“A really good space to do a party” Electronic dance music’s relationships with space

MA Thesis

Sebastian Harris 12789593

Supervisor: Daan Wesselman Comparative Literature University of Amsterdam June 2020

Contents

1. Introduction 2

2. Electronic dance music and post-industrial space 5 2.1. Sound and space 7 2.2. “Metal structures” 9 2.3. Space, sound and noise 10 2.4. Conclusion 12

3. Techno music and Detroit city 13 3.1. Alien sound in an alien space 14 3.2. Techno music 17 3.3. Technological space 19 3.4. Conclusion 21

4. Rave and the English countryside 23 4.1. Rural idyll 24 4.2. Old School Rave - The Morning After the Night Before 27 4.3. I’m gonna keep dancing forever, me” 29 4.4. Conclusion 30

5. Conclusion 32

6. Works Cited 34

1 Introduction

Imagine for a moment that you make movies. In one scene of your upcoming picture a young couple dance together on the grounds of Littlecote House - an Elizabethan stately home in the English countryside. You are considering the soundscape that should accompany this particular moment. Light and pleasant classical music to which the couple dance, intermittent chirrups of nesting birds, and perhaps the gentle rustle of nearby trees in the breeze. Some of these suggestions might spring to mind. They align with common ideas we have about stately homes and rural England. It is this alignment, this relationship that exists between sound and space, that I am interested in. Why is it, for instance, that the deafening noise of one hundred or more motor engines would be considered an unconventional soundscape for the aforementioned scene? If the script of your movie juxtaposed such discordant sound with the rural space, it would have to be assumed that something unusual is going on. This assumption could be made solely from given information regarding the sound and the space, thereby suggesting that sound plays an important role in the way we understand space.

In the closing shot of my favourite YouTube video, this exact juxtaposition takes place. ​ ​ “Old School Rave - The Morning After The Night Before” is a short burst of footage that captures wide-eyed revellers on their way out of a rave. The event took place on the grounds of Littlecote House, and throughout the film our expectations of rural England are repeatedly challenged. The film culminates in a shot of two dancers with the building behind them, and nothing but a cacophony of mechanical noise to accompany their moves. In this shot, the relationship between sound and space is brought sharply into focus.

It is clear, however, that electronic dance music lays at the heart of the video’s unusual combination of sound and space. Never heard during the film, the pounding beats of a rave echo through the lead dancers’ moves. A visual reminder that the challenge to rural expectations is a result of the antecedent music. “Old School Rave” specifically demonstrates, therefore, the incoherence between electronic dance music and conventional ideas about rural space. Throughout this thesis, it is relationships like this one that I will investigate.

I will specifically look at electronic dance music in three distinct instances of space - post-industrial, urban and rural. By keeping the sounds constant throughout, I want to explore the different relationships that they can have within changing spatial conditions. Why has electronic dance music been affiliated with post-industrial and urban space? What are the consequences of this affiliation, both in the way the music is presented and the characteristics of the music itself? Furthermore, what happens when this patently urban music is blasted in a field in Berkshire? Here the music is notably ‘out of place’, what lasting effect (if any) does this contrast have on the understanding of rural spaces?

These questions are significant because sound and space are often not considered alongside one another. Susan Smith raises this as a problem, suggesting that geographical work on space would benefit from the inclusion of studies on sound (1994; 1997). At the end of

2 the twentieth century, and the beginning of the twenty-first, studies in geography underwent a cultural turn. Art is now discussed by geographers as “a medium through which boundaries are established and transgressed, and in which difference is marked out and challenged” (Smith 1997 p.502). However, Smith laments that the cultural turn has been a mostly visual affair. Painting, photography, film and the visuals of advertising are the main cultural areas that geographers consider (p.503), leaving music and other sound experiments very much on the sidelines. She does qualify that some geographers have considered the relevance of music to geographical analysis, however, in her words, “much remains unsaid and unheard” (1994, p.233).

Andrew Leyshon et. al. refer to Smith in the introduction to their collection The Place of ​ Music, agreeing with her sentiment that geographical studies of space would benefit from more ​ consideration of sound and music (p.423). Furthermore, they add that these considerations should not simply reduce sound and music to location. Instead, they should appreciate the “rich aesthetic, cultural, economic and political geographies of musical language” (p.425). There is more to the spatial conditions of sound than simply the space in which it occurs, and it is this position that I follow throughout this thesis.

The object of analysis for the opening chapter is The Cause, a London nightclub situated ​ ​ ​ in “a repurposed old car mechanic’s depot” (Doherty). Throughout the chapter I discuss why this is significant. I analyse four short articles, and one promotional video, from different music media platforms, created at the time of the club’s launch. Each of them attributes a sense of authenticity to The Cause because of the music played there and the post-industrial nature of ​ the space. In the chapter, I question why this is the case and look for other reasons why electronic dance music is so frequently presented in similar, post-industrial venues.

In the second chapter, I discuss the correlation between techno and Detroit city. Techno is a particular style of electronic dance music that was first produced in Detroit. When the techno pioneers were growing up during the late 1960s, Detroit was a city unlike any other in North America. A dysfunctional, chaotic, unconventional space. In turn, the music these individuals made had an unconventional, alien quality to it. I argue that there is an alignment between techno music and Detroit city on the basis of unconventionality. To do this, I analyse Juan Atkins’ track Techno City. I look specifically at ways the track aligns with quotes about Detroit ​ ​ city from Atkins himself, and other Detroit techno producers.

In the final chapter, I return to “Old School Rave” to argue that electronic dance music in Britain interrupted the rural idyll. The conventional, Western understanding of rural space is an idyllic (and fabricated) vision of peaceful tranquillity. Between 1988 and 1994, raves presented an interruption to this way of thinking, temporarily shattering the peacefulness of rural spaces across Britain. The electronic dance music played at raves introduced new values to rural locations, and therefore facilitated a new, temporary conception of rural space. Ultimately, however, this was overcome by government legislation. Today, the rural idyll remains the dominant paradigm for understanding rural space.

