Recently, I spent two and a half hours of my life standing in line for Berghain. For the uninitiated, Berghain is the infamous Berlin nightclub with one of the world’s strictest entry policies, known for its dedication to techno and sexual liberation. To be completely honest, I wasn’t sure if it would be my cup of tea, but Berlin is a city that will test you and I was willing to be tested. So I waited in line with my friends, decked out in our all-black, in the rain and cold, in desperate need of a piss, only to be waved away, cold, wet and on the verge of developing a kidney stone, by the three white men at the door. After waiting in line all that time and not getting in, I asked myself, why the fuck do I do stuff like this?
Well, since the dawn of time humans have picked up sticks, banged them together to make a beat and moved their bodies to that sound. I am drawn to this concept, this moveable feast, this notion of where will the night take me? And there are more than a few reasons for this.
Raise your hand if you are a baddie with a complicated relationship with the concept of belonging. In fact, what is the human experience, if not random attempts at belonging? We all search for it, perhaps in strange places. Whilst you won’t catch me at a run club, you will often catch me making friends in the smokers’ lounge, and it appears I am not the only one. All around me, I see cool events popping up run by those of us looking for like minds. Being away from my home city has intensified this search. As a result, I’ve found myself patronising a magazine launch run by Arab creatives with the most incredible Arab-inspired house music. I’ve attended a ‘dance around the world’ party with DJs from London’s largest diasporas, and I’ve forgotten what time and what day it is at a queer Brazilian funk party. These events are calling for community, of all kinds, and they are dedicated to us and anyone who knows what it feels like to be us. The dance floor has long been a place of political protest as well as a house of frivolity and hedonism. For those of us who stand outside the white cis male archetype, our joy, our community-building, our frivolity is an act of resistance, and I see it clearly as we make space for that so-called ‘otherness’ on the dance floor.
History contains ample examples of the political power of the club. The Stonewall Uprising led by trans and lesbian women of colour was a reaction to systemic discrimination and police brutality faced by the LGBTQI+ community. Whilst in the UK I’ve come across Daytimers, a staple of UK rave culture gone by, where the South Asian youth of the 80s and 90s threw day raves and directly challenged stereotypes of South Asians. This took place at a time where racism against South Asians in the UK was characterised by violent street attacks that, at their worst, resulted in death. Entire genres of music like disco, rock and techno have been born from Black creativity, culture and resistance. Someone recently told me techno started in Berlin. Actually, it was created by three black teenagers from Detroit, Juan Atkins, Derrick May, and Kevin Saunderson, at a time when the city was experiencing significant economic downturn and social unrest. This work, this organisation, for action or for joy, is far from dead.
In my home city of Melbourne, incredible collectives like @kewfew and many others are building safe spaces centred around the enjoyment of the arts, and the impact of them cannot be overstated. I write from many perspectives, including a child-of-immigrants perspective, a female perspective and a POC perspective, and I can see why these spaces have been so healing for me. Perhaps one of the cornerstones of Anglo-Australian and British culture is having a pint at a pub. We just want a piece of that feeling of community too, so we create it ourselves. I could use many words explaining the unique experiences and pressures that I’ve experienced at the intersections I stand at, but I can’t be fucked anymore; I want to put them out of my mind and have a dance on a Saturday night with my friends. I want to do so in a place where I like the music, where I can speak to people who will speak back, a place where I will feel attractive. Those things might sound silly, but they’re fundamental aspects for the social development of young people, and many of us have been denied them. It took me a long time to find places in Melbourne where I felt comfortable. In 2024 I went to Promiseland Festival; upon entering the grounds someone walked past me and said, ‘You’re beautiful!’ I texted my friend, is this what it’s like to be a white girl at the espy?
Rest assured, I am not trying to alienate anyone from their night out. I bring my white friends to POC events, my male friends, everyone. I go to the events held by cultures I am not a part of just to support and enjoy the good vibes. My queer friends bring me into queer spaces and I am
grateful. These events are not a refusal to assimilate, they only serve to create a space where a person can rest, enjoy themself and access community. Society can get scared when that desire comes from us, but that’s exactly why these spaces need to exist. We follow in the footsteps of our parents, who blasted ethnic music and cooked delicious-smelling foods despite the noise complaints and nosy neighbours who rued the day we moved in next-door. Dancing and music are central to so many of our cultures, so it is only right that we make it a central part of the diaspora too. So to those of you organising, making these spaces exist, I applaud you; keep going, I will be your patron.
Beyond all of this, there is a certain level of freedom and emotional catharsis that partying permits that we should all be able to enjoy. Perhaps it’s the darkness, the music, a general lack of inhibition; perhaps it’s all of that mixed together. I remember one fateful night years ago in the smokers’ lounge of 333 in Melbourne. In a place I go to to be amongst POC baddies and shake arse to Sean Paul, I cried the kind of cry I was too proud to cry anywhere else. In the darkness, amongst the smoke and haze, I wept on my best friend’s shoulder, and wept is no exaggeration. I cried the ‘why didn’t he want me cry,’ the ‘what did I do wrong’ and the ‘who do I have to be’ cry. These are not phrases I would utter in the daytime, nor in my current stage of life, but I am human and they crossed my mind at the time. I put down my pride for a moment and allowed myself to crumble. Whilst I was weeping, eyes swollen from tears, my best friend still consoling me, a man came bouncing over and asked gleefully ‘Can I sit with you guys?’
Despite this ill-timed interjection, that smokers’ lounge, and of course my best friend’s shoulder, became my safe space to cry. Rest assured, you won’t catch me crying about a man often, but there is something about those conversations, hushed tones between drags amid distorted music and an ever-present thumping base line, where we learn things about each other that perhaps we would not in any other context. Maybe in a different place, in a different context, I wouldn't have been able to have that moment of vulnerability. On these occasions I have learnt things about my friends, spoken to them about things they don’t usually talk about, heard confessions in the girls’ bathroom and born witness to drunken declarations of love and weak attempts at intimacy, be it physical or emotional. Being in line at Berghain could have been a total waste of time, if not for the fact that I was drunk yapping with my dear friend Lily the whole time. We dove deep into family lore and heartbreaks, cackled the whole time and promised each other we would never stop being creative. The line for Berghain is one of the highlights of my trip.
I know the club isn’t a perfect place. I know going out every weekend isn't healthy. Things change, your friends leave their partying phase or get into relationships and suddenly you have no one to go out with. The coolest event series you love gets sponsored by a shitty brand and suddenly the Instagram crowd comes out to play. The club becomes a place to be seen rather than a place to be enjoyed. But for some reason, we continue to venture out there, to a club, to a festival, fully knowing that it could be a waste of time and money. I continue to take that chance because there are times when I’ve forgotten the troubles of the previous week on the dance floor. Because I deserve to get dressed up and feel beautiful despite not meeting the beauty standards of the world. Because I want to meet like and open minds, and I often meet them in the girls’ bathroom! I do all this in the ways that make sense to me. I love music; I just want to have fun with my friends, enjoy my twenties and feel comfortable when I do so. Before we die in the climate wars, the AI revolution or World War Three, I hope you get a few good nights out with your friends.