1. 1
Contents
Contents 1
Acknowledgements 3
Abstract 4
Introduction 4
Chapter One – SPACE AND PLACE = ‘SCENE’? 6
Space and Place – A definition 6
Moments, Subculture and Diaspora 7
The Temporary Autonomous Zone 10
Chapter Two – SETTING THE ‘SCENE’ 12
Dance Music Culture – Historical Background 12
Dancing and Drugs 16
The Northern Warehouse Parties and the Fragmentation of the Scene 19
Chapter Three – CHOOSING THE ‘SCENE’ 23
Collective Resistance? 23

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Postmodern Theory, ‘Club Culture’ and Subcultural Capital 24
Neo-tribe, Subculture and the De-politicization of Dance Culture 29
Chapter Four – LIVING THE ‘SCENE’ 31
Counterculture and the Politicization of Dance Culture 31
The Urban Sound System Collectives 32
Conclusion 38
Bibliography 40

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Acknowledgements
I would like to offer love and thanks to my mum and dad, Sheila and John
McPherson, without whose love and belief this would NEVER have happened.
Love and thanks also go to my brother and sister-in-law, Ian and Emma
McPherson for their love and support. Thanks and respect goes out to my friends
(too numerous to mention) for constantly reminding me what I should really be
doing with my life!
Special thanks also go to Dr. Shane Blackman, Dr. Andrew King, and Mr. Rigas
Goulimaris, for their unstinting help and support over the last three years.

4. 4
Higher Than the Sun
A DiscussionofDance Culture, with Reference to Spatial Politics, Postmodern
Theory, and the Politicisation of a Fragmented Scene
Abstract
Presented within four chapters, this essay will engagewith the idea of dance music
culture as evocative of a social space outside of the oppressive norms of society. In
Chapter 1, definition and analysis will be offered regarding the concept of space
and place within dance culture. Chapter 2 offers an historical contextualisation of
danceculture; a discussion of its inherent cultural practices (i.e. dancing anddrug
consumption), and an overview of the early rave scene in Britain (1988-93), up to
its fragmentation into several diverse genres. Chapter 3 is a discussion of post-
fragmentation dance culture with regards to postmodern theory, and how this
recognises dance culture within the context of ‘club culture’ and its attendant
heavily-mediated image. Chapter 4 discusses the role of the urban sound system
collectives within dance culture, and how their existence is both a result of, and
also offers, politicization within dance culture.
Introduction
Dance culture is a vast social phenomenon, which has been subject to a long and
rapidly changing history. In this essay, links will be made between the New Age

5. 5
travellers and their association with the illegal rave scene, and the idea of how the
social space of the alternative festival scene can be linked to the ways in which
rave culture manifested itself in Britain upon its arrival in the late 1980s.
Consequently, links will also be established between the social/cultural/political
stance held by the new age travellers and the alternate rules which exist within the
context of the rave dance floor, whilst conclusions will be offered as to how space
and place, within the context of dance culture, offer sites of social interaction
outside of the norms of everyday society. Concurrently, analysis will be offered
with regard to postmodern theory, and how its notions regarding individual
emancipation within dance culture are both viable and relevant, yet perhaps do not
encapsulate the complete story of a highly evolved cultural movement.

6. 6
Chapter 1: SPACE AND PLACE = ‘SCENE’?
Space and Place – A Definition
Contextualisation of ‘space’ and ‘place’ within the realm of musical consumption
requires an understanding that: “musical processes take place within a particular
space and time, one which is inflected by the imaginative and the sociological, and
which is shaped both by specific musical practices and by the pressures and
dynamics of political and economic circumstances” (Whiteley, 2004: 2). Whiteley
et al. (2004) offer a study of space and place regarding Rap and Hip Hop, and
reggae amongst others, contextualising race, ethnicity and gender in particular, as
the nature of these musical genres sketch out the social/experiential backdrop from
which they originate. Similarly, this essay will attempt to analyse dance culture in
regard to the social background from which it grew, utilising the terms outlined by
such key thinkers upon space and place as Henri Lefebvre and Stuart Hall.
Consequently it is hoped to understand dance culture from the social/experiential
perspective of those who participate within it, allied with an understanding of how
‘ownership’ can be taken of social space, resulting in a heightened sense of place
for the participants, evocative of new identities.
Refined studies concerning the conceptualisation of space and place “heralded a
new language of spatial physics where human activities and phenomena could be

7. 7
reduced to movements, networks, nodes or hierarchies played out on the Earth’s
surface” (Hubbard et al, 2004: 4), whereby “place thus represents a distinctive type
of space that is defined by the lived experiences of people” (Hubbard et al, 2004:
5). As a consequence, the communal nature of dance music culture, where
“everything happens within the space of the party” (McRobbie, 1995: 168; cited in
Richard and Kruger, 1998: 165), demands engagement with concepts of space and
place – primarily due to its association with ‘sites of resistance’ (e.g. Hakim Bey
[1985]) via the brash, loud music that is played, allied with the culture’s indelible
links with drug consumption and all-night dancing, which project the culture’s
difference from the norms of society.
Moments, Subculture and Diaspora
Analysis of the works of Henri Lefebvre and Stuart Hall regarding space and place
are integral to this study. Lefebvre, who was “a neo-Marxist and existentialist
philosopher, a sociologist of urban and rural life and a theorist of the state, of
international flows of capital and of social space” (Shields, 2004: 208), proposed
“that we seize and act on all ‘Moments’ of revelation, emotional clarity and self-
presence” (Shields, 2004: 209), which “are the foundation of a practice of
emancipation” (Shields, 2004: 209). This philosophy offers insight into how the
cultural practice of dancing, and the space within which it takes place (e.g. the rave
dance floor), can be associated with the act of freeing oneself, of providing oneself