3

Before beginning, it is necessary to briefly introduce what I mean by ‘electronic dance music’. On the surface it is fairly self-explanatory. It is music made by manipulating electricity for the specific purpose of making people dance. Synthesisers, computer software and drum machines are typical instances of electronic machinery that dance music producers use, in place of more ‘traditional’ instruments (guitars, pianos, drum kits etc.). Today, however, this broad definition accounts for a huge amount of music. Take a look at the singles chart for any week in 2020 and the majority of the music you will see will fall under this umbrella. Modern pop, r’n’b, rap, hip-hop, dancehall, reggaeton, and even some rock music (perhaps the last bastion of the guitar) are electronically produced. But I am not considering any of these genres here. Instead, ‘electronic dance music’ refers to music that follows in the lineage of house and techno, first produced by African Americans in Chicago and Detroit respectively. Since their inception in the 1980s, the two genres have themselves mutated into a sprawling subculture of ‘underground’ (an awful term), experimental musical styles.

4 Electronic dance music and post-industrial space

“A new 400-capacity club in Tottenham hopes to fill the gap in London's nightlife and promote community and mental-health charities. The Cause, opening in a former car-mechanics depot, is crowdfunding to give clubbers the opportunity to party around a ​ literal centrepiece DJ booth with a custom soundsystem by Core.” (Cetin) ​ ​

If a modern day club owner were to write a ‘To-Do’ list for promoting a new venue supporting cutting-edge, underground electronic music, arranging an article to appear in the ‘News’ section of Resident Advisor’s (RA’s) website would be on there. Probably near the top. ​ ​ ​ ​ The online magazine has established itself as a major source for news and content within the electronic music scene I am examining (it boasts approximately four million monthly readers worldwide (Resident Advisor - About)). With the popularity of this platform in mind, one can assume that their assessments of new venues contain all key information and characteristics. The above fragment is from such an article, published the week The Cause opened its doors for ​ the first time in April, 2018. In the same year, two more prominent media platforms in the underground electronic music world - DJ Magazine and Mixmag - covered the new London ​ ​ ​ ​ venue, as did the ever-hip national print newspaper The Guardian. ​

In all four articles, two pieces of information are repeated: 1) The venue has a custom-built soundsystem. 2) The space was previously used as a car mechanics depot. It appears, however, that only the former of these two statements is necessary. Underground dance clubs are social spaces that provide transcendence from the divisions and monotony of everyday life (Goulding et. al. p.767). Regular visitors to certain clubs can experience a sense of community and belonging - especially those who feel marginalised by the outside world (Garcia 2020). Whilst it is true that drugs like ecstasy and amphetamines play a role in this, the love of a particular music is often the salient reason bringing people together: “People are there for the music...for the vibe...and there’s the feeling of escape and freedom that comes with dancing and the love drugs” (Goulding et. al. p.766).

Further, a good clubbing experience requires the music not only to sound good, but also ​ to feel good1. It is possible to get good sound from a home stereo, but the feeling in a dance ​ track can only be experienced at loud volumes and through an advanced system: “On entering ​ the club you do not just hear the music; you feel it vibrate up your feet and through your entire body” (p.765). A club’s soundsystem must be adequate enough to give the possibility of feeling the music. Therefore, a customised soundsystem delivering stronger audio than a standard club ​ system is a great asset that should be celebrated. The former use of the club’s space, however, does not seem as distinctive in light of the reasons for investing in a good soundsystem. And yet every media outlet writing about The Cause has picked up on it. Why? Moreover, The Cause is ​ ​ not unique; countless venues exist in former industrial spaces whose previous use is mentioned

1 For more on the tactility of dance music, I highly recommend Luis-Manuel Garcia’s essay ‘Beats, Flesh and Grain’ (Garcia 2015).

5 without fail in their promotional materials. One may also ask, therefore, why are so many club owners using these types of space?

With these questions in mind, I turn to the remaining aforementioned articles above. Each of them contains at least one photo from inside the club. There is nothing strange in this. It is difficult (if not impossible) to translate the sound and the feel of a club experience into a written article. Images are the next best thing for providing a sensory experience. However, the article in The Guardian is unique in this respect. Admittedly it is broader in scope because it ​ covers clubbing in London more generally, rather than solely aiming to promote The Cause. But ​ ​ it is the only piece to include photos of a party actually taking place inside the venue. All of ​ ​ these articles are trying to convince their reader that The Cause is a good spot for a party, and ​ yet most of them only include photos of the space when empty and still. This, I think, is interesting. The RA and Mixmag were published a few days before the club opened, so no ​ ​ photos of parties taking place within the space existed at that time. Their choice of image was limited, and both platforms chose to use a brooding press photo of the empty space. However, had they been published weeks or months later, the very same images would no doubt have been used. The DJ Magazine article is the case in point. Published in July, and therefore giving ​ ​ plenty of time to capture images of the club in action, the article features four more photos of the ​ empty space. No people, no parties, just the space.

If the DJ Magazine article’s aim is to promote the club, the chosen images give a clear ​ emphasis on the space itself as something alluring and exciting. Images of parties are not necessary because there is something about the “repurposed old car mechanic’s depot” (Doherty) alone that is enough to promote the venue. Doherty claims one of the key factors that makes The Cause a great club is its location in “an authentic post-industrial setting” (Ibid., ​ ​ emphasis added). There is an authenticity to the space. This is key. Authenticity is attributed to The Cause (and clubs in similar spaces) because a connection is repeatedly made between ​ certain sounds and post-industrial spaces. The space’s former industrial use gives credibility to the fact that The Cause now functions as a venue for electronic music events. It is this ​ authenticity that is worth promoting, and explains why the media outlets each pick up on the space’s past life.

This chapter, therefore, will analyse the close relationship between The Cause’s spatial ​ ​ condition and the music that is played there. To do this, I will investigate the role of sound in ​ space more generally, and then look at why combinations of particular sounds and post-industrial space are attributed the quality of authenticity. Shortly after publishing their written article, RA also released a short film to promote The Cause. I will analyse elements of ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ this film to further demonstrate that electronic music is attributed a sense of authenticity when played in post-industrial spaces, and discuss why this is the case. But the film also suggests that authenticity is not the only reason that electronic music is so often heard in these spaces. As will be shown, there is a necessity for loud dance music to be in post-industrial space. Therefore, whilst the relationship between electronic music and post-industrial space is attributed with a sense of authenticity, it is also one borne out of necessity.

