern-day grandiose and flair. His sound stacks off-kilter electro, complex and delicate synths, and dashes of 4x4 kicks glueing the whole thing together. As iconic as the sound became, Stingray's look, which melded classic American fashion, such as baseball jerseys, bomber jackets, and sportswear, with the ski mask, branded his sound with an identity.

Carrying the tradition from UR and Scan 7, Stingray began with a bandanna and eventually moved on to the ski mask, taking a more comfortable and breathable approach to anonymity. While less guerrilla-styled and informed than previously seen, he uses it to infuse a layer of mystery and suspense into his character. He operates as a proponent of futuristic music. By acting as a faceless guide to themes of science fiction and underwater musical topographies, it emboldens the otherworldly feel to these sets.

Despite the faceless persona, he distinguishes himself from his predecessors by not shying away from the public spotlight. His real identity as Sherard Ingram isn’t so much a secret, and he has engaged in far more promotional material than the likes of Banks or Stinson. What’s wonderful to note here is the contrast between his verbal communication and the output on stage. With his soft midwestern accent acting as evidence of the connection to the source, Ingram speaks thoughtfully and carefully about the scientifically informed process that comes to creating his music, the passion and love for Detroit, and his understanding of the role he’s played in one of the most important parts of electronic music culture. He’s hit this sweet spot where his on-stage identity and personality have the ability to coexist in the public sphere.

Louis The 4th

By looking at these examples, it might appear that incorporating anonymity is a stylistic choice from an older generation. In general, there is a truth to that. The majority of modern artists and DJs place their selves into the artistic output where their stage name becomes part of who we understand them to be. Artists such as Louis the Fourth prove this trend hasn’t come to an end. Appearing frequently at FVTVR and KALT, Louis’ sound traverses between smooth and liquid hipshakers to crunching and complex textures in a skilful turntabalist balancing act. His sets and tracks pay attention to both elements, casting a wide net in terms of tonal exploration. With fresh and purposeful character, his quick rise over the past three years has been a breath of fresh air to the European circuit.

Louis’ visual presentation is carefully orchestrated. Like the many who came before, he chooses to hide his face with the intent of redirecting the audience's attention to the dancefloor. Bringing the facemask into the modern sense, he presents it as a black t-shirt wrapped into a balaclava. This sight is not unfamiliar to audiences as increased political tensions have allowed this look to become more entwined into the public consciousness. With his French background, there's at least a geographical relation to the potential inspiration. Despite where the look may or may not have come from, it's clear it's breathing new life into something we’ve seen before. He’s clever in his outward communication. It’s honed and with a clear intention to stand for something more than just a guy in a balaclava that mixes well. The use of slogan t-shirts articulates a message, “Bad Times For Good Music”. This short and sweet statement sums up an array of complex feelings that many hold about a scene and genre that is struggling under the weight of its popularity.

Using anonymity bolsters this message. There's something about hearing a bigger idea from a faceless source and communicated through clothing that propagates more than if you heard it through the regular channels. Branding himself with his message shows the steadfast belief, and the faceless source allows the ability to say the quiet part the loudest. I look forward to seeing how he plays this out over the coming years, as this energy is not leaving anytime soon.

So what exactly do I mean by attitude? To me, it was this blend of investment, nonchalance, coolness, and standing simultaneously aloof and within it. Seemingly contradictory on paper, in reality, these attributes sit tightly beside each other as the building blocks for the way people want to carry themselves at the party. Yes, inside you do care, and you will express that through movement; however, you don’t want to give all that away from the get-go. It’s self-invested and a primarily individualistic way of being. It can be amplified through association with like-minded people, but if you lack it to begin with, you're not going to have much fun attempting to be propped up by people on their own mission. Attitude is selective; it's weakened through overexposure and thus shields itself from wasting energy through words and time on those it deems unworthy. Simultaneously, mean, playful, bold, and rude, it becomes this invisible force to be reckoned with. Of course, it's somewhat attention-seeking. It thrives from glances that linger for seconds too long. Ironically, it's also used as a defence mechanism, a signal outwards that an individual does not want to be bothered and to stay back.

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This way of being is complicated for some to grasp initially. It's a sentiment that's expressed by many taking their first journeys to any of the bigger scenes, Berlin, New York, London, or Paris. Time after time, the story repeats itself where people are shocked and horrified that when they finally cross the threshold of Berghain, Bossa, Corsica, or FVTVR, it's not all rainbows and sunshine. This, of course, does have a link to the major cities these spaces exist in. Arriving at any of the big four is going to be very difficult, whether you like staying up in dark rooms all night or not. Tempers are shorter, words are harsher, and attitude isn’t only a currency with value inside the club. While it is where you may think you want to be, be aware it isn’t simply as described. The unrealistic and bizarre expectation that this world is an inviting and warm space where everyone sits around amplifying each other's being and is just waiting around for you to turn up is not based on any rationality. The dancefloor and the scene are constantly stuck in a state of chaotic perpetual motion propelled by complex individuals with mixed intentions. It’s a world of extremes, and within that world, people will not always be kind to you at a time that suits your needs. It’s tough, these are not artificially pleasant spaces where all the jagged edges of the nighttime experience are sanded down to something you can’t hurt yourself on. I’m not against it. All I wanted was something real. Something brutally honest, something that's not going to smile and lie to my face.

I’m fond of Nastia Reigel's words on the Home of Sound podcast

“I love the feeling when you hear the track and somehow it turns on the feeling, that you feel cool”.

Simply put, yet extremely true. We all want to feel cool, and it's easier than usual listening to music that lights this spark. Yes, of course, this sounds a bit corny (seven-year-old me is screaming you're not supposed to say you're cool), but when it arrives, you can’t help but lean into it. Cool is a bizarre concept, the desire of many yet to say it's your objective loses your ability to achieve it. When I was younger, I wasn’t cool, but I certainly wanted to be. When I got older, I didn’t understand what being cool meant anymore or if I wanted to be a part of it. My association with techno culture presented to me a certain perception of what cool is, primarily in the visual aspect. We’re all familiar with sunglasses, all black, mesh tops and the glazed look of dissatisfaction. While that’s an idea of representation, it never really articulated the feeling for me. An aura of coolness on the dancefloor meshes together the worlds of the physical and audio into a symbiosis. When the bounce in the kick is within you and outside you, and you're simply gone with it. On the back of sequential rhythms in dark spaces, I get to experience the idea of feeling that my younger self was dying to be a part of. Is that exact feeling my younger self was after? No, definitely not in fact it's probably better (lucky me). It's the self-engrossed version of myself that's pulling at the attributes I understand to be cool, of confidence, wildness, and dancing without an iota of a care how anyone perceives me. It’s bliss. A brief window of self-absorption, located in the correct environment that hits just right.

Attitude is something learned through association. It’s a behaviour trait that's the object of desire, for many, to appear in the same light as they perceive others around them. Of course, we all want to belong, but what exactly to? The cross section of the modern day content production society and techno has resulted in an ever-increasing amount of dance move videos that teach people how to express themselves to 4x4 rhythms is one of the most truly bizarre phenomena that has reared its head in the last few years. There’s nothing wrong with dancing in any way you perceive to be preferential to yourself. The point is that you move, not how you move. That includes this style of dancing that has become a stereotypical understanding of the way people dance to techno. While, of course, there is space in the room for this type of expression (it doesn’t fill you with joy, but as internet trends go there's worse stuff out there), what’s bizarre is the implication that derives from these videos and further attendance is that you should be moving like this. Techno isn’t voguing, it never was. Dancing was never supposed to be structured into a harmonious room filled with hundreds of people doing the modern-day interpretation of the Macarena. There's something inherently off with it, almost uncanny valley or surreal to witness. The collective assimilation creates an atmosphere devoid of the intricacies of difference that a dance floor can hold, where individuals of variety slot neatly beside each other like oddly shaped jigsaw pieces, creating a sparse picture. When movement is too clean-cut, it simply lacks the realness and honesty that the space is capable of.

Attitude, in its most primal form, can come off as aggressive. The aggression stems from self-preservationism of a feeling. You don’t want to be disturbed when you're in this mode. Yes, you may be in a room with hundreds, if not thousands, of others, but that's not the point. For this moment, it is simply just you. It’d be too easy to just label this as narcissistic and be done with. Yes, I suppose it does have those connotations, but with the knowledge that we are selfish creatures who gather in a room and take substances that directly promote self-serving tendencies, we can understand that the attitude radiated to at least to be candid. It’s physically described with movement of popping hips, flared hands, and a syncopated chest. Protective of this momentary way of being, we don't want to give up what we have. Most of us spend our weeks not feeling excellent due to our individual circumstances of difficulty. Then, along comes this brief window where, for a short time, none of that is relevant. The worse things get outside, the more important that moment becomes, and you can rest assured it's not going to be stolen away by frivolous nonsense.

Pre-COVID, the reactions I’d watch people create disturbing those dancing through bumping into them or worse, talking in their vicinity would often times be so mortifyingly intense it would leave you wondering if they’d leave some sort of lasting scar. This sentiment was sufficiently articulated by U.S.A duo Scraaatch when they dropped Don’t Talk To Me back in 2019, where the lyrics and screaming whistle seemingly emulated the look of disgust on a person's face who’s been taken out of their immersion in the dancefloor by something they deem irrelevant. While it’s not like this aspect of the dancefloor is gone, it definitely feels like it's gotten quieter since reopening. The hard line in the sand has faded, and there are maybe not as many fanatics who are so quick to dissect your infractions. You’d miss them, the self-righteousness bursting out to the background of slamming kicks and the slowly sinking realisation of someone who knew they messed up rarely got old. Almost like a strange rite of passage, if done for any positive reasons, it encouraged people to keep the dancefloor for dancing only.