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with a platform of identity outside of the rigid norms of society. By offering three
axes: “the ‘perceived space’ of everyday social life ... theoretical ‘conceived space’
of cartographers, urban planners or property speculators ... [and] a ‘lived space’ of
the imagination which has been kept alive and accessible by the arts and literature”
(Shields, 2004: 210), Lefebvre was able to discriminate between space which was
contrived in capitalistic terms, and that which was enacted within the realm of the
imaginary. Consequently, this third space – the imaginary realm – is seen as
transcendent of the other two spaces, making it a “lived space at its richest and
most symbolic” (Gottdiener, 1985; cited in Shields, 2004: 210). Lefebvre’s
simplification of the concept of space illustrates and reinforces the argument of this
essay regarding the transcendent atmosphere present within the social space of the
dance floor, as this ‘lived space’ is indicative of how the social space of dance
culture can be analysed with deeper, richer meanings regarding the concept of
place and identity.
Stuart Hall’s work can also be used to offer insight and background into the dance
culture/space and place debate. The work of Hall, who was a “prominent member
of the British New Left, [and a] guiding influence in the development of the
Birmingham Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies (CCCS)” (Mitchell, 2004:
160), offers background which provides a dual insight into the topic of this essay.
Firstly his own work, and that of the CCCS, with regards to youth culture,

9. 9
suggested that “resistance can appear ... in the development of a new subcultural
style that takes the products and practices of the dominant culture and reshapes
them into something new that gives a subcultural group an identity” (Mitchell,
2004: 162); developing the dominant Youth Studies theoretical paradigm of
‘subculture’ to define youth cultural activities. As outlined later, dance culture can
be seen primarily as a youth cultural movement (although participants are certainly
not confined to being youths), making the class based response of subculture –
which the “CCCS argued ... was always formed in relation to hegemony”
(Mitchell, 2004: 162) – a contentious issue within postmodern theory which is
covered later in this essay. As a consequence, this theoretical opposition helps to
provide greater depth to the academic argument of this essay.
The other aspect of Hall’s work to which this essay will refer is his preoccupation
with the notion of “understanding the experience of race, ethnicity and
subjectivity” (Mitchell, 2004: 162), by utilising the theory of diaspora, which
concentrates upon how “individuals and societies always build a continuity into
which they can inscribe themselves, especially when this continuity has been
rendered difficult by a historical or geographical rupture” (Daynes, 2004: 25). The
idea of diaspora involves the imagination of “a sweeter past and a better future”
(Daynes, 2004: 27), which is located within the racial and ethnical identities of
immigrant peoples of African descent, who frame their present within aspects of

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their past (e.g. cooking and music). Although the notion of diaspora is steeped
within race and ethnicity, for the benefit of this essay it should be noted that
“diasporic subjects represent new kinds of identities – new ways of ‘being
someone’ in the late modern world” (Hall, 1995: 207; cited in Mitchell, 2004:
164). The fractured nature of Britain around the period where dance culture arose
offers a critical space in which the theory of diaspora can be used to analyse and
understand the ethos of dance culture; particularly regarding the New Age
travellers and urban sound system collectives which this essay will later examine,
as their aims regarding identity and a sense of place are comparable to those of
other marginalised social groups.
The Temporary Autonomous Zone
As will be outlined later, the fractured nature of dance culture has led to the
dispersal of the ethos of the unfettered late 1980s dance music culture within
Britain. However, the spontaneous nature of the late 1980s dance scene is a vital
aspect of the debate regarding space and place. This can be ascribed to the
arguments of Hakim Bey (1985), who outlines a theoretical temporary social realm
which matches and determines rave’s associations with space and place, and
Lefebvre’s ideas regarding ‘Moments’. Bey promotes the idea of the ‘Temporary
Autonomous Zone’ (TAZ), which preaches the viability of “transitory ‘pirate
utopias’ [which] can be hastily assembled as fly-by-night sites of cultural

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resistance” (Duncombe, 2002: 113). Insistent that there is little mileage in
revolution (a term he distrusts), Bey recognises that “nothing but a futile
martyrdom could possibly result now from a head-on collision with the terminal
State, the mega-corporate information State” (Bey, 1985: 116) predominant within
Western society. His idea is to activate spasmodic breaches to the autonomy of the
State: “The TAZ is like an uprising which does not engage directly with the State,
a guerrilla operation which liberates an area (of land, of time, of imagination) and
then dissolves itself to reform elsewhere/elsewhen, before the State can crush it”
(Bey, 1985: 117), enacting what he deems to be “a microcosm of that ‘anarchist
dream’ of a free culture” (Bey, 1985: 117). The spaces within which dance culture
took place in its earliest inception (e.g. Northern warehouse parties), and the
current urban sound system collectives (e.g. the Exodus Collective, Spiral Tribe)
which responded to dance culture’s eventual regulation (i.e. the Criminal Justice
and Public Order Act), will be shown to be examples of the embodiment of Bey’s
ideas, but firstly it is important to outline the social and cultural history and
dynamics of dance culture.