6

Furthermore, as mentioned, music and sound have been ignored by a lot of research concerning space. The purpose of this chapter is therefore twofold. Simultaneous to the above analysis will be a challenge to the persistent deafness that appears in research on space. Many researchers that have asked what space is, how space is created and the difference between space and place - frequent endeavours in the field of human geography - have had a tendency to either ignore all sensory experience other than sight, or to consider other senses whilst keeping a heavy bias towards the visual. But as I have already shown in the opening section to this chapter, there is a relationship between sound and space that somehow affects our understanding of the latter. This relationship should not be ignored because it is an essential way that human beings experience the world.

Sound and space

There are a number of ways of understanding space, ranging from a purely abstract sense of geometric space to a Lefebvrian understanding of space as the production of a relationship between two (or more) things. The question that I want to consider in this section is, what role does sound play in the different ways we understand space?

Yi-Fu Tuan’s book Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience is considered a ​ ​ foundational text to the research of space and place in human geography. He begins by exploring geometric space, explaining how humans can become aware of a “spacious external world” (p.12). He writes, “[space] is experienced directly as having room in which to move” (Ibid.). For Tuan, it is moving through space that gives a primary understanding of the spatial world. This is completed with the addition of seeing in three dimensions and the ability to touch solid, stable objects: “[reaching] for things and playing with them disclose their separateness and relative spacing” (Ibid.). For Tuan, therefore, sight and touch are the two key senses for the human understanding of spatiality. It should be noted that at this stage, Tuan does not ignore sound. Instead he claims that whilst our ability to hear (and to taste and smell) does not make us aware of space, it does enhance the awareness that one already has. Hearing “can convey a strong sense of size (volume) and of distance” (p.14) that enriches our understanding of space but does not define it. In Tuan’s concept of abstract space, therefore, sound is relegated to a secondary tier within the senses - not essential for an understanding of space but necessary for a complete experience.

I am happy to concede, therefore, that Tuan does acknowledge the role of sound, and the senses other than sight, when explaining how humans experience purely geometric space. And, furthermore, I agree with him that vision plays a larger role than hearing in developing an understanding of a basic, spatial world. However, there are problems. Tuan uses his account of geometric space to create a dualism between ‘space’ and ‘place’. He wants to set up space as something that is just there and devoid of meaning or value - Tim Cresswell usefully describes it as a “fact of life” (2004 p.10). And he wants ‘place’ as its opposite - somewhere that has been transformed by the injection of meaning. But he jumps forward too quickly from geometric space

7 to place, failing to consider spaces that are imbued with greater meaning than abstract geometry. Post-industrial space is not the same type of space that Tuan considers. It does not occur naturally, it is not a fact of life, and it is not a realm lacking in value. It is produced. It requires more detail than the pure space that Tuan analyses, but it is not specific enough to be a place. It therefore does not fit Tuan’s dichotomy. To distinguish a space that is in any way more specific than purely geometric space, the remaining senses, and especially hearing, grow in significance to a role that is more than merely enriching a pre-existing understanding. This is not a huge leap forward from Tuan’s work, but he does not make the move. Cresswell rightly identifies that Henri Lefebvre’s conception of “social space” is one which does not align with Tuan’s dualism (2004 p.10). Lefebvre’s concept is a space produced by human beings that exists “not [as] a thing but rather a set of relations between things” (p.83). Space, for Lefebvre, is a social relationship (p.85). Not specific enough to be labelled a place, but which nonetheless carries the kind of meaning that Tuan has not accounted for.

Sound can create the requisite relations for the Lefebvrian understanding of space. Furthermore, from this position the specific role of electronic music in post-industrial space becomes clearer. In their discussion of Blackburn’s legendary warehouse parties, Ingham, Purvis and Clarke consider the role that sound plays in the creation of a particular type of space - the concert hall. They use the subversive nature of John Cage’s famous composition 4:33 as ​ ​ an example (p.285). In the concert hall, we expect to hear musical sounds. Those sounds are part of what designates the space as a ‘concert hall’. But Cage’s piece directly challenges those expectations by placing an emphasis on nonmusical sound (Ibid.). 4:33 contains no music and ​ ​ yet, crucially, performances of it are never silent. Wind blowing, rain falling, feet shuffling - all of these sounds can occur during a performance of 4:33. If they do, they become a part of the ​ ​ piece that the audience is listening to. The very fact that performances of 4:33 are subversive ​ ​ emphasises that the concert hall space is built upon expectations of sound. If expected sounds are not heard, audiences face the realisation that the meaning of the concert hall space is being challenged. In this example, sound has a relationship with space that is in line with Lefebvre’s conception detailed above. It can dictate the way we understand a particular space.

So 4:33 demonstrates that sound can both create space, and also transform it: “[central] ​ to the composer’s intention was the transformation of the space of the concert hall through the creative possibilities of such a work” (p.288). This additional point fits with Doreen Massey’s ideas about space being a continuous project, something “always under construction” (p.9). Like Lefebvre, Massey too sees space as the result of “interrelations”. However, she takes Lefebvre’s idea further. For Massey, it is subsequently possible (and commonplace) for a space to be the result of a multitude of simultaneous interpretations: “If space is indeed the product of interrelations, then it must be predicated upon the existence of plurality” (Ibid.). 4:33 therefore ​ gives an example of one sonic interpretation of the concert hall space. Some people will accept it, and some (presumably those who walk out during the performance) will not. For Massey these two opposing interpretations of the space are not only possible but necessary, and they necessarily exist simultaneously: “Without space, no multiplicity; without multiplicity, no space” (Ibid.).

8

“Metal structures”

So far, then, I have demonstrated that sound can both create and transform space. It has not been demonstrated, however, why there is a sense of authenticity when electronic music is played in post-industrial spaces. A few weeks after the aforementioned RA article ​ about The Cause, the platform also created a short film to promote the venue. Through an ​ ​ analysis of this film I will show why electronic music and post-industrial space are related.

“Take a look at new London venue The Cause” is a film that takes the viewer on a tour of the eponymous club space whilst interviewing its owners. At the beginning (0:06-0:12) is a shot tracking members of the club’s team as they enter the venue. The camera is positioned in a corner of the room, slightly behind an array of metal structures - the staircase, beams supporting the ceiling, and the caged DJ booth. The three figures walk into the room and around to the other side of the various metal objects. As they do this, the camera remains where it is and simply pans towards the left in order to follow their trajectory. This results in the viewer observing the figures through a dense jungle of metal. In this shot, the director emphasises the post-industrial nature of the venue. It is the metal caging and the steel beams that he wants his viewer to see. As with the majority of the news articles considered above, there are no shots of any party taking place within the venue, simply because there does not need to be. The post-industrial nature of the space is enough to inform the viewer about both the music that will be played in the venue, and the types of parties that will take place there.