In summer 2022, as the dust had settled on the post-COVID dancefloors and we were investing ourselves with an intent ignorance for the past and obsessiveness for the present, a significantly relevant track was released on Kaos. You Should Go Out Of My Space by Spanish artist Not A Headliner, managed to capture exactly the feeling of the complete expulsion of frustration, malice, and dissatisfaction with everything that had been normalised in the world at that point. The composite of the punchiest and cleanest claps that fire like photographers' flashes, settled on top of this shuffling groove at 145 and narrated by this monotone, couldn’t care less vocal simultaneously spoke to the crowd and for them by exemplifying something deeply personal within the psyche of the time.

“Time to time, I say it’s my day, something worse, we’ll be ok”

“You know what I live to play with the attitudes written by everyone else”

“You should go out of my space, that's my time, I don’t wish to stay here”

The lyrics stare you down with a piercing discontent, lazily disregarding others around them. It’s atmospherically reminiscent of those parties that continue further and further, and the vibe begins to sink towards an entirely self-centred mode of being. The atmosphere doesn’t shout fuck off I want to dance, it simply screams fuck off. This is attitude at its most outlandish, unadulterated rudeness and dislike towards everything around it. Is it justified? Probably not. Is it honest? Yes. I’ve stated before that the party is the whole human psyche. The good must exist beside the negative. The timing of the release of the track is highly relevant; our self-imposed box of repression had been dismantled, and what was left was simply the individual. Justified with a sound that nods towards questions and dissonance rather than unity and a happy-go-lucky way of partying, set the foundations for what's currently surrounding us.

The atmospheric shift on dancefloors that has occurred over the last five years is characterised by attitude. An attitude that does not follow any rules of the past, and self-confidently seeks its own pleasure within the walls of the party, tearing apart anything it deems irrelevant. While I’m not going to lie and say I’m not somewhat impressed by confidence that knows no limits, it’s evidently exhausting to be in the presence of it constantly. This is attitude that doesn’t care, it's not aloof, it bores down on you and makes you want to suffer to allow its presence to exist. Instead of protective, it's antagonistic. It enters and rearranges the room to suit its needs despite the shouts of protest around it. It’s somehow like your childhood bully managed to find out where you go to escape their torment and is now making it their only mission to destroy this space. This attitude exists due to several factors occurring simultaneously. The changing of preferred substance types and consumption habits, the explosion of popularity of a genre that has attempted to situate itself away from extreme popularity, an introduction of a large number of people who are unfamiliar with the unspoken rules of the dancefloor (age is not a factor here), and the hyper narcissism that plagues society due to the self absorbed digital age we live in. Each of these nails in the coffin permeates the space and deconstructs what many understood it to mean.

Is this the end of it all? Well, no. Some would have you believe that due to their frustrations with the change space, we are now entering some new age where this is all we can expect forever. Like every point of hysteria and rise of complex emotions like frustration, sometimes it's best to take stock and do a brief reality check on what's happening. First, it needs to be understood that the modern extremity of attitude that I’ve just described has always existed in club spaces. Through the digestion of online discourse, you’d be forgiven for thinking that before Covid, we lived in a world where every Sunday we all went to Panorama Bar, held hands, listened to Pachanga Boys Time and talked about the progress we were making with self-improvement. It was thankfully never like that (except maybe in a villa afterparty in the Balearics), the meanness, rudeness, chaos, and artificial hierarchies were always there. They are not the most positive attributes, but they are very real ones and do, whether you like it or not, have a right to be there. These are all now magnified due to the collection of world events we are currently going through. They’re louder than before and come with a new sense of self-assuredness that doesn’t seem to have an off switch, which makes it harder to deal with than before. However, like nearly every emotion or period in life, this is simply temporary. What has come to be will soon pass. Genres and scenes are cyclical. There is a natural rise and fall to all of this that will run its course. We can see this trying to be forced with the calls for dub techno to fill the dancefloor. These are the same calls for the pacification of the space. A hope that the monotonous layered textures of Basic Channel, Deepchord, and Monolake can smother the chaos people perceive and shift into something less self-absorbed. With cheap focuses of attention, be aware that the faces you see beside you today will not be the same ones next week. Techno has and always will form an orderly queue to exit when things become tough.

Published in 1999, French cultural theorist Paul Virilios's book Polar Inertia presented the concept that progress is conservation. What does that mean? Without expanding too much on his theories, it simply states that having the ability to be at rest is the progress we have achieved. No longer does back-breaking labour define how far human progress has come (well, at least for the lucky), it’s what we can do while sitting comfortably on a chair in the office that illustrates how much we have achieved. Eleven years after the publication of this work, we are introduced to the music of Polar Inertia. Initially developed by Luc Kheradamand, also known as Voiski, Polar Inertia now combines the work of multiple anonymous artists into a multi-faceted approach towards techno, imagery, and the live sonic experience. To describe this as simply a live techno project would be to diminish the spectacle and magnificence that surrounds their music. It’s much bigger than that. The name association with Virilios work may be purely for aesthetic purposes. In the interview below, they state how searching for a name brought them to this concept, which led to the first development of the Artic exploring imagery that has surrounded their releases from the beginning. You can see further associations tying them to the book as the chapter titles appear as the names for their collection of releases.

While the name sits between a reference and something of clear aesthetic inspiration, we can also understand inertia to be intrinsically linked to techno. Defined as to exist in rest or move in a straight line unless changed by an external force, we see this concept in every loop where patterns lean towards continuation unless acted upon. Beginning with their original release Indirect Light with the very first track Black Sun, we’re presented with this subtle and delicate journey made thematically relevant with the noise of cool and icy winds at the beginning that travel towards riveted kicks which echo the sound metal clanging at a high frequency. It comes to an appropriate ending of echoes ricocheting and sparking off each other in an echo-filled tunnel with lashings of dread and forewarnings of complexity to come. Revisiting this style after all the years that have passed is unbelievably satisfying, while Polar Inertia will always hold a nostalgic element to me (2012 / 2013 are the years I find myself beginning to fully immerse myself in “real” techno) there’s also the understanding that this utterly fantastic music even while wearing rose-tinted specs. They entice you in with their condensed energy that gradually expands, never sounding like it's just looping, each cycle relevant to the journey. Their sound was always meditative and simultaneously something you could go off to a combination of polarising elements working together creating something utterly brilliant and cinematic. This sound combined complexity and psychedelic noise with ethereal and emotional songwriting, stylistically arriving in waves, wrapping the listener in each story and never cutting to the chase. What was built in Ligovskoï - Lethe (Polar Inertia Remix) begins in a static haze steadfastly moving forward into this almost guiding light sound, a track that is constantly building and simultaneously peaking with such calibre that at points it almost becomes overstimulating to listen to with its force and tension carried underneath by a quintessential popping kickdrum. Layered within this creation are the fine details of mechanical squall and futuristic whirs, decorating the spectacle with further intrigue.

Their artistic and visual stylings helped Polar Inertia solidify their presence with a strong identity from the get-go. The visual aspect was just as important as their sound, and they chose to emphasise this by exhibiting in the Abiline Gallery located in Brussels. This was not their only outing as their work was also featured in Nuit Blanche in Paris and as part of Scenario 12 21 in Tblisi. These exhibitions combined photography, pixelated printing, and text, developing a story that juxtaposes the interaction of man with nature. Questions are left unanswered, and there's this vastness to the imagery that makes you feel small. Not in a humiliating way, just more of an understanding of the truly incomprehensible endlessness of the environment they situate themselves in. In a sense, it's almost Lovecraftian, two solitary figures alone against the backdrop of a never-ending winter desert mixed with a foreboding that something isn’t right. Interlinked with all of this is human and mechanisation representation through pylons, robots, cityscapes, filing cabinets, and, of course, Berghain. It’s a very fleshed-out approach to creating an identity than the techno landscape is used to. While we are familiar with projects based on identity (SNTS, RRose, Prince of Denmark), this goes a whole lot further, building a type of science fiction tale around their presence. The imagery sits well with it; their use of photography adds a realism to this story and thankfully is a step away from the large amount of subpar digital art that fills the visual spectrum of the genre.

Using the visual identity as an anchor, their releases regularly featured short tracks filled with monologues, such as Indirect Light and The Last Vehicle, which directly brought the storytelling into their releases. Indirect Light builds a suspenseful tale of a research assistant working in a lab conducting experiments on “Polar Children” test subjects. The narrator speaks of the relationship they develop with these test subjects and nods are given to the harmful impact unfolding due to the research process. The narrator explains how he helped free them and escape into the unknown, abandoning his life of perceived progress for a new way of thinking. Ending with a simply sublime quote;

“It’s under a shadow of obscurity that humans grow, through pain and times of doubt their greatness revealed. When all is magnificent and shining, humans lose sight. By the fall of night, true nature manifests when all is stripped down to its raw essence. We will bring about the ultimate obscurity, we will present this indirect light….. Those were the words of the Polar Children as we began our journey.”

This cliffhanger is the perfect way to enter their work, setting the scene before you're whisked away into their textured sounds and was utilised as an intro during their live performances. The Last Vehicle picks right up where it left off, taking us back to the first time the narrator became aware of the concept of the “Polar Children” and how he was introduced to the idea of two seemingly separate individuals having connected minds. This time, the story alludes to the chaotic nature of the subjects and the danger surrounding their journey to the North Pole. Using inspiration from the wide selection of media of children with telekinetic powers and reimagining it through techno is a brave choice, but one they have executed extremely well.