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Chapter 2: SETTING THE ‘SCENE’
Dance Music Culture – Historical Background
Dance culture is inhabited by a multitude of metaphorical and physical
connotations: resistance, marginalisation, technology, music, drugs, and dancing
being amongst the most predominant. Having outlined the key concepts regarding
space and place, it is important to offer an historical context to the contribution
space and place have made in dance culture becoming a prominent feature of youth
culture in Britain.
According to Brian Wilson (2006), “The roots of the rave scene can be traced back
to four related movements: (1) the New York City dance scene of the 1970s, a
predominantly gay, black, and Puerto Rican scene; (2) the Chicago ‘house’ music
scene as it existed in the late 1970s to early 1980s; (3) the Detroit ‘techno’ music
scene of the early 1980s; and (4) the British ‘acid house’ scene of the mid to late
1980s that grew out of dance clubs in the holiday-sun location of Ibiza, Spain”
(Wilson, 2006: 40). These movements outline aspects such as identity, music and
location as intrinsic to the overall fabric of dance culture, to which the following
descriptions provide greater detail:

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The New York City dance scene
Whilst dance music itself can be traced as far back as the early 1920s – to dances
such as the Charleston and the Jitterbug – it was not until the arrival of the club
Salvation in 1970, “one of New York’s first ‘flamboyantly out’ gay dance clubs”
(Wilson, 2006: 41), that dance music, or more specifically the social space which
its performance provided, became associated with “a spectacular culture of
defiance and escape” (Wilson, 2006: 41). Salvation’s links to marginalised cultures
are embodied within the riot at ‘The Stonewall Inn’, Greenwich Village, New
York, during the summer of 1969. The Stonewall riots had begun as a result of
excessive harassment of gay bars and clubs in Greenwich Village by the New York
Police Department where there occurred “an uprush of righteous anger sparking off
a full-scale riot which lasted for several nights” (Collin, 1997: 10), leading to “an
outpouring of repressed energy [which] came not only from the new politics of the
gay liberation movement, but a new community and culture” (Collin, 1997: 11). As
a consequence, “the post-Stonewall emergence of the gay club movement was
widely interpreted as a reaction to and escape from mainstream straight-white
society” (Collin, 1997; Garratt, 1998; cited in Wilson: 2006: 41), which recognised
“the importance of the clubs as spaces for expression and unity” (Wilson, 2006:
41); acting as a forbear to the unfettered early UK rave scene of the late 1980s.

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Chicago ‘house’
The Chicago ‘house’ scene was also to have a significant effect upon the
forthcoming rave scene, due to the “emergence of two distinct music consumption
communities” (Wilson, 2006: 44-5), who were distinguishable by the substances
they consumed. As with the rave scene, which was to become splintered into
diverse musical genres (e.g. Happy Hardcore, Jungle), that were commonly
associated with particular types of substance (e.g. ecstasy, crack cocaine), DJ
Frankie Knuckles, playing at The Warehouse, “attracted a usually older crowd that
was interested in more cleanly mixed and soulful dance music” (Wilson, 2006: 45)
who “for the most part [were] taking relatively more expensive experiential and
sensual drugs, such as acid and MDA” (Wilson, 2006: 45). Alternatively, DJ Ron
Hardy, playing at The Music Box, offered “a repetitive onslaught of rhythms and
grooves” (Wilson, 2006: 45) to a younger crowd who took “drugs [which] were
less expensive and intended to induce a state of hyperactivity” (Wilson, 2006: 45),
which was in keeping with the rampant tempo of the music, foreshadowing the
fragmented nature of rave culture, and the inherent drug consumption of
participants within it.

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Detroit ‘techno’
In the early 1980s, Detroit had become “both an industrial wasteland and the
murder capital of the world” (Wilson, 2006: 46) – affording Detroit techno
pioneers Derrick May, Juan Atkins and Derek Saunderson a scene of “urban
decay” (Wilson, 2006: 46) about which to express their feelings of social
antipathy. Detroit techno (as with Chicago house, its foundation being within
technological music) was able to reflect “the obsolescence of modern forms of
industry and increasingly technologized approaches to manufacturing [within
Detroit] ... [it] being science-fiction inspired, computer-generated, and ‘futuristic
sounding’” (Wilson, 2006: 46); framing a future which was “a better alternative to
the racisms and ghetto life of present and past” (Wilson, 2006: 46). The real
significance of this scene to rave culture relates to the fact that Detroit techno
“demonstrated to aspiring DJs how music-making is accessible to almost anyone
through technology” (Wilson, 2006: 46-7), offering a “democratization of this
artistic form” (Wilson, 2006: 47), around which the DiY ethos of the burgeoning
British rave culture would grow.
British ‘acid house’
The roots of British ‘acid house’ can be found in Ibiza, Spain, which had become
“an inexpensive holiday-sun location for British working-class youth in the early

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1980s” (Collin, 1997; Eisner, 1994; Garratt, 1998; Reynolds, 1998; cited in,
Wilson, 2006: 48), due to the tourist trade encouraged by the Spanish premier
General Franco in the 1960s. In an Ibiza club named Amnesia, a DJ named Alfredo
Fiorillo filled the dance floor with a “diverse selection of music: soul, reggae, hip
hop, European electronic pop, and later embryonic house tracks from Chicago”
(Collin, 1997: 50), influencing one of the key figures in British dance culture: Paul
Oakenfold. Upon his return to the UK Oakenfold opened an after-hours club called
the Project, which was attended by Ibiza ‘veterans’, who would come “sporting an
‘Ibiza look and attitude’” (Reynolds, 1998; cited in Wilson, 2006: 49). This led to
the opening of other clubs, for example Shoom, ushering in a pre-rave era which
was supported by the advent of widespread Ecstasy importation, and leading to an
increased popularity where, “for the broader British youth population, the
discovery of acid house/rave music and community ... led the rave movement to its
peak in the summer of 1988 ... the second ‘summer of love’” (Wilson, 2006: 49).
Dancing and Drugs
Dancing and drugs offer a method of entry into the social space of the dance floor,
encapsulating, as they do, the ethos behind dance culture: participation. Analysis of
these key bodily cultural practices of dance culture offers insight into the
understanding of individual and group participation within the space of the dance
floor. Central to this argument is the observation that: “Clubbing is a profoundly