Over the top of the shot come the words of Stuart Glen, the venue’s owner. He explains why they chose the site: “[we] saw the [...] metal structures, and [it] felt like a really good space to do a party” (0:08-0:12). This is a key statement. He refers only to specific aspects of the physical nature of the venue when declaring that it is a good location for a party. Why is it that “metal structures” equate to a good location for playing electronic dance music? Because the history of the music is founded around a chronology of raves (on both sides of legality) that have taken place in empty industrial spaces (Dalphond p.8; Ingham et. al; McRobbie 1994 p.150; Nicholson; Pope p.25; Reynolds p.159-160). The “metal structures” refer back to a lineage of musical events that have taken place in similar surroundings, and have given the space meaning. When Glen sees them he immediately thinks of a specific music and throwing raves.

Thinking back to Lefebvre and Massey from the previous section, raves have forged a new relationship between electronic dance music and post-industrial space. This relationship has created a new interpretation of such spaces, one which exists alongside a plurality of other interpretations. Such an interpretation provides a specific meaning to post-industrial space, and is the reason that the director of the short film chooses to have his viewer peer through gaps in a haze of metal. It is also the reason that writers for Mixmag, and other media platforms, ​ ​ attribute a sense of authenticity to the combination of post-industrial space and electronic music. Cage’s 4:33 forged new relationships between nonmusical sounds and concert hall spaces. ​ ​ Raves in post-industrial spaces have done the same.

9

At the beginning of this chapter I stated that my intentions were twofold. So far I have been analysing the relationship between sound and post-industrial space. But I also wish to ​ ​ address the persistent deafness that appears in much of the research concerning space more generally. Tuan, Cresswell, Lefebvre and Massey all discuss space in brilliant ways, yet between them little time is dedicated to the ways in which space relates to sound. As has already been discussed, space is not only experienced visually. I think providing a theory of space that solely refers to, or is heavily biased towards, the visual is lacking in some way and deserves addressing.

In their defence, sound is not something that can be straightforwardly referenced. Ingham et. al. lament the propensity of researchers to ignore sound, but simultaneously accept that academic fields are “ill-equipped” (p.286) to deal with it. They argue that the visual has been privileged since the development of perspective in Renaissance drawing and artworks. Subsequently, the “development of technologies aiming to capture and reproduce a range of sensory experiences” (p.284) has been heavily uneven in favour of sight. Academic fields, geography in particular, have developed within a regime that is heavily biased towards the visual. Therefore, the “conceptual and methodological resources upon which we habitually draw marginalise those aspects of the world that remain invisible (but not thereby unknowable or intrinsically less important)” (p.285-286). The data we receive from hearing, and the senses other than sight, is so unlike the visual realm that we do not know how to analyse it. Nonetheless, the privileging of the visual is not something that should go unchallenged.

Space, sound and noise

After the previous discussion of authenticity ascribed to post-industrial space by those who listen to electronic dance music, the question remains: Why are so many club owners using post-industrial spaces? It would be naïve to think that club owners only choose locations for reasons of authenticity. It may be a conscious, principle-based decision for some, but in the harsh realities of the world, authenticity is often something that is compromised. It cannot be the reason for so many clubs to open in post-industrial space. ​ ​

Furthermore, it was not a sense of authenticity that drew the organisers of the original warehouse parties to post-industrial spaces. Andrew Hill defines the type of location for British “Acid House” parties during the late 1980s and early 1990s as: “[marginal] spaces - spaces that have become marginal to the organisation and functioning of society and often lack a clear use and identity” (2003 p.223). He explains that these spaces received “little attention” (p.224) from society, thereby making them prime locations to avoid detection by the authorities. It was not a sense of authenticity that made post-industrial spaces prime locations, but a sense of necessity. Necessity still plays an important role in the decision to use post-industrial space for dance clubs today. Here I will argue here that sound plays an important role in designating necessity.

10 There is another key moment in RA’s film for The Cause. One which specifically ​ ​ ​ ​ indicates that Glen and his team did not choose their space solely because of a sense of authenticity. Describing the space, Glen tells us: “It is right in the centre of this huge warehouse, away from any residents. I just thought it’d be really good for creating loads of decent noise” (0.18-0.26). The key phrase here is “decent noise”. Glen laughs after making this statement. He is aware of its contradiction. Usually noise is not decent, but unacceptable. Glen knows that the type of music his club supports, and the volume at which it is played, would be unacceptable in a different location. It is the club’s positioning within a warehouse on an industrial estate, an area not in close proximity to residential properties, which allows for the level of noise that Glen considers to be “decent”. Making such levels of sound in other areas would risk reprimand and potential closure of the club. Therefore, the positioning within a warehouse is a necessity, but a necessity that is borne out of social relations that define space.

To amplify this point, the moment Glen stops speaking the background music rises in volume to the highest level it has been thus far. Pounding kickdrums accompany explorative shots of the empty club, giving the viewer a sense of what it is like in full swing. As explained in a section above, The Cause’s custom soundsystem is powerful enough to play a track like this ​ ​ at such a level that it can be felt, as well as heard. This moment is enough to express to the viewer, then, that during a party the club creates a “decent” level of sound. When the sounds escape the venue, it is quite likely that they would be translated as ‘indecent’ noise by people in the local area.

Noise, therefore, is a key factor in the decision of club owners and party organisers to choose post-industrial spaces. Noise is a quality ascribed to sound that is dependent on location and the proximity of other people. Josep Martí describes noise as “imposed musical events” ​ (p.10) and in this definition is a reference to the proximity of another person. There must be someone onto whom the musical event is imposed, for this person to then attribute the quality of noise to the sounds that they hear. It is often the sounds of our environment that are defined as noise (traffic, crowds of people, barking dogs etc.) but structured, musical sound can also be attributed with the quality.