The tracks Major Axis and Parallel Transport can be seen as the group's defining work. Featured on their second release, both of these pieces are uniquely memorable and still stand out strongly if heard on a dance floor. Major Axis plays on its name with a creaking and looping radar sound acting as a pendulum hypnotising you further into complete movements. It's full-bodied and deep with heightened pressure throughout and phenomenally paired with monstrous echoes blasting through caverns. It follows Last Vehicle and articulates the fear and mysteriousness we’ve just had narrated to us. Parallel Transport is surely their tour de force. Pulsating and oozing with intrigue and jaw-dropping awe, the throbbing nature of its essence succumbs dancefloors into transfixion. It’s so large and guiding, almost sounding like some natural force that can’t be contained any longer. Conjuring up images of avalanches and ice fall, there's this monumental power built into it that's so captivating to listen to. In their archetypal style, each second of the listening experience is fleshed out with a richness to the sound brought to life with eloquent and expressive brushstrokes in the production process.

What’s interesting about this is how relatively small this sound stayed. Despite the clear cult following and obsessiveness surrounding Polar Intertia (and justifiably so, given their releases), this style and energy sit on their shoulders. We do see other iterations of this sound through artists such as RRose, Abdulla Rashim and, in a more recent sense Evigt Morker and Fabrizio Lapiana. While these are all well-established artists in their field, what is absent is fanatical popularity. Unlike Hardgroove, New Tribal, and the resurgence of Vocal House, we don’t see the same shift in the culture towards this trend. Maybe this is a good thing, depending on your preference. Small doses are valued more than excess, and if anything, it adds to the mysterious nature and intrigue behind the artists and the sound. This concept is explored in Thomans' latest documentary on the French techno scene between 2013 and 2018 but in particular reference to the sound of Antigone.

They continued forward with Kinematic Optics, their largest release up until that point, arriving in 2015. Stepping away from the world-building and storytelling we’d seen previously, this release concentrated on communication only through music with a collection of songs that triumphed their low-end forward sound. Stand-out pieces include Vertical Ice and Hell Frozen Over, building almost operatic and theatrical-styled techno tinged with melancholy and reverence. It’s at this point that the releases stop. Live performances continued as they continued their presence in Berghain, Bassiani, Reaktor Events, and Fuse. We then begin to see fewer touring appearances as Voiski and other artists involved turned towards other projects; however, the identity of Polar Inertia remained. In February 2024, they reared their head with something new and certainly unexpected. Environment Control arrived with the first track of the same name, dragging us straight back into where we’d left with the Polar Children. I never thought I would be so relieved to hear such a monotone and rugged American accent, but here we were. This has been their biggest venture in versatility, presenting eight tracks that are firmly rooted in the logic of the project but are one hundred percent reaching further with the capabilities of what the sound can do. Tracks such as Smothering Dreams effectively invite the listener to bathe in a pool of smooth distortion and TV static. This push of design follows into Deflection V, which creates a complex web of slick whips in a digital vortex that sit on top of each other just right. The listening experience is complete; the sounds entering and filling the space with aural symmetry are extremely satisfying to listen to. What's noticeable is the change in speed, with Artic Horizon, the jump into 145 BPM along with the characteristic synths gives all the signifiers of trance. While the techno to trance pipeline is a trope many fall into, it doesn’t sit so fittingly here. This is still very much their brand through sound layering and complexity, just dressed like we’ve never seen it before.

Through storytelling, craft, and immersivity built with their sheer raw talent, Polar Inertia has defined itself as a project that at this point is essential listening for anyone who cares not just for techno but for electronic music as a whole. Their start to 2025 has been quiet; we wait and see what comes next.

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Dancing to techno is an independent act that can bring solitude. It’s highly personal, despite the group surroundings we mainly dance by ourselves for a long period rendering us free from our distractions. This on paper doesn’t make the most sense, the venue and the experience are the distraction, right? Well yes and no, the experience is a distraction and escapism from the real world of course, you choose to remove yourself from the social cues of regular existence and dive into a world that doesn’t operate on these norms. But it’s within this experience you remove all the weight of real distractions around you. Phones, screens, timetables, meetings, work, and responsibilities have no place here. Independence from these is liberating if only for a limited window. The main function of these items is to steal your focus. We are all guilty of avoiding complex emotions by pulling out the phone and shoving our heads in the metaphorical sand pit of the 6.5-inch display because it's easy. The power we give these items is removed because we change our environment to one that doesn't tolerate them. Without these as a coping mechanism, the mind is allowed to work as it's supposed to, if anything reignite with the built-up thoughts dwelling in your subconscious just waiting to get out.

Thoughts and reflection operate in a different form on the dancefloor than the experience outside it for example on a walk where you prioritise them. For that experience, the thought process occurs like an inner monologue that talks through a situation or experience. It’s logical to an extent and at least attempts to ponder from all angles to see the full experience. Thinking when it occurs on the dancefloor floats in waves of understanding and imagery that arrive into your mind unannounced but demand recognition for their clarity. This is not talking and teasing your thoughts out to arrive at an answer, this is awareness. From the seemingly mundane to the bigger aspects of our subconscious awareness does not have to have a resolution, it’s simply part of the ongoing nature of self-discovery. All it wants to be is heard. Give it a chance.

One of the most known representations of thinking within a club space shown through music can be found in The Streets, Blinded By The Lights. In the track, Mike Skinner presents his thought processes as they occur over the course of a night out where he over-consumes ecstasy. Skinner's thoughts rush in and leave quickly jumping from one immediacy to the next as he attempts to navigate a night out that doesn’t appear to be going his way. This is echoed through the music with a pristine vocal that’s soft and fragile summarising the vulnerable state he’s created for himself. While the monologue is necessary for the music's styling and to get across the message to the audience, the scatteredness of his mind frame and vividness of the experience is undeniably authentic. This take is melancholic, wrapped in a blanket of 2000’s English nostalgia it paints a messy discombobulated world of overconsumption and escapism. While this is real and resonates with a large audience it’s not every experience. Eris Drew writes of “fleeting moments of freedom” in The Journal of Motherbeat.

What starts as just blackness and sound soon transforms. Psyche comes to the forefront. You might start to think about the past. You might start to process your emotions. Recursive thoughts may fade as the intensity of the subjective moment takes over. You might move through negative feelings or forgive someone. And you might start to see things.

Knowing this is occurring in both yourself and in those around you broadens the understanding of a dancefloor into something far more substantial than a place to take drugs and listen to music.

Seeking separation within the party is a normal aspect of the culture whether to have the ability to think or to simply embrace your surroundings by yourself. Techno of all music has the power to keep a listener engaged with its charm for an excess of an average concert or show without the need to be in a group. Being solitary at other types of live music events is neither a problem either but these performances don’t lend themselves towards a space that can allow someone a space for reflection or pondering. They are spaces for spectacle where observation and undivided attention to the artist are the norm. What has occurred since the rise in popularity of techno music post-Covid and somewhat before has been an increase of visitors whose understanding of a party is so far removed from a space where this can exist that it's chipping away at the foundations that hold the party up. Introvertedness has been going hand in hand with dance music since its inception. It shouldn’t have to fight to exist amongst swarms of people who can’t feel comfortable unless surrounded by groups of friends and extended friends whose only goal is to treat the dancefloor as some sort of social marketplace. This is regular nightclub culture leaking in and leaving stains on everything it touches.

Dancing and rhythm are your two best friends in all of this. I don’t feel I need to speak about the joys of repetitive loops sitting snuggly on top of each other that’s why we're all here (isn’t it?). There’s a warm full-body sensation of being locked into a repetitive set of motions for hours. It’s comfort and ease almost like returning to your house or apartment after a long day in the cold. That sensation from a different perspective can also be attached to a venue. For many people that feeling of home is so special and is the primary reason why people are protective of their parties and spaces to an extreme. Behaviour on dancefloors is a discourse that is never going to end on or offline. We expect people to behave accordingly in a space that has connotations of home. In Mckenzie Warks book Raving she points out the fundamental difference of being on a dancefloor with seasoned veterans versus people who are not as experienced.

You can feel a viscosity when you wind your way through. An inexperienced or drunk crowd will be stiff, unaware of your presence, and hard to navigate. A seasoned crowd is easy to flow through even when densely packed.

This understanding of the space of bodies around you is vital to the experience of dance music, your movement and experience is always on the backfoot until you can navigate properly.

Emotional resonance is accessed through the mind-body connection. We dance in repetitive motions each of us in our own little way. How you move is irrelevant, while I admit that seeing people who have an innate understanding of dance is truly spectacular the movements of someone with little to no rhythm are just as relevant to the space. It’s your experience, not a competition. The premise is still the same for both parties, you will repeat these same movements again and again sometimes on a weekly basis. As these moves become second nature this allows you clarity in your thoughts and feelings. Your body begins to instinctively go about what you know to do, and your cognitive observant mind becomes less relevant over time. Movement is reflective of the way you are feeling deep down inside. These small physical confessions decorate dancefloors with small mostly unobserved acts of honesty. How cute.

Enjoyment and pure bliss should be a shared experience for everyone who regularly attends parties. Friends, good music, exploration, anticipation, and excitement spread out across an extended time frame are the ideal weapons of choice for a night out. We all know those exact parties where this experience is at its peak. Each of them personal for different reasons, it’s something you can look back on with fondness, a memory to keep you warm at night. Joy at parties is taken to a much further height than I have ever experienced outside of the dancefloor. The experience when you think back and reflect on feeling that incredible within this dark, sweaty, complicated space is, to be honest bizarre how a feeling of such a strong nature can be created by something so simple. Drugs of course are going to aid you in the process of getting to this position but it's important to be able to differentiate the feeling of being high from the feeling of alignment and ecstasy that can come with listening to techno. If you fail to differentiate between these you're in for some difficult times.

Pure joy is a larger-than-life experience. It creeps and rises slowly from within gradually opening in time with your moves. Dance music has the unique factor that this feeling can be coaxed out of you over an extended period of time. With the right DJ, the right storytelling and the right space little by little over the hours the feeling builds just waiting for that correct track to kick in. It’s always worth sticking around for. It's never been a thought process with this one, it’s always been a whole-body experience. Narration from your mind would almost tinge the experience, it’s your body doing the talking for you and when it’s time to let it have its moment be sure to shut up. Sublime occurrences like this don’t exist within the everyday. The architecture of our reality doesn’t want you to feel this way. But the club does. While this experience is preferred it also can’t be forced. It has to grace its presence on you when the time is right. It makes sense, joy and ecstasy are emotions that have more value due to scarcity.