17. 17
visceral and corporeal phenomenon, it is a leisure activity that allows us to shake
off the body of the everyday world and subsequently recreate our own experience
of the world” (Jackson, 2004: 1), offering access to social spaces outside of the
cultural norm. Within a fragmented dance culture, dancing and drug consumption
have remained the two true constant cultural practices.
As stated by Phil Jackson (2004), “Dancing is one of the most crucial elements of
clubbing ... [as it] re-emerged as a mass form of social experience” (Jackson, 2004:
15), which “at times can feel literally transcendent” (Jackson, 2004: 22) to the
participants. To contextualise dancing within the unfettered arena of the rave, it is
worth offering some historical context as to how this era arose. Whilst the disco
dance floor offered a social space which enabled marginalised groups to express
themselves in America, a dance music movement named Northern Soul developed
in early 1970s Britain. Arising in the English North and Midlands, within the
Northern Soul movement there exists a set of rules and disciplines on the dance
floor involving intricate dance steps whereby “ideas of solidarity are produced by
participation on the dance floor” (Wall, 2006: 441), because “as with dance
culture, it was the experience of moving to and being moved by music that was
important” (Hemment, 1998: 211). However, conversely to rave culture, the
Northern Soul environment, which also took place in “venues dominated by the
dance floor” (Wall, 2006: 438), placed “heavy emphasis on the machismo of dance

18. 18
... by creating styles that had to be mastered before they could be displayed”
(Jackson, 2004: 16). Instead of creating an aura of all-inclusiveness, this
competitive trend “left men split into dancers and non-dancers” (Jackson, 2004:
16), until “the arrival of Ecstasy and the rave scene altered the face of dance by
rejecting the adoption of any particular dance style” (Jackson, 2004: 16).
Ecstasy’s influential role in allowing previously withdrawn men to become dance
floor friendly is suggestive that drug consumption and dancing can be analysed as
forming a symbiotic relationship within dance music culture. Whilst it should be
noted that not all participants in dance music culture consume drugs, McKay
(1996) recognises that “both ravers themselves and reporters and critics emphasize
the centrality of E[cstasy]” (McKay, 1996: 110) to the rave experience. Without
the inhibition reducing properties of drugs such as Speed and Ecstasy, it is highly
likely that the nature of rave culture would never have become as all-inclusive as it
became. Indeed, Brian Wilson states that “the rave is an exceptionally conducive
space for decadent, indulgent ‘partying’ – in other words, for using usually illegal
high-energy amphetamine drugs, and for uninhibited all-night dancing and
socializing” (Wilson, 2006: 85). This observation renders it fair to suggest that “the
enactogenic empathy-generating drug MDMA, commonly known as Ecstasy ...
made a contribution to what is now understood as the rave scene of 1988-93,
giving its participants a feeling of a shared inevitable importance” (Rietveld, 1998:

19. 19
252), as participants were overcome by the totality of the experience of taking
drugs which were simpatico with a musical style which was “counted in beats per
minute ... generally in a pumping 4/4 time” (McKay, 1996: 110).
The Northern Warehouse Parties and the Fragmentation of the Scene
Upon in its inception in Britain, dance culture was subject to a high level of
spontaneity – befitting of its deregulated nature. Consequently, the non-linear,
temporal ethos of early British dance culture persists as an example of the re-
enactment of Bey’s previously cited idea of the TAZ, because, as he imparts, “Like
festivals, uprisings cannot happen every day – otherwise they would not be ‘non-
ordinary’” (Bey, 1985: 116). Drew Hemment (1998) regales the story of the
Northern warehouse parties of Blackburn from around 1990, which by their very
nature resemble the TAZ, due to their taking place in “derelict factories and brand-
new prefabricated warehouses” (Hemment, 1998: 212) which “provided the perfect
venues for the party phenomenon that could appear out of nowhere and vanish
without trace in its effort to outwit the police” (Hemment, 1998: 213). These
parties are evidence of “the explosion of illegal, underground warehouse parties
that abandoned the bureaucratic structure of licences and health and safety
regulations, and instead sought spaces where the penetrating gaze of the law could
not reach” (Hemment, 1998: 212) – a renewed social space which enabled the
construction of new identities within the confines of the dance floor. Embodying

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early dance culture within Britain by “the way it [the music] was played and
received – especially the do or die attitude – created a unique sense of place and a
feeling of cultural empowerment” (Hemment, 1998: 211); the concept of these
warehouse parties was akin to the ‘pirate utopias’ philosophy of the TAZ.
Lefebvre’s notion of ‘Moments’ can also be recognised within the social realm of
the warehouse parties, as the ‘cultural empowerment’ to which Hemment refers
represents a “practice of emancipation” (Shields, 2004: 209), shedding light onto
how dance culture offered a social space for the establishment of fresh (group and
individual) identities, which were otherwise suppressed by the rigid norms of
everyday society.
Hemment’s recollections regarding the belligerent atmosphere of the deregulated
Northern warehouse parties of 1990 also offer prominent information regarding the
fragmented future of the dance music scene in Britain. Whilst dance culture was, as
outlined by Hemment, attempting to function within a closed circle – away from
the prying eyes and oppressions of everyday society – police action, which was
taken in order to prevent these parties going ahead, meant that “a culture of
criminality and violence developed within a cultural space dedicated to music and
dance that was initially non-violent” (Hemment, 1998: 213). Indeed, it “was in the
confrontation with the intransigent blue lines of the law that dance culture became
overtly politicised” (Hemment, 1998: 217), and further to this, the draconian