Martí, for instance, refers to a neighbour playing the piano (p.14). In many circumstances, music from a piano is not described as noise. Instead, it is often a source of pleasure and relaxation. Martí’s example, therefore, hinges on the fact that the musical sounds are “imposed”. The sounds are undesired and, crucially, the subject is powerless to suppress them. So the sounds created by the pianist (regardless of their proficiency), the location of the sounds in a residential area, and the proximity of the neighbour are all interrelated in the ascription of the term ‘noise’. For club owners, therefore, these social interrelations that result in the translation of sound to noise are crucial factors that necessitate the careful selection of location. Somewhere away from other people is essential, because escaping sound is less likely to be interpreted as noise. Post-industrial spaces tick this box.

11 It should be remembered, therefore, that whilst the relationship between electronic dance music and post-industrial space is described as ‘authentic’, noise has played a major part in this. Noise is the reason that post-industrial spaces (and other remote locations) were sought out by early party organisers. Today those historical parties stir feelings of authenticity inside people like Stuart Glen and his team. The music is related to post-industrial space, but noise ties the relationship together.

Conclusion

In this chapter, and all the way through this thesis, I consider the relationship between sound and space. This relationship is important because it is a key way that we experience and understand the world around us. Despite the fact that it may not be as noticeable or striking as other factors (e.g. visual factors), sound is crucial to the way we make sense of our surroundings. And it deserves to have more consideration. When Stuart Glen and his team first entered the former car mechanic workshop that is now The Cause, sound played a considerable ​ ​ role in how they understood that space. The surroundings made sense as a perfect space to throw parties because they had a relationship with a specific type of sound.

Post-industrial space and electronic music is not a unique case. Spaces that we encounter every day are imbued with certain sounds. And these sounds ‘make sense’ in such spaces. It is perhaps only when sounds are noticeably absent, or when an unusual sound is heard, that we realise how much our understanding of space is related to what we hear. During this unique period of time, when entire nations have been put into lockdown, the relationship between sound and space has become more noticeable. When deserted shots of famous city landscapes are shown on news broadcasts, the familiar bustle of noise has been replaced with an eerie, unrecognisable silence. These images are strange. It is this strangeness that marks the existence of a relationship between sound and space.

12 Techno music and Detroit city

In 1988 10 Records, a sub-label of Virgin Records, released Techno! The New Dance ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Sound of Detroit - a thirteen-track compilation that cemented the roots of a new genre to Detroit city forever more. Today, fans from all across the globe regularly fly to the city in order to experience first hand the birthplace of their favourite genre (Vecchiola p.108). In this chapter I will explore the relationship between Detroit and techno, arguing that the music and space correlate with one another in a number of ways.

Techno is a genre of electronic music that is predominantly known for its use of a 4/4 time signature, with a kick drum on every beat accompanied by repeating phrases of percussive rhythms. House music is very similar, however techno is distinctive from house because it (generally) has a higher tempo and favours more abstract sound over the use of vocals (Vecchiola p.100). Juan Atkins is widely considered to be the founding figure in techno. His electronic experiments as one half of Cybotron (heavily influenced by the work of German electronic pioneers Kraftwerk (Sicko p.44)) are considered to be early blueprints for the genre. Blueprints that were solidified after he left the duo and began to make music on his own (Sicko. p43-49). Whilst producing these tracks, Atkins befriended fellow musicians Derrick May and Kevin Saunderson. Collectively, these three pioneering figures produced the first techno records. They are widely regarded as the creators of the genre. Atkins, May and Saunderson are African American Detroit natives. The African American experience of life in Detroit is crucial to the correlation with the music.

In the liner notes of the aforementioned compilation, May is quoted as saying: ​ ​

“Factories are closing and people are drifting away, [...] the old industrial Detroit is falling apart, the structures have collapsed. It's the murder capital of America. Six year olds carry guns and thousands of black people have stopped caring if they ever work again. If you make music in that environment it can't be straight music. In Britain you have New Order, well our music is the new disorder." (Cosgrove)

His language here requires some unpacking. What is “straight music”? May describes his own music as “disorder”. Therefore “straight music” must align with order of some kind. But what does this mean? He describes the unconventional patterns of behaviour that exist in Detroit. Young children carrying guns represents disorder because it breaks with convention. Therefore order, for May, can be read as convention. “Straight music” could hence be conventional music.

But Detroit is an unconventional space. Thus for May, it only makes sense for unconventional music to be made there. Techno music is unconventional. There is an alignment between Detroit techno and the Detroit space on the basis of unconventionality. This is what May refers to when he says that music made in Detroit cannot be “straight music”. A confluence exists between the city (notably the unconventional nature of life within the city) and the “electronic funk” (Sicko) that May and his peers created. This chapter will give a more detailed

13 analysis of the ways in which Detroit techno and the Detroit space are in alignment with one another, therefore providing evidence that space and sound have a relationship.

To do this, I have divided Detroit into two distinct types of space. Through each of these I analyse the ways in which it aligns with techno music. The first is an alien space. By ‘alien’ I mean unconventional. Detroit will be analysed further as an unconventional space, and techno will be analysed as an unconventional sound. How is techno music alien? Briefly, because there are set conventions regarding music from Detroit’s African American musicians (most notably following the lineage of Motown Records), and techno is totally dislocated from them. There is, ​ ​ therefore, a tension within Detroit techno. It is a music rooted in the city in which it was first created, but simultaneously dislocated from its origin (Albiez p.142).

The second section looks at Detroit as a technological space. Technology has been instrumental to both the rise and fall of Detroit. Techno clearly takes its name from the word, and fittingly so because it is made using pieces of technology. This goes hand-in-hand with the technological aspect of life in Detroit city. If this is so, however, techno should not really be as unconventional as it is. It makes sense for Detroit musicians to use technology to make music. In the second section, I look at why techno has nonetheless been received as an unconventional sound.

Alien sound in an alien space

In the introduction to Music, Space and Place: Popular Music and Cultural Identity, ​ ​ Sheila Whiteley argues that music is a way of telling stories about a particular space. Musicians use music to “author space” (Whiteley2), and set out their own particular narrative of experience within a certain location. Modern and globalised urban spaces are often contested between a multitude of different ethnic groups. Authoring narratives of space therefore plays an important role in claiming space as one’s own. Whiteley refers to Arjan Appadurai when she speaks of urban landscapes as “ethnoscapes” (Whiteley), and argues that “musical innovations and practices” (Whiteley) are good ways for the multitude of different ethnic communities to mark out their own cultural boundaries within the shared urban space.