One of the peak emotional experiences of techno is the prominence of undulating energy that can appear at certain times to never end. This is going back to being mentally locked into the groove. The speed and tempo of the music will not define how much your character is dialled in. High tempos always gonna promote faster dancing but that's not what I speak about when I’m considering this. How much concentrated energy is simply defined by your engagement with the experience. I suppose on the emotional wheel this feeling is going to sit somewhere between energetic, eagerness and awe. A phenomenal blend of all three this is something you wish you could bottle and take home with you. It’s far more common and certainly more accessible than joy and ecstasy.

I’ve spoken previously about the warped nature of time at techno parties, this experience is the easiest way to render time irrelevant. Attending Takaaki Itoh on the Friday morning of the now-deceased Freqs of Nature festival I experienced a set that although four hours long seemingly sat on the precipices of something that stretched forever and ended in a blink of an eye. Not once did I consider leaving the sun-scorched dusty sandpit of a stage where Itoh's signature style of psychedelically haunting, stretched sounds built an environment that raised two fingers to the calm and sunny weather existing in its own unique bubble of controlled chaos. Despite the lack of sleep from the night before and the baking sun that extracted every bit of hydration from my body I never felt more present. Not a feeling of joy or happiness just one of truly being alive marvelling at the wonders he was launching at the crowd and anticipating what was coming next.

A lot of us feel stifled we feel stuck in terms of our daily energy use as we often find ourselves stuck in a routine that leaves no room for a flow state or the complete release of energy. This oddly has the impact of further laziness on us in a truly awful self-defeating cycle. Yes, I understand that taking some exercise is what you should be doing but the experience of dancing is always going to be better than going to the gym for an hour. This experience is the essence of rawness and complete immersion in the music. It has a wildness to it but not that it’s uncontrollable if anything it's something you’re firmly aware you’re in the driving seat for dialled into the lightning that's coursing through your body. It has to go somewhere and releasing it back out onto the dancefloor is usually the option.

The experience of modern club spaces that lean into bigger events and stereotypical problematic club culture are anti-intuitive towards any type of emotional or mental experience on the dancefloor. It is extremely difficult to be connected to yourself inside what is a large corporate venture. Large crowds, navigation, and a less-than-comfortable dancefloor experience mean you can never truly let yourself go despite the pounding of the sound system. This is less than ideal. It’s strange, numbness is a sensation that guides most people's daily existence. Ironically this numbness can find a place here in the spaces that sell themselves as a place to be alive. Operating almost like a defence mechanism to block out the triviality and annoyance of the whole experience it seems self-defeating to even attend these events unless your only goal is to see an artist listed on the lineup.

Their focus on a bigger is better ethos loses anything of intrinsic value within the party. It’s a pity that for some people depending on where they live these types of events will be their only experience of dance music. They won’t be presented in another way and maybe won't get to have the experience of anything other than the cliche money-grab warehouse party. The idea of dancing while glued to the DJ as if they’re some sort of extension of the screens we surround ourselves with halts the listener connecting on the experience on anything other than a spectacle. Re-designing the experience hasn’t done dance music any favours when it comes to the on dancefloor experience and it can appear that something has gone missing.

There’s an importance to the reflection of both the mundane and the larger aspects of your existence on the dancefloor however, it’s the processing of any form of trauma that is by far one of the most impactful experiences that can affect a person. Reflection on difficult events in your life will arrive at unexpected and usually the most inconvenient times. While your mind can achieve wonderful things it also tends to pull the rug from underneath you when you get the chance. Mentally working through previously traumatic experiences while dancing is a strange, difficult but extremely liberating experience. It’s natural to want to avoid this, it’s not exactly top of everyone's to-do list especially when Kyle Geigers closing. Running for the nearest exit whether that’s through conversation or another line is instinctive. You can think you're not in an ideal setting to tolerate it but here’s the thing, the dancefloor should be a space of comfort and if you’re lucky enough to be on one that you consider a cherished space for yourself then letting yourself go to this experience might be the best thing you can do for yourself. Dancing in repetitive motions mulling over past, present and potential future suffering in your life is the greatest pursuit of cathartic release. It can feel like you are trying to force out something buried inside of you like it's stuck and can’t be unwedged until you’ve done some specific set of actions you are not aware of. Like anything in life if it's too easy it probably isn’t worth doing.

There is light at the end of the tunnel, it’s the understanding that blossoms from this experience in the form of a resounding sense of relief with a physical sensation of lightness. Not every one of these journeys is a life-changing experience but it is a reflection your psyche deems necessary and that is always valid. The dancefloor is the ideal space for body and mind connection, each motion you make can chip away at the dissociation that remains from previously harmful experiences bringing you closer on a path towards yourself. Without the pressure of verbal communication, you're allowed to communicate outwards to the space and be heard. You have every right to be.

The range of emotional experiences I have gone through by allowing myself to be vulnerable to sound systems and the energy of the dancefloor around me is the higher purpose of dance music. Partying on paper is simply about having fun, but boxing your experience into just this limits you from experiencing anything further. If you don’t stand in the light you're never going to grow. Vulnerability in whichever mode you see fit allows your emotions to heighten and delve into the possibilities of where the night can take you, all you need to be is curious about what's ahead.

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Born in Australia Fergus’ roots began through his work as a journalist for Stoney Roads writing reviews and interviews for the publication. In March 2016 he founded Bompchast a record label and podcast that has migrated its home with Fergus to London. Bompchast’s output focuses on a handful of releases, mixes and interviews comprising artists such as Paul Laurens, Kris Wadsworth and Decoder. While the amount of creation has slowed in the past year the quality of conversations and music resides and is well worth digging through. His online personality is a delight to behold. As we collectively endure the weight of online noise from all the usual channels Fergus can be seen to be one of the few that is adding something of relevance beyond dates, photos of touring and the quintessential post-Berghain photo. Two series he created on Instagram were Production a Day for 100 Days and currently Tunesday. These focus on his lighthearted attitude yet diligent work process towards creating music. There’s an element of fun in every clip as well as an understanding of the disposability of electronic music production. Not everything made gets released, it's made for the sake of exploring what he can do with the challenge in front of him. He doesn’t digress too much into the nuts and bolts of the process making this accessible for people who enjoy his music who don’t produce. In the below clip, we can see him sampling a Korean Orphan choir which he brings into a completely new framework. What began as a record that you’d find in the 1 euro bin is transformed into a haunting bell-infused melody. All outer appearances of the stuffiness of production are pealed away with these series. It’s honest craftsmanship presenting an individual fully immersed in their creative goals.

Sweetlands’ music is the type that manages to create an embedded personality within the sound. Oftentimes when you listen to techno or dance music the producer aligns different elements together and they create the sound of the emotion the producer wants to get across. The atmosphere within his music creates this outlandish otherworldly space where elements of the track can take on human and emotional characteristics. It’s not creating the vibe it is the literal vibe. He reaches into the far corners of the production setup to retrieve obtuse sounds to be nurtured into these audio figures that populate his tracks. Cracks In My Mask brings to life this electronic wheezing accordion sound to brilliant effect. Put simply this sound isolated is going to be annoying. The likeable characteristics of the accordion are already low enough. Now imagine the prospect of listening to one created on Ableton that has been processed to sound electro and you're already looking for the exit. Not with this track. The high-pitched wheezing springs and bounces around the confines of the song well aware of the attitude it holds and the attention it grabs. It wants to get in your face, disrupt your presence and make you pay attention. When something is that confident and brilliant you can’t help but stand back and admire.

Jazz as an inspirational factor in Sweetlands’ music is clearly evident. Incorporation of jazz isn’t anything new to techno however what we know is when it’s inserted into techno of the traditional variety. Improvisation is at the core of jazz music. It's one of the factors that make the genre feel so alive. The impression of improvisation is used in Pseudo where the meandering tone hops, climbs and scutters around the song. Up and down it traverses across the track tripping back over its laces, the beat syncs at certain points and then loses what it once had. Those little imperfections add to the track's realness. Unpolished work is refreshing when we’re surrounded by music that's so pumped full of D.A.W steroids that it sounds like it was made in a lab. We know the sound pattern was orchestrated but it doesn’t matter when the finished product appears untethered from any kind of goal or formula. This journey element along with complex harmonies continues to be seen in other pieces such as Trigger My Gump released on his own label Pressure Systems. The track uses storytelling conversing through different sections not repeating but marching onward with tonal ambiguity immersing the listener with every slight shift, dip, and rise. Dotted throughout are these gorgeous plings and plongs presented with a softness to them that sounds like a video-game character levelling up. In a more obvious sense, the rhythmic pattern of jazz drums is put front and centre in Nine Four. Their rustling juxtaposed with this tonally rising dragging sound akin to dragging a stick across the ridges of a radiator is exquisite. The drums keep you in a subtle groove that shoots up and down while the repetitive dragging noise holds tension and stability to the track.

The vocal samples scattered across his work take on this appearance of something un-human. There’s this uncanny valley feel to it that ranges from unnerving to slightly sinister. The vocal is never your friend, it insists upon its presence. On his Thank You Brain release Do You Like Sound? the vocals coddle and tease the listener with the questions and answers they pose. They come across through a drawled-out and lazy expression, mocking the listener by reducing the listening experience to something trivial. It’s almost this nihilistic take on the experience, an antonym to house music that sings about the joys of house music. If we go back to his releases before the progression of his sound with Feel It Pump we can see vocals more aptly fit for a high-octane track filled with explosive energy. What it's juxtaposed with is this creaky 128BPM see-saw beat where the vocal tells you to do one thing and the beat leads you to do another. The vocals behave as if they’re on a classic rave path looping shorter while playing out on a surface that’s not its home territory. Counting The Numbers does what it says on the tin continually firing numbers out of sequence at the listener to the background of lazy climbing and descending keys and warps. Sitting somewhere between artificial and human with a ring of British authority it adds this acute sternness to a harmony that does not welcome its presence. Ringing of absurdity and meaninglesness in the best way possible, it pulls you out of your dancefloor groove and makes you think to yourself “What the fuck am I listening to?” before diving right back in.