21. 21
measures of the 1994 Criminal Justice and Public Order Act (CJA) only served to
reinforce the tempestuous relationship between the law, its enforcers, and dance
music culture. The regulated nature of the CJA, whose measures included giving
the police: “‘powers to remove persons attending or preparing for a rave’ ...
defined as ‘a gathering on land in the open air of 100 or more persons ... at which
amplified music is played during the night’ where ‘(a) ... the gathering extends
over several days’ and ‘(b) *music* includes sounds wholly or predominantly
characterised by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats’” (Burns, 1992;
cited in Rietveld, 1998: 246), ensured that dance music culture was consigned to a
fragmented future. Subsequently, the original ethos and spirit of dance culture,
which is encapsulated within Hakim Bey’s TAZ, was to become attached to sound
system collectives such as the Exodus Collective and Spiral Tribe, who were
prepared to accept the challenge of living on the periphery of a society which
offered only marginalisation through its oppressive legislations.
As a consequence, the future of the regulated global dance music culture was
carved in stone by the CJA and the authoritarian approach of the British
government and authorities, because “dance culture [became] split into two parallel
universes, as, on one hand, club culture swallowed the poisoned pill of
respectability and built its elegant castles in the sky, and, on the other, the free
party scene forged links with a wider countercultural movement with its potent

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combination of traveller mobility and sound system ampliphonics” (Hemment,
1998: 219-20). Although Hemment paints a picture of an organic, self-regulating
dance scene in the Northern warehouse parties, he does offer a pertinent indication
of the inevitability of regulation. Whilst these parties did include “people [who]
dedicated their time and risked their liberty for free” (Hemment, 1998: 216), it
should also be noted that “the Blackburn parties were ultimately organised and run
by an inner cell of gangsters ... [who] made such wholesale mayhem possible”
(Hemment, 1998: 216). As a result, although these free party spaces stand out as
examples of a lived alternative lifestyle – embodying Lefebvre’s idea of grasping
‘Moments’ to facilitate transcendence – it should be noted that “in contrast to the
anti-market ideology that would later prevail within the free parties, here the
commodity exchange of late capitalism had been replaced by the covert
profiteering of the black economy” (Hemment, 1998: 216), and that the urban
sound system collectives offer an adjusted version of the ethos behind this scene.

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Chapter 3: CHOOSING THE ‘SCENE’
Collective Resistance?
The fragmentation of dance culture has led to its becoming invested with
contrasting academic analyses. This can be related to the fact that on the one hand,
“the rave event is a suspension of everyday rules” (Richard and Kruger, 1998:
170), where participation creates space outside of the rigid norms of society, whilst
on the other hand, participation is also subject to these rigid norms, as “it is a
consumer-led style, reflecting the excessive consumption of contemporary Western
societies” (Richard and Kruger, 1998: 170), which is “subject to group conventions
and the impacts of mass mediated culture” (Wilson, 2006: 31). Acting as a
previous example, it can be seen that disco ultimately became incorporated within
a “conspicuous whiteness and heterosexuality” (Hubbs, 2007: 231) through the
image of the film Saturday Night Fever (Dir. Badham, 1977), which “portrayed
working-class youth whose identities were defined by their weekend excesses
(dancing, drinking, and drugs) at a disco nightclub” (Wilson, 2006: 43). This film
“caricatured and effectively ‘flattened’ a dance scene previously defined by its
depth (i.e. its symbolic – resistive meaning) and complexity (e.g. its gay, black,
and Puerto Rican context)” (Collin, 1997; cited in Wilson, 2006: 43), transforming
it from “a social movement into a mainstream, commercialized fad” (Wilson,
2006: 43); destroying its connotation with ‘collective resistance’, and locating it

24. 24
within the dominant (i.e. white, heterosexual) ideologies of America. Post-
regulation, a similar fate awaited dance culture.
Postmodern Theory, ‘Club Culture’ and Subcultural Capital
Prior to its enforced fragmentation, dance culture, for a short period, “was
characterised by the integration of different classes, races and sexual preferences at
the same parties” (Wilson, 2006: 50), but this “incubation period was rather short”
(Wilson, 2006: 50). Hence, dance culture, having become stymied by the passing
of the initial euphoria of any fresh youth cultural advent, and also because, as
already stated, “Since 1991, various types of laws have been introduced to curb the
pleasures of, first, acid house, then rave and free sound system parties” (Rietveld,
1998: 246), became viewed as less a culture of communality and more closely
linked with individuality within contemporary academic circles – leading to what
postmodern theorist Sarah Thornton (1994) dubbed: ‘club culture’.
Postmodern theory raises the issue of temporality within dance music culture,
contending that participants have the individual choice to move in and out of the
culture at their own will, as determined by their consumer choices (e.g. drugs,
music, clothes). ‘Club culture’ is an example of this. Ben Malbon (1998) offers an
empirically based research of urban club culture, in which he describes the city as
“the site of a multitude of ‘social spaces’ of varying levels of sociality” (Malbon,

25. 25
1998: 267), where “a temporary escape from the obligations we impose upon
ourselves” (Malbon, 1998: 269) can be sought and achieved, as seen in the film
Human Traffic (Dir. Kerrigan, 1999). This film documents the post-rave club
culture in 1990s Britain, tracing the lives of a group of ‘clubbers’ around the urban
club scene in Cardiff, opening up the difference between the early warehouse rave
scene, and the more highly mediated nature of club culture to deeper critical
analysis.
Outlining the club environment as a space outside of the rigid norms of city life,
where “spaces or contexts of social interactions become key factors in terms of our
opportunities to refashion ourselves and identify with others” (Malbon, 1998: 277),
Malbon recognises club culture as a site of social differentiation, but contextualises
it within the factors of individuality and choice. Indeed, it is possible to locate this
argument within evidence from Human Traffic, where we meet a group of friends
who spend the week suffering their daily chores within their work positions, before
they explode into the separate social world of urban club culture at the weekend.
Two of central character Jip’s (John Simm) monologues regarding the uninspiring
nature of his daily life, and his desire for the weekend to arrive, offer an insight
into this:
“Fuckin’hell, fuckin’ hate this job, man. Spend ninehoursa day, five days a
week incarcerated in this wankyfuckin’ store. Having to act like C3PO to any twat