For Whiteley, then, music is an important method for members of a diaspora to feel culturally united: “The significance of music in relation to the articulation of notions of community and collective identity, grounded in physically demarcated urban [...] spaces, is matched by its role in the articulation of symbolic notions of community, which transgress both place and time” (Whiteley). People across the world that have been displaced from their homelands can feel closer to each other than their geographical locations physically permit, through music that combines elements of local experience with cultural memories and a shared origin. Whiteley

2 Due to the Covid-19 lockdown, I have been unable to source a copy of Music, Space and Place: Popular ​ Music and Cultural Identity. Thankfully, the relevant pages were available on Google Books, but the page ​ ​ ​ numbers were not included. I therefore cannot give the full reference, however all quotes are from Sheila Whiteley’s introductory chapter.

14 identifies reggae as a prime example. It produces a sense of community “among the globally dispersed people of the African diaspora” (Whiteley).

I think Whiteley’s argument accurately describes the conventional method for diasporic music to author space. Looking for unity across a specific group by connecting to a shared past is a characteristic that is now expected of diasporic music. Sean Albiez notes that African American music commonly turns its attention to either “the urban ghetto, the church [or] the street for creative inspiration” (p.132). Here he is invoking the conventional aspects of the shared African American experience. He relates them to the conventional African American styles of music, to argue that techno does not follow suit. In Detroit, Berry Gordy’s label Motown ​ Records followed this convention to great success. Suzanne Smith explains how the early ​ Motown sound took its influences from gospel acts that would perform at baptist churches in ​ black communities (p.116). The black church has played a monumental role in the African American experience, not only in Detroit but across the country (Lincoln and Mamiya). It is therefore a cultural experience that all members of African American communities share. In light of the Whiteley argument above, Smith can be read as agreeing that Motown connects with a ​ shared cultural experience to unite a specific community in a conventional manner.

However, music does not have to follow convention in order to author space. If the space being authored is itself unconventional, music can align with it by purposely breaking convention. Musicians of a diaspora need not always look back to a shared cultural past in order to author their space of lived experience. Instead, the unconventionality of their space can inspire musicians to create music that is suitably unconventional in nature. Techno music, for instance, does not seemingly connect to any cultural history, or even any type of music previously made in human history. As African Americans, Atkins, May and Saunderson could have made conventional music by connecting to a shared cultural past. However, as May’s quote in the introduction above shows, their experience of Detroit was of an unconventional space. I believe this was a founding inspiration for the creation of unconventional, alien music.

Another quote from May throws more light on this idea. In Gary Bredow’s influential Detroit techno documentary High Tech Soul, May refers to the alien nature of techno music. He ​ states: “when we finally had our chance to express our opinions upon the world, I guess it must have sounded like some alien shit” (1:00:11-1:00:18). Again, the quote needs unpacking. By “express our opinions” I read May as agreeing with Whiteley that music is an opportunity to author space. Techno tracks are artistic expressions of the thoughts and experiences of African American producers3. Some of these reflect life in Detroit, and thereby author the space.

However, May does not refer to his music as a unifying force. Instead it is something “alien”. By this I believe he means that he and his contemporaries did not make the music

3 Whilst later on there were white Detroit techno producers, the three founding figures and their immediate contemporaries were all black and all male. For a broader discussion on the sexual politics of electronic music see McRobbie (1999 p.144-148).

15 others expected of them as African Americans4. The expectation is that members of a diaspora create music which aims to reduce geographical distance between dislocated people. But instead of this, May et. al. authored their space by making music that emphasised the alien, unconventional nature of Detroit.

So how exactly does techno music break from the cultural history of black music? As a city, Detroit has a long and illustrious musical history, and black music in particular is very prominent - most notably through Motown Records (Smith 1999). It is easy, therefore, to expect ​ ​ ​ African Americans from Detroit to be influenced by the Motown body of work. It is a shared ​ cultural past, uniting them as members of a marginalised community. However, the Motown ​ sound did not reflect May et. al’s experiences of Detroit, especially after the label relocated to Los Angeles in 1972 (Sicko p.33). Juan Atkins famously expresses this sentiment by stating that, “Berry Gordy built the Motown sound on the same principle as the conveyor belt at the ​ ​ Ford plant. Today the automobile plants use robots and computers to make their cars and I’m more interested in Ford’s robots than Gordy's music” (Cosgrove). Despite his anger at this quote being taken out of context to emphasise an assumed contempt for history, and a lack of respect for Berry Gordy (Albiez p.139), Atkins accepts that Motown’s music is not a valid representation ​ ​ of the Detroit that he knows.

As will be discussed later, Atkins’ experience of Detroit is underpinned by the increasing tension between technology and humanity. This environment nurtured themes of futurism and dystopia that Atkins wanted to reflect through his music (Pope). These themes are not widely associated with black musicians from urban spaces, which instead prominently looks “to ‘the street’” (Albiez p.142) for sources of inspiration. May describes techno music as “alien” because it does not align with experiences that a broader audience would expect from a group of African American musicians. But in Detroit, there are other experiences available because it is an unconventional space. One can hear the alien, unconventional nature of Detroit in the sound of techno music.

Before analysing a specific Detroit techno track for its unconventional nature, there is an extra layer to May’s “alien shit” quote that deserves attention. May is stating that techno, an African American cultural expression, has been translated as “alien”. Here he could be referring to racial inequality within the United States. Historically, and continuing right up to the present day, African Americans have had far fewer opportunities to express themselves. On the occasions that they are able to speak, African American ideas sound “alien” simply because they are not frequently heard by a wider (white) audience. May vents some frustration by saying “when we finally had our chance”. This could be read as the frustrations of an African American ​ ​ man that has been waiting for an opportunity to author his space.