Sweetlands’ music's ability to shine is within its intriguing composition and layering of unorthodox sounds. Each track on a release is an unboxing of something surprising and unexpected escaping the imaginary lines in the sand that surround this music. Jeff Mills once said;

“If you hear a track that you expect to hear then it’s not correct…. Every time you listen to a techno record it should be something that you never expect to hear, That’s when I think techno is at its finest. When people are trying to create something that no one can imagine”

While the landscape of techno has changed so much that it is almost unrecognisable from the time Jeff uttered these words, it makes no difference. Sweetlands' music is exactly this thoroughly unpredictable, techno that proves the common assumption that we’ve heard it all before is nonsense. I sit back and eagerly await to see what he’s gonna do next.

In the final hours of a party, a magical game begins to be played between the DJ and a crowd who have been inside a space for too long. From the crowd's perspective all reason and logic points to leaving, the guts of the night have finished and there is nothing to prove by staying longer. With this in mind, a heightened tension grows in regard to what music is being played. A DJs job is always to perform but now the role changes slightly as each song played is to keep you in the room and push that logical thought to go home out of your mind. The options for what to play opens up significantly, music that may have appeared weaker or not appropriate to the mood takes on an entirely new persona. The atmosphere of “what is going to come next” is a far more enticing one than when you know you're guaranteed to hear a high peak time energy collection of tracks. Atmospherically there is another change occurring. The party is both winding down as well as letting other elements reveal themselves. Even within a big space, the atmosphere becomes a lot more personal to the attendees. The exiting of the majority of people allows the dancefloor to open up for those remaining, the new space around you is ripe for freedom of expression and the temporary breakdown of social barriers. These barriers are always going to be maintained at the earlier and peak times of the night due to safety amidst the chaotic nature of dance events as well as the modern insistence to live inside our own little bubbles. It's in the early hours when people can feel at their most comfortable these bubbles begin to evaporate. The faces you’ve seen around you on the night are clearer and the exchange of smiles and knowing looks are passed among attendees as a common understanding is held of why you are all there and what is going to transcribe over these last few hours. 

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With this being a blog that’s focused on techno I wanted to consider tracks of that variety that encapsulate the possibilities of what the dancefloor is capable of in these hours. Favourites that spring to mind would be DJ HMC - Marauder a 2001 diamond that still sounds as fresh as the day it was released. Blending silliness, zest, and musical stylings that float between a comically large house track and a techno track with only a PG rating on it. Truely a bright energy re-igniter that reaks of friendliness and fun. Coming from a different angle EQD - #005B is a track that effectively demonstrates how light and heavy can sit side by side with each other with a euphoric sheen and raw clacks complimenting each other to the backing crunch of Shed's signature drums. The tempo of 128 can breathe properly in this scenario as there can be a need for slower music to match a crowd's energy levels. Oscar Mulero - CV is Dead utilises recurring rolling cymbals with a mystical aura that floats above the track. It emphasises empty space with only the lightest of kick drums propping up these cymbals. Relevant to an emptier dance floor you are not sardined into this track hits you again and again with a stylistic element of techno filed down to its bare bones to be appreciated in all its glory. 

But it’s more than speciality techno tracks that make the cut. As the layers of your own ego are stripped away over the final hours you are laid bare to appreciate new musical stylings that can come your way. Attending Norman Nodge on closing duties in Berghain I watched him play out the Ben Stirling remix of Mind Dimension by Tiga. This is a song that had never been on my radar and with good reason. Simply put, Tiga and Stirling are artists who create music that's designed for a very different mood than what I’d prefer. But in that moment hovering in front of the front left stack bathed in blue and red lights this song simply became everything. The large campy vocal stole the complete and undivided attention of the room spreading smiles of delerium across faces. It was so funky and yet so silly, almost the perfect thing I didn’t know that I wanted to hear. A track like this is completely removed from the Berghain musical branding and feel that populates the space. Something like this would normally have the Saturday night and Sunday afternoon crowds wrinkling their noses in disgust. But here in the Monday hours, it arrived fashionably late to take its deserved seat amidst the revellers. 

Brighter lighting is paramount to closing the closing experience. Everyone is gathered appropriately when the sun starts to show and thus sunlight or artificially created brightness has a role to play. Even in a synthetic light situation, the slow reveal of what was around you the whole time although simple is quite the intoxicating experience providing relief and release as the party moves towards its inevitable end. I attended the Large Marge party back in January 2020. A blissfully ignorant time of what was to come. Held in a small warehouse situated somewhere between Queens and Bushwick, behind the temporary booth were small windows that took up the back wall covered in a small thin curtain. As we encroached into the early hours and the sun began to rise, light ballooned and expanded across the small room coating everything there with its warm rays and leaving the unassuming space bare to see. Maybe because of the nostalgia I hold for this point in time or maybe because it was just quietly brilliant, imprinted the scene onto my mind. The energy of the ecstatic kickdrum provided by the high-tempo NRG music Marge is known for juxtaposed with the soft sunlight gave the morning a tint of surrealness. The kickdrum had always been in the room with us, but now seemed so much more enhanced almost like this physical entity filling every every part of the space. Its true presence finally revealed thanks to the sunlight. 

The onset of such intense emotional feelings at this point of the party is primarily due to lack of sleep. You’re more fragile than you realise and what can be considered strong cathartic moments become a lot more real after spending so long awake exhausted but soldiering on. This if anything will make you more sensitive to the not-so-pleasant things that exist around you. It’s true what they say, the later you stay out the more likely you are to see something you don’t like. Closing is a refuge for the ugly parts and ideas to come to life. While maybe you are there for the positive impacts (or at least you're telling yourself that) others are there for much different reasons. Consumption and drug habits are put to the test and become bare for everyone to see around. This netherworld of the human psyche while horrid is very real, it has been at the party the whole time but becomes louder and less ignorable towards the end demanding the attention it thinks it deserves. There's a gradual breakdown of order that's relevant to the experience, when everyone wants to spend time in a space that you are not supposed to be in behaviours that shouldn’t be encouraged flourish. In Berlin, the phrase “cracky” is thrown around which can sum up the demeanour of a person past the point of any sort of responsible stimulant consumption. Unable to concentrate, jarred and lodged on the dancefloor the overwhelming noise of a soundsystem wraps and caresses them, shielding them from outward engagement. It’s natural to run to the safety of the music when we’re at our weakest. This point of maxed-out serotonin may be a wonderful escape but can be an incredibly lonely place to be especially when caught up in the weekly party cycle.

Lots of people will go through a period in their lives where staying to the end becomes their thing. For whatever reason, a transitionary stage begins where you will seek out in these spaces weekly. This can be looked at as a good thing, if you're a fan of electronic music or party culture it’s important to have spent enough time at this side of the party to understand and appreciate it. The full spectrum of the experience can’t be understood without at least visiting the closing hours a number of times. I have spent my life dropping in and out of this closing phase no matter where I was. While the reasons for staying there varied one thing reason would consistently bring me back above others; my longing for the innate sense of pure freedom that was impossible to feel anywhere else. On the dancefloor with others like me, we’d dive headfirst back into the same feelings from the week before recycling this lust for escapism. While you’re in that phase and fully invested in the idea of it taking a weekend away becomes this alien idea you're not interested in tolerating. When learning about dance music as you first get into it we’re told of these rose-tinted views of masses of people temporarily taking a path out of their normal existence for a world populated with cathartis and unity. The days of Manchester, the UK Acid scene, and Berlin's early years are held in such high regard they might as well have been a utopian transcendental experience depending on what you believe. These days that feeling or idea is so far away from what exists in club spaces it's hard to say if it even has any relevance in dance music anymore. The more time I have spent in the closing hours the more I have convinced myself this is the closest to the perceived ideas of that time. What's found here is the modern hybrid of this idea. It’s not exactly as described but it's far more tangible than the Saturday night clubbing experience in any major city. In the hours where no one belongs true escapism and freedom flourish. 

Closing is one of the last vessels of true anarchy and rebellion. It’s a space and time frame that is aggressively anti-everything modern Neo-Liberal capitalist societies are built on. Going partying is socially acceptable, taking drugs is more or less socially acceptable, techno due to its prominence and rapid increase in popularity has changed into something socially acceptable. It’s a strange reality that we live in a world where your colleague in HR will happily tell you over lunch how they had such a wonderful time at Fabric over the weekend. Is this a good thing? That depends maybe at one point the increased normalisation of techno and club culture was beneficial and now that we’re at the point of complete exhaustion we can see it should of been stopped along the way. Staying till closing is one of the last refuges for escaping this normalisation. Pushing yourself to stay longer in the hopes of music hitting in a particular way and the atmosphere morphing into a ferrel frenzy of complete rawness and emotional release is something that's never going to be socially accepted and it shouldn’t. It’s a topic of conversation that you can only share with people who hold the same passion, attempting to translate to someone outside this circle is a waste of your time. They will understand if you like to party they won't understand why you like to stand at the furthest edge of what the party can actually be. Knowing this we can see how privacy is such a crucial part of this whole experience. Connectivity to the music is of course an important factor but what is actually occurring beyond the music is the main event. The freedom I found was both fantastic and scary. This is the way freedom must occur to be its most honest form. Outside the walls is a world where the documentation of the mundane and everyday is so normalised we forget how much of an impact it has on the way we conduct ourselves. In the closing hours, that impact is temporarily removed for a brief window of time and it’s marvellous to behold. Ego and perceived perceptions of yourself are the villains of true exploration. 