26. 26
that wantsto condescend to us, you know whatI mean? We have to brown-nose the
customers, get abused by some mini fuckin’ Hitler, who just gives us stick all day”
“The weekend has landed. All that exists now is drugs, clubs, pubs and
parties. I’ve got 48 hours off from the world, man. I’m gonna blow steam outta my
head like a screaming kettle. I’m gonna talk cod-shit to strangers all-night, I’m
gonna lose the plot on the dance floor. The free radicals inside me are freakin’,
man. I’m going to never-never land with my chosen family, man!”
Through these examples, it is indeed possible to recognise ‘club culture’ as a
lifestyle choice made to obtain a temporary escape from the oppressions of
everyday working life. Unlike the TAZ, which features the idea of a temporary
space which can be easily reinstated to its original form, club culture takes place
within permanent sites which are regulated by common rules and guidelines. These
clubs offer fleeting utopia, embodied within the usual characteristics of dance
culture (dancing, drug consumption, electronic music), but none of the ‘piracy’ to
which Duncombe (2002) refers, allowing its participants to return to the realm of
‘normality’, in what Jip refers to as: “Back to mundane Monday”.
Unlike previously, when “ravers sought out freedoms associated with the risk of
unregulated spaces” (Marsh, 2006: 428), club culture is, according to Thornton,
governed by “a subcultural class system” (Wilson, 2006: 51), whereby she relates

27. 27
participation to her theory of ‘subcultural capital’. This is the accruement of social
and cultural status, which is “objectified in the form of fashionable haircuts and
well-assembled record collections” (Thornton, 2006: 100) that preoccupies the
mind of the participant. Human Traffic contains further evidence of the role of
‘subcultural capital’ as we observe the inherent narcissism and voyeurism within
club culture. Unlike the earlier, unfettered rave scene, Moff (Danny Dyer) spends
much of the evening in the club on drugs observing what is going on, looking at
women and studying the scene as it unfolds before him. It is his friend Koop’s
(Shaun Parkes) paranoia which is most revealing, though. He believes that Moff is
looking at his girlfriend Nina (Nicola Reynolds), to which Moff replies: “I’m
looking at the all the girls in here”, and it can be seen that both Nina and Lulu
(Lorraine Pilkington), the two girls within the group, have taken exceptional time
in looking just right for the night out (there is a heap of tried-on clothes in the
bedroom in which they prepare for the evening). This exemplifies the difference
that regulation and subsequent fragmentation made to dance culture. In came the
narcissistic element which had previously been rejected: unlike the acid house club
scene, where participants parodied themselves as holiday makers by wearing beach
wear, wearing the correct apparel and exacting the expected image within the
realm of the club has become an adherence to the social norms of consumerism,
and the accruement of authentication within the scene.

28. 28
Drug consumption within club culture can also be analysed from the perspective of
subcultural capital, mainly due to its highlighted portrayal within media circles.
For example, it can be seen that dance culture magazines such as Mixmag and
Ministry have also played an influential role in the commercialisation of the dance
scene. Shane Blackman, in his book ‘Chilling Out’ (2004), associates their
presence with the concept of ‘drug tourism’. This term “refers to a location which
becomes popular with people because of the accessibility of drugs” (Blackman,
2004: 174), illustrative of how rave culture has been transformed from its origins
as an organic subcultural activity into a consumerist leisure pursuit which sees
participants not only travelling the length and breadth of Britain, but also “a mass
leisure travel belief where adventure is commodified and packaged by corporate
holiday companies” (Blackman, 2004: 174-5) – the advent of ‘global dance
culture’. Blackman associates this with: “Magazines directed at the contemporary
youth culture market [which] consistently cover drug issues and stories and
regularly present articles about drugs as the main feature of an edition” (Blackman,
2004: 174), therefore pushing drug consumption into the forefront of club culture.
Whilst accepting that “drug tourism is not a new cultural activity” (Blackman,
2004: 174), the presence of media publications such as Mixmag and Ministry has
resulted “in clubbers becoming a type of leisure commuter in pursuit of the most
pleasurable experience” (Blackman, 2004: 175), and have opened the way for a

29. 29
“global dance culture [which] with its regular annual festivals has been quickly
incorporated into the traditional holiday business” (Blackman, 2004: 176).
Undoubtedly, the greater mediation offered to dance culture, subsequent to the
greater regulation and fragmentation of the scene, has offered consumers the
opportunity to pursue temporary escape from everyday social norms, but the victim
of the piece within club culture seems to have been the ethos which abounded
within the nascent rave scene in Britain of the late 1980s.
Neo-tribe, Subculture and the De-politicization of Dance Culture
Observations regarding the consumption patterns, subcultural capital and
individual choice-led view of club culture reinforce the view “that the evolution of
rave has been characterized by a move towards commercialization” (Miles, 2000:
92). This observation is explained by the postmodernist appropriation of the
concept ‘neo-tribes’ of Michel Maffesoli (1996; cited in Blackman, 2005),
regarding how youth cultural activities can be explained. As previously mentioned,
earlier work on youth culture, performed by the CCCS, housed youth cultural
activity under the banner of ‘subcultures’ (e.g. Mod and Punk), which were
emergent from distinct social class backgrounds. Shane Blackman (2005) validates
this term as such: “subcultures are lived and experienced through hierarchical
structures where struggle is played out against social categories such as class,
gender and ethnicity that interpolate the social identities of individuals in

30. 30
subcultures” (Blackman, 2005: 15). However, postmodern theorists are keen to
categorize youth within the theoretical framework of neo-tribe, which sees
consumerism “as a motor-force in late modern society and a key resource for
individuals in the construction of social identities and forming social relations with
others” (Bennett, 2005: 255), a view which is reinforced by the concept of ‘drug
tourism’ which was alluded to earlier.
By endorsing club culture as a matter of individual choice, and rejecting the term
subculture (with its counter-hegemonic connotations) postmodern theory is acting
to depoliticise dance culture. All thoughts of connections with ‘collective
resistance’ are being denied, instead replaced by what are viewed as individual
opportunities to achieve fleeting emancipation from everyday oppressions via
consumption. Whilst postmodern theory can be housed within Lefebvre’s concept
of ‘Moments’ regarding emancipation, one expects that he was referring to sites of
mutual resistance, not individual ‘Moments’ of temporal emancipation. This is
why it is vital to analyse the impact made by DiY culture and urban sound system
collectives upon dance culture, and how their mere presence in society offers
politicization to dance culture that postmodern theory might discard due to its
preoccupation with the notion of the individual.