4 The same notion is expressed by techno luminary Jeff Mills in his article with The Guardian (Zlatopolsky). He ​ ​ emphasises that “black guys from Detroit” are not expected to be making music that refers to space travel and futurism. Instead they are expected to be connecting to a shared past. Mills alludes to techno being in the lineage of afrofuturism, for more on this I recommend Eshun (1998; 2003) and Black Audio Film Collective’s video-essay The ​ ​ ​ Last Angel of History (George). ​

16

However, I think May is actually talking about the experience of being not only African American, but an African American from Detroit. Because this has no doubt elongated his wait. In the second half of the twentieth century, the city became synonymous with urban failure (Albiez p.135; Sicko p.33-5; Vecchiola p.96-7). In this respect, Detroit is an alien within the United States. For this reason, the wider American public has formed a fixed idea about both the kinds of people that live in Detroit, and what life is like for them. Crucially, few have taken the trouble to actually speak to residents of the city and discover that, in fact, the population is not the homogenous group many people assume (Vecchiola p.97). Because Detroit is recognised as an alien space within America, and because the people there are routinely overlooked, it is difficult for anybody from Detroit to express themselves and have their ideas listened to. Thus, if it is already difficult enough for an African American to express themselves, the situation for Detroit’s African Americans is arguably even more so. Any form of cultural expression from Detroit that does reach the ears of others is automatically going to be considered “alien” by the broader American audience. Not necessarily because of the content of the opinion itself, but simply due to the fact that it is so uncommon to hear an opinion from this space.

Techno Music

To clarify the idea that techno and Detroit are aligned on the basis of unconventionality, I will now analyse a track from the Techno! compilation. It was Juan Atkins’ track Techno Music ​ ​ ​ that inspired Neil Rushton to change the title of his compilation from The House Sound of ​ Detroit to Techno! The New Dance Sound of Detroit. From there, the term proceeded to become ​ ​ ​ the umbrella name for an entire genre of music (Sicko p.68). It is, therefore, a good example through which to discuss broad themes that relate to all of Detroit techno. The element of the track I would like to discuss is the timbre, and I shall argue how the timbre aligns with the space in which the track was produced.

Timbre, as explained by Luis-Manuel Garcia, is the quality that allows a listener to distinguish between sounds. If two sounds are equal in pitch, duration and volume, timbre is the distinguishable quality that separates them (2015 p.65). Techno Music is composed entirely ​ ​ from sounds with an ‘electronic’ timbre. Synthesisers are the key piece of equipment for producing techno (Pope p.38; Sicko p.510). By manipulating electricity, they emulate the sounds of ‘traditional’ instruments. They are, however, incapable of producing exact copies of the sounds which they aim to emulate. The pitch, duration and volume may be the same, but the timbre is always different. Even before considering form, structure, rhythm etc., Techno Music is ​ separate from the majority of black music (and the majority of music made throughout human history) because of its timbre. The timbral disconnect makes techno an alien sound. This alien sound aligns with the alien nature of Atkins’ experiences in Detroit.

To take this further, historically music has come from the human manipulation of air. A tangible interaction between human and object results in air vibrations that have a distinct, warm

17 and ‘organic’ timbre. The clap of hands. The breath blown into the flute. The strum of the guitar. These are clear instances of interaction between a human being and a musical instrument; each creating vibrations that carry information to our ears. Electronic synthesisers, however, are different. They break the convention. At the push of a button, currents of electricity are oscillated. This sends relevant information through wires and into speakers, which then translate the received information into sound. The process of making sound is a step removed from the human interaction with a material object. It instead occurs within the non-material realm of charged particles and electronic currents.

The removal of human interaction is heard in the sterile timbre of Atkins’ track. The core ​ element of Techno Music is two interchanging arpeggiated synthesiser lines. Both possess the ​ ​ sterile, alien timbre of electronic synthesis. The first is heard in the opening four bars (0:00-0:08). The sound is inorganic. The icy timbre is not the result of human interaction. After four bars, Atkins manipulates the sound using filter modulation. This runs for the subsequent sixteen bars (0:08-0:38). The filter effect makes the electronic timbre of the sound much more extreme. The electronic squelches that drive the track forward are unlike any sound that air vibrations could produce. Their timbre is something totally alien. Atkins’ ability to manipulate the timbre to such a precise degree should also be noted. Whereas in the opening four bars the arpeggiated notes are clear and crisp, filter modulation blurs and distorts them. Only since the invention of electronic musical instruments has the ability to manipulate sound to this precision been possible. Atkins demonstrates, therefore, both an alien timbre in his music, and an alien degree of control over that timbre.

After twenty bars the first synthesiser line disappears and is replaced by another, bassier sound (0:38). This new melody continues for a further twenty four bars before being replaced again by its predecessor. The two synth lines then continue to replace each other throughout the remainder of the track, either playing in isolation or simultaneously (1:38-1:53), in an electronic form of call-and-response.

Interestingly, call-and-response is a musical structure heavily associated with music from West Africa, and later with African Americans (Reichardt). So whilst the timbre of Atkins’ track, and the modulation of that timbre, dislocates the music from any origin, the track does have some grounding in the music of Atkins’ ancestors. This is exemplary of the tension that exists within Detroit techno. Through compilations like Techno! The New Dance Sound of Detroit, the ​ ​ music has been fundamentally rooted in the city of Detroit. Further, through their now iconic status, the music is associated with African American musicians such as (but certainly not limited to) Juan Atkins, Derrick May and Kevin Saunderson. And as African Americans, these individuals are fundamentally rooted in a cultural history. The music therefore has grounding that is subtly perceivable through elements like structure. And yet it is simultaneously striving to be totally alien and dislocated, in order to align itself with the nature of the city in which it was made. The contrast in timbre between Techno Music and sounds created by the human ​ ​ interaction with musical instruments (the music of Motown, for instance) could not be greater. ​ ​

18 The listener knows that these sounds do not connect to sounds of the past. And yet at the same time there are elements of the tracks that do refer back to a cultural heritage.

To sum up so far, the Detroit techno producers grew up in a space that was not conventional. Derrick May’s quote in the introduction emphasised this. He tells us that young children carry guns and that all structure in the city has collapsed. Further, music correlates with the space in which it is made. Whiteley identifies this through her argument. Members of a diaspora often create music that looks back to a shared cultural past because they do not feel at home in the space in which they live. Similarly, May claims that the music he makes cannot be “straight” because of the unconventional nature of Detroit. So whilst he and his peers are members of the African diaspora, they feel as though they cannot make the conventional styles of music that Whiteley argues for because it does not correlate with the space in which they live. The timbre of tracks like Juan Atkins’ Techno Music is not “straight”. Instead it sounds like “alien ​ ​ shit”, precisely because Detroit is an alien space.