In a sombrer sense, a closing set is also both procrastination of grief and delaying of the inevitable. Time starts to have less meaning in these points and hours simultaneously evaporate and hang in the air suspended in time. It can be a weird netherworld when caught in the middle of it. When the party has no defined ending what's in front of you may seem a lifetime away. 

Your immediate reality is shaped by the length of time you're in the space as the repetition of the same people and surroundings bonds you to your surroundings increasing your attachment. It’s an endless moment that sometimes you don’t want to say goodbye to. But of course slowly but surely this feeling and experience has to end. Maybe the final track wouldn’t ring out so melancholic if what was waiting outside the doors was somewhat better. But here we are and it certainly isn’t. The want to delay the inevitable will always be stronger when what greets you after is anything but your ideal situation. But even if things were better or even perfect I have my doubts this would change the ritual too much. Even if you're one of the lucky ones to have your world in check the siren's call of closing is usually too fun to resist. Your choice is simply how much you wish to bathe in the early morning sunlight.

What defines this label is the importance given to “the perfect loop”. Every song released is tethered to an idea or story that explains itself repeatedly creating a wonderfully captivating experience. Music like this inserted at the right time on the dancefloor begins to paint scenes decorating the space with thoughts and emotions. Depending on these loop's heaviness or frequency the atmosphere can shift greatly as these cathartic screwdrivers twist the attendee's experience towards something much bigger than kickdrum energy. Whether as a sense of self-reflection or a digestion of what's going on around them they melt into your subconscious. Crossing Avenue’s - Lyra is like this playful and kind moment in time. Bouncy and meandering it weaves without a set goal dotted with underwater blips and bloops. It simply revisits the same idea nothing more nothing less. Perfect music to catch your breath too. On the heavier side of the coin, we have Mike Parker - Undulating Frequencies a much heavier constantly throbbing orb of sci-fi clatter. Of all the people who emphasise the ethos and feel of this label apart from the creators, it’s Mike who throughout his career has been developing these exact stylings of sound from a heavier perspective than his Italian counterparts.

Donato and Neel could be the only people to launch a label that sounds like this. This style has featured prominently in their solo releases and Spazio gives it a place to run wild and become the most evolved form of itself. Neel has developed the most recent edition and transformation of the label with Spazione R001 exploring dancefloor-orientated techno specifically containing a faster energy than what they have previously released. Donato’s release Spazio 017 provides this almost semi-healing experience through the magical and religious feel of both songs. Parola Rework creates spine-tingling chills with the ominous cult energy that fills the track when heard played out and the ability to soothe a listener with soft rolling repetitions when listened to at home. In both forms, there is no escaping it, filling your field of vision and thought process with the ever-looping vocals of Anna Caragnano. This is not something you can simply listen to in the background. The lyrics translate to “I drag a deep thought, protracted word, portrait, promise, protected return”. Doing as the lyrics say the song serves a continuous protected return. On the flip side, you have 12.5 Hz. This track is a thing of beauty. Truly awe-inspiring techno decorated with a magical glow that passes on to the listener. Its angelic aura of layering delicate little clinks, classic mechanical snares, and octave-changing chants is infatuating. Softly rising it's a song that can bring you back to life, a blast of radiant light into a sea of black-clad dancefloor misfits.

Donato makes more additions with Le Officine Di Efesto, an alias created with Lino Monaco and Nicola Buono. Plasma Hymn carries a tribal whirring element to it. Not the modern-day idea of tribal that we’ve come to accept from the likes of Rene Wise, Ignez, and Ruben Ganev but a much more granular take. It still carries that mystical force that Donato previously created, this time ramping up the tension with a piece that sounds like some sort of twisted countdown timer that never appears to end.  Similar to Parola there’s no escaping the attention-demanding energy of the song's nature. It’s an excellent tool to bring up feelings of the illusive nature of time, and the unfortunate reminder that you will eventually have to go home. There’s a lot of information within the song being channelled towards the listener and with a high BPM of around 160 it has the ability to sound too messy and squibbly, but the spacing of each element hits just right and maintains composure. Donato, Monaco, and Buono go into uncharted territories with this one but still remain true to themselves.

Like any electronic label, the releases are done through EPs, but every now and again an album such as Grand River - Pineapple appears. Unfortunately, works like these become overshadowed by the bigger names and catchier records released, but what's inside this album deserves attention. A collection of descriptions, ideas, and moments can be discovered through listening. Clearly it positions itself as an ambient take on Spazios formula. Ambient-styled productions have more of a reason to exist in Spazio’s catalogue rather than the way they are shoehorned into people's experience. It’s a far cry from these filler tracks we see in EP formulas (two peak time tracks, a track with breakbeat drums, and an ambient or “intro” track). The Question Is, is slow and graceful, gently passing and floating about your ears, the mechanical elements of the bleeps manage to simultaneously include a natural feel to them. Combined with the vocals mysteriousness envelopes the song. When It All Was Flourishing works together the sound of gentle plucking strings with anxious horn purts, a soft rhythm of cymbals and a shining complexion releasing a wonderful calming effect on the listener. Putting this on first thing in the morning grants a peaceful entrance to the daily routine of a listener, it’s music to watch your morning commute fly by protected from its elements by only your earbuds. Grand River’s style still holds a place on dancefloors with Flies creating this movie soundtrack-like feeling, setting the scene of a climactic moment in the story arch of the main character, flecked with electricity and thoughtfulness. Despite the slow pace, there's so much energy in the track leaking over with every static pulse and transfixing you with its atmosphere.

Themes of darkness and terror exist in this library brought by Voices From The Lake, a project from Donato and Neel aided by Svreca. The addition comprises tunnelling techno tracks designed to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Horror as a theme in techno is a tricky one. It’s highly relevant to the dark and dingy spaces it occupies yet is avoided or neglected. Horror-esque tracks can often be tough to digest while dancing and people can fear this on their night out. We see this through hardgrooves resurgence in popularity, a genre that never looks to escape its serotonin-laced routine. Within long deep sets, there is a place for horror to exist. If a set is supposed to be a journey with storytelling elements then like every good novel or movie the main character (that's you on the dancefloor, not the DJ) needs to go through some sort of hardship or fear for development. Horror is the perfect tool for this, edgy slightly difficult tracks that move the dancefloor into a different and spookier world before returning to the main path. Tracks like Between The Lines and Isolation conjure up images of classic B&W horror films like Psycho and Black Sunday. Gothic, creepy, and undeniably eery they snap you out of whatever trance you were instantly. The lack of a kickdrum in Isolation keeps the loop hanging in time, layering the suspense with every moment. The lack of the familiar weight of distortion and bass can feel like something is missing. Nothing’s gone wrong it’s meant to feel out of place and odd. Ibrida does a brilliant job of blending these deep electrical sounds with the slow tempo of breathing. What results is this track that sounds like a scientific experiment gone wrong in a lab. Ibrida takes the opposite approach to Isolation using weight to push down on you leaving very little to rhythmically dance to. Its focus is to simply layer wave after wave of submersion onto its outlet stifling the dancefloor with a hazy fog filled with delicate changes.

Spazio Disponible is a label that Donato and Neel use as a playground to release exactly the type of productions that come from their head. If you are familiar with their work the signs of their style stand out the second you put on a track. They come at it with different alias perspectives and artists who can provide their take on the process.  A process that consists of polyrhythmic techno, a loop that goes on forever, subtleties woven into these loops developing each song and music that's designed to escape yourself to. Why is this so good? Simple, familiarity. From the beginning, these songs create something a listener likes and plays it over and over again continually soothing them. Tracks of complete repetition allow for a lot more focus, through prolonged exposure you can really see exactly what's in front of you with every bar. When we find these loops catchy, sticking our head in a bath of them for six continuous minutes sounds like a great idea. This results in excellent immersion quality. Each song hangs as a moment in time washing over you like the tide on the beach. There's no need for big build-ups and breakdowns, the tentative moment is all that matters. This isn’t a complicated idea, they build something great and do it repeatedly, it doesn’t need to be more than this. Many of these can be categorised as “tools”, but in my opinion, this doesn’t extinguish any of their musical value. Currently what’s regularly played out on dancefloors is very far away from this for better or worse. Donato and Neel refuse to be coerced into dancefloor trends developing a label that stands strongly apart from the usual.

The festival was premiered in 2013, preceding this Dekmantel had been running events for six years in and around Amsterdam. The initial gathering was capped at 5000 tickets per day with a lineup that could have easily allowed for double the attendees. From the beginning what we can see in this lineup is three things;

. Standout names that would be consistently booked, becoming sort of Dekmantel residents (but never officially).

Marcel Dettman, Blawan, Ben UFO, Joy Orbison, Cinnaman, Interstellar Funk, Antal

. Live projects and B2Bs that were not festival regulars

Trade (Blawan and Surgeon), Magic Mountain High (Move D b2b Juju and Jordash)

. Niche eye-catching acts. 

Voices from the Lake, Underground Resistance 

This consistently successful formula gave the festival a bubbling hype around the lineup with effective energy online and through word of mouth. Festival lineup releases don’t carry the same weight as they used to due to oversaturation, the same people will play the same string of events. But not Dekmantel, their lineups had an edge you always knew you would get more than the standard, the question was how were they gonna do it? This aided their achievement of long-in-advance sell-out events up until their first post-Covid edition. 