31. 31
Chapter 4: LIVING THE ‘SCENE’
Counterculture and the Politicization of Dance Culture
Rave culture (not to be confused with club culture) is most commonly associated
with being a form of counterculture, which “explicitly harked back to the sixties”
(McKay, 1996: 103) through its association with being the Second Summer of
Love of 1988 (the first being in 1966). As previously outlined, rave culture
morphed from a hybrid of diverse musical and social backgrounds, before really
taking off in late 1980s Britain. After its initial burst of creativity and opposition,
academics have either been inclined to inscribe it with a political persuasion or a
consumerist persuasion, depending upon their standpoint. Whilst postmodern
theorists are correct to outline the role of individual choice within dance culture,
and that it is a site of consumerism where individual emancipation can be sought
on a temporal basis, it is necessary to highlight the case of the urban sound system
collectives of Spiral Tribe and the Exodus Collective to illustrate how rave culture
also offers expression of a more permanent, diverse lifestyle. According to McKay
(1996), “it’s within the rewrite of the sixties and the extension of the free festival
ethos ... that rave’s strongest claims to countercultural activity lie” (McKay, 1996:
117), and returning to the Criminal Justice Act, we can see that “almost the entirety
of rave culture was inadvertently politicized by the legislation of an inept
government” (McKay, 1996: 118); reinforcing a view of governmental concern at

32. 32
this ‘alternative’ cultural space, which is also evidenced by Hemment’s view of the
Northern warehouse parties earlier in this essay.
The Urban Sound System Collectives
Analysis of the position of the traveller fraternity and urban sound system
collectives within dance culture necessitates a return to the fulcrum of this
argument: space and place. To comprehend the motive force behind the advent of
sound system collectives, it is vital to see that “Outdoor raves or free parties, at
which part of the process is the construction of a new space, one constructed
uniquely for the event” (McKay, 1996: 119) were a bold, resistant move made by
groups of people who wished to separate themselves from the every day norms of
society. Hence, Hakim Bey’s theorisation of space and the TAZ persists within
urban sound system collectives, and it is worth returning to his work to outline the
ethos to which they adhere.
Prior to outlining his temporal ‘pirate’ sites of utopia, Bey begs these beseeching
questions: “Are we who live in the present doomed never to experience autonomy,
never to stand for one moment on a bit of land ruled only by freedom? Are we
reduced either to nostalgia for the past or nostalgia for the future? Must we wait
until the entire world is freed of political control before even one of us can claim to
know freedom?” (Bey, 1985: 114); framing human life within the dominion of

33. 33
cultural and social oppression and authoritarianism. This raised awareness of how
human space is located within the domain of land, and land ownership, identifies
Lefebvre’s three axes as intrinsic to this argument. ‘Conceived space’ – that
contrived by the cartographer – has determined that in Britain “the exclusive use of
land is perhaps the most manifest of class barriers” (Monbiot, 1998: 185),
‘perceived space’ represents the normal everyday activities of society within this
contrived space, whilst the imaginary ‘lived space’ is represented by the stance of
the urban sound system collectives, who were built out of the “New Traveller
movement of the mid-eighties ... [and pursued] the construction or reclamation of
space” (McKay, 1998: 28), within which they wished to express an individualistic
(collective) lifestyle. As Hillegonda Rietveld (1998) states, “The DiY version of
events is also a story that talks of free parties and anti-commercialism. Above all, it
is a story which stresses collectiveness: no more hierarchies of star performers and
of ‘Mr Big’ the organiser” (Rietveld, 1998: 248); this reflects the ethos of the post-
fragmentation sound collectives: theirs was a desire to exist within a social space
which they could lay claim to, from which a collective identity could be borne, and
to which capitalist society was unable to lay claim.
At this point, the difference between individualistic postmodern theory and the
collective nature of the free rave scene becomes magnified. Whilst postmodern
theory deals with urban spaces, and offers insight into how club culture offers

34. 34
release from the tightly bound identities of everyday urban life, it is vital to outline
the role of rural space within dance culture. Indeed, it has been said that “urban and
rural spaces also provide rich experiential settings in which music is consumed”
(Bennett, 2004: 2), exemplified by the fact that “rural settings such as quarries as
well as in caves around the Pennines, Lake District and Cheshire, Rave in the Cave
parties have provided memorable small-scale one-night events since 1993”
(Rietveld, 1998: 248). The rural idyll of traveller life, in which “rural rather than
town life acts as a model for an ideal society in harmony with nature”
(Hetherington, 1998: 334), is exemplified within the free rave scene organised by
Spiral Tribe and the Exodus Collective, who occupied space which was owned by
the likes of “the Department of Transport in order to widen the M1, [but was] then
left to rot” (Malyon, 1998: 195), allied to the fact that “travellers live the
alternative, [they] do not merely have an alternative-type occasional lifestyle”
(McKay, 1996: 116). This is the true ethos of the urban sound system collective.
Although both Spiral Tribe and the Exodus Collective represent the alternative
collective ethos of the free rave scene, they also offer differing outlooks towards
anti-commercialism. Whilst “Spiral Tribe have had a lot of publicity, mostly due to
their hardcore belief in free non-stop techno dancing” (Rietveld, 1998: 248),
through which they “profess a more hardcore idea which takes human stamina to
its extremes, by living through exhausting nights and days of sleep deprivation”

35. 35
(Rietveld, 1998: 248), it is the Exodus Collective who promote and demonstrate a
close affinity with a self-sufficient lifestyle. Consequently, these sound system
collectives have still attracted plenty of interest and attention from the authorities
in Britain in their pursuit of transcendent ‘lived space’ outside of the cultural norm.
For example, Spiral Tribe suffered police harassment due to their uncompromising
nature – epitomised by this example of their lifestyle from one of their members:
“Castlemorton (1992) we were going for six days non-stop. Camelford in
August ’91 we were going fourteen days, twenty-four hours. To experience thatyou
experience a world you didn’t know existed. The sun goes down, the moon comes
up and you see the world spinning. My record is nine days without sleep. It’s a
shamanic thing” (Lowe and Shaw, 1993; cited in Rietveld, 1998: 248).
The result of this belligerent stance, exemplified in their rejection of the time-
scales applied to everyday social life, and the severe police harassment they were
subjected to, was that they ended up having to take to mainland Europe, ensuring
that “Spiral tribe’s historical importance is that they have inspired several sound
systems of a particular hardcore techno format” (Rietveld, 1998: 251). This, of
course, included the “Luton-based Exodus Collective, who have received
considerable press and police attention for various activities ... using their large
parties for local people to support their social welfare DiY group” (Rietveld, 1998:
251).

36. 36
As has already been outlined within postmodern theory, it should be recognised
that “to take part in the act of dancing in our contemporary dance-drug culture ... is
not political in itself” (Rietveld, 1998: 266) – it is the reactions of the authorities
which have offered dance culture politicization by virtue of their obvious
discomfort with it, and the ridiculous lengths to which they have gone in an effort
to contain it. Within this context, it is the Exodus Collective’s involvement within
local social welfare which offers the greatest support to dance culture within the
field of politicization. The prior fragmentation of dance culture, which led to a
regulated, governed club culture, had provided ample room for individual
consumption choices that offered the consumer a form of temporary emancipation
from his/her daily oppressions, and the opportunity to fleetingly occupy a different
identity group before returning to their cultural ‘norm’. However the Exodus
Collective offers much more to their local community, by virtue of their self
sufficient lifestyle. For example, at one of their early party venues, Longmeadow
Farm:
“Extensive renovation was carried out on the farm buildings, as well as a
bungalow and house where collective members now live. Almost all the wood used
was from pallets donated by local businesses. There’s a growing herd of animals,
including horses, goats, a bullock, sheep, ducks ... the plan is to open the farm up
to the public, and especially local schools” (Malyon, 1998: 195).

37. 37
This creation of a new group identity, steeped within work which offers
reconstruction of social spaces which have been left bare by capitalism and
returning them to the community, is where the concept of diaspora, intrinsic to so
much of Stuart Hall’s work on space and place (most specifically with race and
ethnicity) can become connected to dance culture. Diaspora’s connotation of “a
sweeter past and a better future” (Daynes: 2004: 27) can be tallied with one of the
questions regarding space which Bey asked earlier: “Are we reduced either to
nostalgia for the past or nostalgia for the future?” (Bey, 1985: 114), indicative of a
location within ‘lived space’ offering both a remembrance of the past, and a
wistfulness towards the future; of people locked into social/cultural identities with
which they are uncomfortable or unfamiliar. Hence, “Exodus’s word-of-mouth
access to thousands of people and its history of reclaiming territory for the
dispossessed” (Malyon, 1998: 195) is demonstrative of how the free rave scene
which accompanied their social welfare work was a space in which disenfranchised
people felt able to gather in order to exist within a social space. Here, their identity
was dictated by their own lived experiences, and their nostalgia for the past and
dreams of the future could become expressed within a space of the present.
Identities which were suppressed by such oppressive measures as the CJA, and
which could be fleetingly experienced within the context of the regulated club
culture atmosphere, were offered an extension within the work of the Exodus

38. 38
Collective which used its sound system as a call-to-arms. In effect, this imaginary
‘lived space’ reinforces what Hall (1995) suggests – that people could learn “to
think of themselves, of their identities and their relationship to culture and to place
in ... more open ways” (Hall, 1995: 207; cited in Mitchell, 2004: 164), by being
given the space for “new ways of ‘being someone’” (Hall, 1995: 207; cited in
Mitchell, 2004: 164), if provided the space and place to do so.
Conclusion
In conclusion, one has to suggest that dance culture is a politicized scene, by the
very nature of its existence. Certainly, it is relevant to discuss urban ‘club culture’
within the individualistic terms which postmodern theorists outline, because of the
obvious consumption patterns of participants and the wealth of attendant media
images which now transport the scene to a wider audience. However, having
established the history of dance culture, and discussed the cultural practices
inherent within it, it must be recognised, as this essay argues, that “Free parties
allow more space for new insights than commercial dance events ... [as] dance-
drug events can provide a real sense of community to those who feel politically
dislocated” (Rietveld, 1998: 267) – as exemplified by the role of Spiral Tribe and
the Exodus Collective in dance culture. Analysis of space and place, and the work
of Henri Lefebvre, Stuart Hall and Hakim Bey, offers theoretical grounding to the
concept of dance culture. This provides insight into how its participants ‘live’

39. 39
within it in an experiential way, ensuring enriched analysis of the cultural practices
which exist within the confines of the dance floor space, and how its potent
combination of freedom and difference can offer participants a transcendent
experience outside of their cultural ‘norm’.
Word Count: 8,060 including title

40. 40
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