So what’s it like on the inside? The environment of Amsterdam Bos (forest) gives the venue a perfect environment of picturesque nature conveniently located about 30 minutes from the city centre. Of course, being a Dutch festival the unique element of the majority of attendees cycling to it is present. The site of festival goers pedalling towards the event against the green backdrop with the sound of a kickdrum leaking its way through the treetop canopy is sublime and stays with you long after the party has passed. This mode of travel also creates a form of unity or collectiveness among attendees (despite our individualism we all want to be part of an idea). Inside is a carefully crafted layout of currently eight stages that never really feel like they’re too far away from each other ringing out every variety of electronic music. You are never not spoiled for choice at any given moment. There’s a nice flow to the environment, stages do become too crowded but are easily avoidable with the vast selection on offer. It somehow feels personal and big at the same time which is tough to pull off with an attendance of currently 10,000. No surprise a city famed for its design skills creates an ideal environment and comfortable location in which to be served only the finest product. 

The crowd at Dekmantel has been a crossroads of people from every sub-scene and stereotype that populates the European circuit, which is interesting to behold. English coke-heads cross paths with mainland Europe scenesters as people move from act to act. House purists escape themselves at the likes of DJ Fett Burger while DnB fans reminisce to Goldie. Multitudes of backgrounds, ideas, and attitudes towards dance music exist within a very small radius for a brief moment in time. This of course brings a beautiful colour and atmosphere shift when moving from about the stages. While this is part and parcel of the modern festival it feels a lot deeper in the Amsterdam forest than at a party that follows the standard house stage, techno stage and so on. Creating a communal space at a big festival that opens a window to what different scenes are like is difficult due to the dangers of popularity. Certain scenes and sub-groups of electronic music are quite selective about what events they will travel to. Festivals of Dekmantels size are usually ignored because bigger parties are watered down. But through developing such a reputation for good music even the pickiest partygoer wanted to visit at least once. People who have strong opinions about who they want to party with and where they want to party temporarily allowed their guard to drop for this particular party. If you can get Kreuzberg mephedrone fanatics to leave their safe space then you’ve seriously achieved something. Online usually paints the attendee as a light blue short sleeved shirt wearing type. While this individual is represented I don’t think it's fair to paint the entire festival with the same brush. This has of course begun to change in the last while but I'll get to that in a bit.

So how did it get to achieve this? One simple word, marketing. Dekmantels launch coincides with the explosion of sophisticated digital marketing in the 2010s. Capitalising on this immersed their online audience in a very glossy depiction of what they were doing. These days we’re used to this shiny exterior with festival marketing feeling repetitive and uninspired, they were positioned at the right place at the right to be seen and to have an impact with this marketing. The online content and the hype they created had flare and energy coming off of it. It made you excited, it made you look out your window and wonder why you were sitting at your kitchen table in Sheffield while it rained when all of these people drenched in sunshine were having the time of their lives listening to the Head High remix of Mars. They cornered FOMO and promoted it in every outlet used to send their message. This is largely thanks to the Boiler Room presence at Dekmantel which fueled the mass online presence to a significant degree. The presence of Boiler Room at music festivals is now a regular occurrence, however, in 2013 this was a brand new venture for them. They had previously appeared at day parties (with only audio content uploaded after), but to have a three-day live-streaming program was a step towards expansion. No matter what your opinions of them, it can’t be denied they pulled it off well achieving some of their most viewed content in their history. The curation of artists was varied allowing something for everyone and the way they filmed it made the corrugated tin can shed look like a place you’d wanna spend all day at. When I was 19 I didn’t have the money to travel to this space so I lived vicariously through these live streams. It’s one of the few times I would have sat down to watch people play out via my computer screen. Many people like me did the same and that's a powerful thing. Before Covid getting a significant amount of people to sit down to watch a DJ mix would have been a serious challenge. The concept of having a dance in your living room was not legitimised at this point, as we could actually live our lives. Playing out your festival fantasy through a live stream hooked itself into people. It meant that you could be inside the festival “experience” (if that's the right way to describe it) without leaving the comfort of your own home. You could also decide then and there that you’d attend next year, with a convenient sign-up for next year's tickets waiting for you on the website. What we can see here is Boiler Room moving from a streaming platform into more of a tool of persuasion. With the current saturation of this attraction at different festivals it’s clear some promoters feel it's necessary to engage audiences and sell tickets.  

Creating a party that was simultaneously in real life and online was by no means a small achievement but it was what was happening off camera that kept people coming back. Dekmantel had this brilliant way of being the location for big things to happen. While achieving this with the rare performances, they were also achieving this with sets that people just didn’t stop talking about. The first year saw Robert Hood's Floorplan project play just after the release of Paradise on June 25th of that year. This is a world where nobody is familiar with Never Grow Old or Baby Baby for sure two of the most iconic tracks of the 2010s. It's at Dekmantel that people really see for the first time what these two songs can actually do to a dancefloor, setting the fire underneath both that would eventually launch them into the stratosphere where they currently remain continually sending people into complete frenzies when they’re played out. Jeff Mills 2016 set is spoken of with awe and wonder as if it was some quasi-religious experience. The visuals of this performance presented a dystopian hellish landscape of blinding strobes and crimson red as he played Angular Momentum creating an energy similar to watching a building burn down, pinning you with shock and awe. These among others such as Ben UFO’s 2014 Selectors set and Surgeons in 2013 have joined the collection of fabled mixes you had to be there for. The event also became the perfect vehicle to launch a song on. Fatima Yamaha's What's a Girl To Do is the perfect example of how the festival could be used to spread your music to an audience of unimaginable size. The track had previously been released back in 2004 through Irish label D1 recordings and had been quietly existing in the background for several years. As it began to gain more energy featuring in the likes of Hud Mo’s Essential Mix in the run-up to the festival the stage was set for something big to happen. Fatima Yamaha who had been operating with a low profile for quite some time throughout his career took to the stage to reveal himself and play out the keys of the Nintendo-sounding hit. The track was placed in an envelope dropped through the algorithm letter box and began multiplying immediately to the point of inescapability. The worldwide success of this song would not have occurred in the way that it did if it hadn’t been done through the medium of Dekmantel and Boiler Room.

Dekmantels preference for a large online presence while beneficial is also grounds for criticism. The Boiler Room “characters” or “incidents” had been a phenomenon before the festival but really gained trajectory because of the festival. The live streams being a hit had a bigger audience than those who would normally tune in to their regular broadcasts. This and the large replay value of the sets encouraged an increase in performance-like antics. This disliked troupe of modern dance music has been discussed online to death and at this point is cliche both to take part in and to hate it. What is important to be aware of is what it signifies. Acting strangely on the dancefloor isn’t a new thing, it’s historically relevant from early 90s rave culture to the Thunderdome series. But the person travelling to the festival wanting to gain attention and appear on camera is a modern concept that reeks of self-centredness. While the prevalence of this unfortunate side effect does not literally stem from the festival (this was happening for a long time before) it did become intrinsically linked to Dekmantels image. Does this aspect ruin or detract from what it is? Yes and no. It positions the festival in a particular light that's not favourable in the eyes of many. When you intend to attract everyone you accept this comes with the negative aspects of the culture you love. The point of Dekmantel was always to be broad and at that moment in time including a space for streaming sets made sense. They were doing something new and had more to gain by teaming up with Boiler Room than they had to lose. To avoid this while attending is simple. Don’t visit the Boiler Room stage. It was very easy to avoid this overcrowded mess when I attended. In the last year, the stage has dissolved and given room for the Hor programming. When Hor arrived it didn't come with the stereotypical attention-grabbing baggage that Boiler Room possessed. Only time will tell if this trope will continue into the future of the festival.

Like all festivals post-COVID, Dekmantel is encountering problems. Possibly struggling under the weight of its own success and current size the reports back paint a different picture than what the festival has been previously loved for. There are a few aspects to this. It becomes expensive fast combining tickets, flights, accommodation, taxis to and from the festival, and nighttime entertainment. What this means is that the crowd attending has to be in a certain wealth bracket more than ever before. While this was always the case what could be observed in the past was attendees making an exception for Dekmantel whether financially or logistically because the lineup and the energy of the festival justified it. This seems to be dying a death at this stage. They have acquired local competition with the creation of Draaimolen in their own back yard whose visual output is reminiscent of earlier Dekmantel years and curates very rare performances such as Skrillex B2B Blawan last year. Previously getting your hands on tickets was difficult. It would sell out rapidly with re-sales going for excessive amounts. These days like a lot of live events tickets are available up until the day with re-sales going for far cheaper. This can be looked at slightly positively as it does make the festival accessible to locals who wouldn’t have attended due to high cost and demand. It definitely doesn’t paint a good picture of the festival's finances though. The current feel of the festival seemed to be reflected in the weather this year. Optically Dekmantel is sunny, its shades on, t-shirt, shorts and listening to Donell being bounced around by Joy Orbison while you sip on a pint of Grolsch allowing you to forget about the massive gaping hole in your bank account. This year we were treated to grey skies and rain through our computer screens diminishing the FOMO to a significant degree.

In the age where everything is too big, too commercial, too boring and dance music has strayed further and further than what it originally was, pointing the finger at Dekmantel and saying you’re the problem would be an easy thing to do. But if you were to do that you’d have no nuance in your opinion. Despite contributing to this aspect of the culture it's unfair to say this is what defines the organisation. Dekmantels entirety as a label, festival, and voice is grounded in local promotion, education, and shining a light on artists who deserve attention. They pay their dues and are open to learning. Space is consistently reserved for members of the Dutch scene (Sterac, Animistic Beliefs, Carista) to have a notable presence. After being called out in 2019 by Chilean artist Valesuchi for their lack of South American representation on the lineup despite holding parties in Brazil we can see a change with an increase in bookings across their platforms (Bad Sista, Marcos Valle, RHR). The involvement of Red Light radio carved out a space where lesser-known Dutch natives like Mr. Mendel, Beesmunt Soundsystem and Jan Van Kampen shared space with known greats like Legowelt and Mary Lake. Their recent set of club tours which took place in Prague, Vilnius, Tbilisi, and Warsaw focused on an integration of the Dekmantel sound to compliment local talent. Their lineup at Bassiani wove in I-F, Young Marco, and Sedef Adassi in with Hamatsuki, G Kura, and Suze Ljo. Making for an excellent combination of legacy, current big names, local talent, and a plethora of sounds, while avoiding the standard “takeover” style night of travelling labels. As big as they are, they haven't forgotten the idea of organic, setting them apart from a number of organisations of the same prestige.

With the current economic and scene climate what the future holds for Dekmantel is hazy at best. Longevity issues are apparent due to possibly a tired formula, a saturated festival market, and the cost of partaking. With a significant drop in people attending music festivals over 2024, these problems can be clearly seen. Like all festivals that gain in rapid popularity, it has fallen victim to what I call “Too Big for Its Own Boots Syndrome”. They are running on nostalgia, people want to experience what was in the present, but unfortunately for them, this is near impossible. It’s not the same minds attending or the same point in time. You can only manufacture “moments” to such a degree and forcing them never works. This doesn’t change the power of a rose-tinted view of the past. The ripples of hype, curating the most over-stimulating lineups, and the fact that I and many like me dived straight into the marketing made us infatuated with it. When I attended after Covid it was great. Was it as good as what my earlier self would have wanted? No absolutely not. That's literally impossible, nothing can be that good. And here lies the problem. If you set about creating an amazing party and at the same time you create one of the biggest internet frenzies, both simultaneously powering each other. Eventually, the hype is gonna outweigh the party resulting in a party that can’t keep up with the perceived idea of itself. The idea of the thing slowly begins to consume the literal event until one day what appears is unrecognisable. On the other hand, maybe I’m being overly negative. It’s clear I’m also adding to this cycle maybe jaded by my lack of attendance of what was sold to me as big moments. I do believe they will persist, adapt, and weave themselves into the form that will work for the festival market what that looks like remains to be seen. Will it ever be comparable to or surpass what was? Doubtful even if they did in the land of the internet negativity always shouts louder. 

Released on April 1st 2018 under the alias Prime Minister of Doom (PMOD)  “Mudshadow Propaganda” a three-record album of significant metaphorical weight entered the scene. Packed with consistent and well-crafted subtle tracks it's a masterclass in thoughtful tribal house and deep techno. Due to the scarcity of its one-time pressing copies range from €140 - €250, with fans hopefully speculating on a repress from the year of its launch. In February this year more copies entered circulation however this was a suspected warehouse clearing and not a new edition.

The album can be seen as two halves starting with a soft rhythmic collection of songs. A tentative and slightly eerie opening with “Getting Things Started” paints a picture of what's to come. We are then treated with bongo or conga-style drum sounds, effectively used with short loops throughout the next four tracks. The tribal thematic elements of this work are clear with hand-pan drums being heard in “Drumatise”. 

His tracks build on this format, adding or subtracting elements keeping each of them in the same idea but evidently different. “Tribal Days II” contains a soothing almost ASMR sound, similar to a hoover heard several rooms away. These tracks belong in the warmth of a summer day, accommodating a positive and consistent energy.

These initial tracks contrast when compared to the album artwork. The creepy yet beautiful skull containing a baby in the womb can be seen to signify rebirth in the mind or the formation of a new way of thinking. Birth is used consistently throughout Traumprinz’s work seen through his use of Planet Uterus as a label, alias, and the live at Planet Uterus mixes. This image is served with the text 

“not even the dreamer is wide awake”

Following this, a Shakespearean quote from Prospero in “The Tempest” is snaked within the skull filling the empty space.

“And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind we are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life, Is rounded with a sleep."

For context, it is a quote to describe the illusory nature of life, that what is reality around us will simply fade into nothingness. “This insubstantial pageant faded” could be seen as a coded message referring to Traumprinz’s departure from Giegling in 2016. This release and a second triple record album from his DJ Healer alias were dropped together and were the first physical releases we’d seen since departing the label. Both released via the All Possible Worlds site, visitors were treated to a minimalistic asterix-based design on the landing page adding to the mystery of both of these releases. 

Implying meaning for every stylistic choice an artist makes can easily lead to misinterpretation. With this project, I don’t believe that's the case. He has consistently used carefully selected imagery throughout his career with themes of religion, paternity, and actively foreshadowing his own moves. At the 2017 Planet Giegling world tour art installation held in New York, he exhibited a plastic cup teasing his DJ Healer alias and the track title “everything is everything” which has still yet to be physically released.

Arriving at the second half of the album “Mudshadow Propaganda” enters new territory. Instantly recognisable with the tonal shift away from what was previously heard “Deep in Your Heart” grows deeply and organically, eventually peaking with a flood of energy. This washes over you with a bone-chilling sample from Mary J. Blige. The vocal is not aligned with the structure of the song, it’s heard as if chucked on top giving it a separation and poignant quality as if speaking to the listener directly. This styling of vocal sampling is utilised effectively in other works such as Are You Ready Ralph and We are Going Nowhere. The song is simply an absolute screamer and shows the heights you can reach by using a limited number of elements effectively.

After pushing the listener through euphoria he gently returns them to reality with a spacey comfortable landing. “Truth Inside of Me / Skit” and “The Wai” are perfect closing tracks for this album, with “The Wai” in particular having an end-of-movie soundtrack type of feel to it, kind and emotionally concluding. It features classic samples from “Bad Habit” by Lisa Millet and a chanting vocal to see the listener out.

With an extensive archive of releases, mixes, and aliases a singular album from one identity can be easily be lost to memory. This is not the case here, throughout all of these tracks, Traumprinz completely immerses the listener in a subtle but powerful journey across simple beat structures, well-sampled vocals, and reflective club music. This combined with well-crafted visual statements immortalises the PMOD identity now and for years to come.

He is a master of saying a lot by saying very little, literally and through his music. While I hope to see more releases of this alias in the future (and who knows the SoundCloud is still active) I would be content with this being a one-album release. Traumprinz knows when to pull the plug on a project and after achieving so much with the release maybe that’s all that was needed. 

Eleven years after its release Asiel consistently reverberates with controlled and focused energy across dancefloors, igniting a spark of movement and flow that is a joy to behold. The continuous crispy kick drum juxtaposed with industrial-esque sounds creates a productive dancing energy of such force that it can collectively unite masses of people into a harmonious memorable moment standing out amongst the hours of repetitive music. Within its own label, it exerted itself, standing out amongst a variety of strong releases such as The School of Intolerance by UVB and Lower Norfair by Uun from Mord Records during the 2010s. 

Released on the Linea Recta EP in July 2013 Radial also known as Jeroen Liebregts effectively catapulted a modern classic into the techno diaspora. The rolling energy of the track situates it as quintessential Berghain music. Reinforced by its speed of 130 BPM it allows a listener to observe the space in the track and where the finer details can truly reveal themselves. It has earned its place among many dancefloors with its adaptability, slotting into a variety of sets from the likes of Ben Klock, Adam Beyer, and James Ruskin catering to different crowds. This flexibility has allowed its development into something iconic as it consistently rears its head in a variety of sets infecting dancers with its atmosphere.

Starting with a slight menace it begins chugging forward with a steady but forcible growth. Throughout the song, the sound of thick metal strings strum along with the beat. It brings to mind the image of grommets (looped steel wire rope, usually used to lift heavy loads in the construction and shipping industry) being played like a guitar overhead sending waves of vibrations across the soundscape. Liebregts hails from Rotterdam, a city famous for its industrial landscape and shipping industry possibly influencing this sound and imagery. The plucking of the metallic strings floats in and out of the track developing an ominous aura like a ghost haunting the piece.

As it continually steps forward, we begin to hear a crescendoing of the steel rope sounds building a powerful tension that holds the listener's attention in anticipation for what comes next. The track kicks forward in a powerful but controlled energy burst. The sounds amplify with force lifting the energy to a new level that when heard shoots straight to your core sending a rising wave of glorious energy streaming up inside of you. Asiel doesn't get distracted and meander off in a new direction with this amplification but simply continues on its pre-determined journey refusing to get distracted, only this time with more force in its step. The phrase “Rolling Techno” can be thrown around. Asiel personifies this with the kicks sounding as if they flow in a circular motion, instead of the punching sound associated with techno. 

Onwards it marches towards the second breakdown where accompanied by a sound akin to a UFO flying overhead, it returns with another burst of energy. This time it's different, the tension is not as tightly wound as before as it doesn't need to be. We can understand that when the first breakdown was so effective, this one can be seen as simply a reminder of what we just went through. Departing this, the sound gradually begins to fade out as it must with the industrial strings becoming fainter. We are treated with a cacophony of “THWACKS” emulating a hammer slamming against metal further promoting the song's industrial theme as eventually, it comes to a close with the strings making one final lurch ending it. 

A common theme with modern techno is that it's forgettable. We are currently in a strange period where production values are at an all-time high yet memorable and yet significant tracks are lacking. Asiel steps around this definition by incorporating the polished aesthetic and comfortable feel of modern techno, yet staying beautifully simple. Complicated beat structures are not relevant when the track draws your attention to the consistent chugging beat similar to a train plowing through the night. This chugging steers the course of the track's journey and when done so simply means it is quite difficult to get lost or distracted. The sound of the metallic strings is a unique attribute that easily garnishes the audience’s attention and remains in your head long after the track has ended. 

I simply adore this track; it lifts my mood every time I hear it and lights me up inside with a ferocious energy that permeates every fibre of my being. I long for its appearance in closings, peak time Saturday night sets, and afterparties that should have ended long ago. In life, we know the journey is usually more influential on the traveller rather than the destination. We can see this through Asiel, with the most impactful elements of the song occurring throughout it instead of arriving at the end. Who cares where you're going? It's what happens during your path in life that matters.

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