It should be noted, however, that electronic music has also been made in other spaces. During the second half of the twentieth century, before Atkins and May began producing techno, audiences became accustomed to electronic sounds, especially in relation to the Space Race (Rodgers p.7). Furthermore, electronic music pioneer Delia Derbyshire was creating synthesised electronic sounds for television purposes even before ‘conventional’ synthesisers had been invented (Hodgson). So it is not as though techno music was totally out on its own with no inspirations or influences. Of course, it grew from music that came before it. From the call-and-response rhythms of West Africa to the electronic pop of Giogrgio Mororder and Kraftwerk (Sicko p.23) techno has influences that ground it. This grounding creates a tension within the music that makes it so captivating. A style born in an alien space that desperately attempts to free itself from cultural origin and be a truly alien sound. But as hard as it struggles to do so, it cannot fully break free.

Technological space

It is not only the alien nature of Detroit that aligns techno to the city. As the name suggests, techno is a style of music that is technologically oriented. From the equipment used to create it, to the themes that the music covers, technology is key to techno. In this section I will discuss Detroit’s unique relationship with technology. It is this relationship that goes hand-in-hand with techno music.

Technology played a role in both the making of Detroit as a large and prosperous city, and also in its decline into economic oblivion. Whether you consider the city in the past or the present, therefore, it should be recognised as a space that is distinctly marked by technology. Mark Binelli beautifully describes Detroit in its peak as “the Silicon Valley of the Jazz Age, a capitalist dream of unrivalled innovation and bountiful reward” (p.3). Silicon Valley is a space synonymous with Apple and Google. These tech-giants’ numerous innovations have reimagined ​ ​ ​ and restructured the lives of huge numbers of the globe’s population. Binelli equates the

19 increase of production in Detroit’s automobile factories with the innovation of Apple. And rightly ​ so. Fordism, a system born from technological innovation in the factories of Detroit, was a hugely significant development that became the “hallmark of American capitalism” (Stanley and Smith p.33).

However, as the innovation on the production line increased throughout the mid-twentieth century, the role of technology became more threatening to the workers of the city. And eventually to the city itself. George Galster describes Detroit’s pact with the auto industry as a “Faustian bargain” (p.243). It prioritised employment on the production line over everything else. When the division of labour increased within the Fordist system, and as automation then started taking the place of more and more workers, it was quickly realised that Detroit’s level of employment and prosperity was unsustainable. Galster pinpoints the opening of Ford’s Highland Park plant assembly line in 1914 as the beginning of the end for the highly skilled craftsmen that built cars up until that point (p.112). Instead of having skilled workers build large parts of the cars, Ford divided labour into an assembly line that required workers to repeat small, individually menial tasks over and over. This new, unskilled labour, he notes, “was more vulnerable to automation” (Ibid.). When up to ninety percent of labor requirements began to be cut due to new technologies on the production line (Ibid.), the threat of technology to the workforce of Detroit became a reality. Laid-off workers were left without a job and often without any transferable skills, making them “unprepared to compete with skilled labor in other industries” (Eisinger p.4)5. Today, Detroit is described by some as “the ruins of modernity” (Pope p.26). Technology certainly played its part in creating these ruins.

The Detroit techno innovators were born and raised in a technological milieu. Both Atkins and May were the “sons of unionized African American auto workers” (Pope p.30). Their families, therefore, worked in the environments described above - environments where human and machine worked alongside one another. Returning to Bredow’s High Tech Soul, Stacey ​ ​ Pullen, another black Detroit techno musician, describes this experience: “We were brought up on our parents going to work every day and working in the car automotive industry, and coming back home and telling us they worked with robots” (07:08-07:21). Working with robots is something usually kept to science fiction stories, however for the people of Detroit it was a reality. It makes sense, therefore, why Atkins would state that Ford’s robots were of more interest to him than Berry Gordy’s Motown Records (Cosgrove). His experiences were from a ​ ​ space marked by technology. His music aligns with experiences in this space.

If Detroit is a technological space, and if it therefore makes sense for Detroit’s musicians to be using technology to make music, why is techno also unconventional? In reflecting on this question, I think May’s “alien shit” quote becomes more revealing. There should be nothing strange about Detroit musicians making music about and/or with technology. Techno should not be unconventional, it should be expected. However when the music was first created, to the

5 It should be noted that during this period of transition, factors other than technology contributed to Detroit’s demise. ​ See Eisinger (2014) for more on the effects of an exodus of people from the city centre into the suburbs, and the subsequent relocation of the auto companies. Nevertheless, technology has certainly left its mark on Detroit city.

20 outside world it sounded alien. I think this signifies just how much Detroit and its people have been ignored since the mid-twentieth century. If it had been given more attention, perhaps it would not have seemed so alien that this futuristic, technologically oriented music was being made there.

Because it should really have come as no surprise that kids from Detroit were picking up pieces of equipment like Roland’s TB-303 and SH101 and making music out of them. Juan ​ ​ Atkins used both of these machines to make tracks like Techno Music (Jenkins p.195), but even ​ today the majority of people would have little idea how to use them. The TB-303 especially does not even look like a machine that makes music. A small, strange silver box covered in dials and buttons, it looks more like an early computer than anything else. A quick skim through a review of the machine and its functionality indicates that it is not at all straightforward to use (Bacon). And in fact, Atkins and his peers famously did not use it in the way its creators intended. Originally released as an accompaniment for guitarists, the TB303 was discontinued and considered a failure before becoming iconic in electronic music (Kalepu).

The second, bassier arpeggiated synthesiser line in Techno Music (0:38) is from the ​ ​ ​ TB303. Atkins is using the machine’s filters (and possibly other effects) to create the strange type of sound that is now iconic in electronic music. Atkins and his peers lived in a technological space and their music was made using idiosyncratic pieces of technology. He emphasises the Detroit fluency with technology in the digital vocal sample that repeats throughout Techno ​ Music. “I program my home computer” states the electronic voice, explaining to an illiterate ​ listener the process through which Atkins creates his music. Surrounded by literal computers, not musical instruments, he programs them to produce timeless, innovative music that has had as large an effect on the world as jazz, soul, funk and hip-hop. There is, therefore, a strong correlation between Detroit as a technological space and techno as a technological music.

Conclusion

The most compelling characteristic of Detroit techno is its inherent struggle between a tangible grounding in the city, and a desire to dislocate itself from all origins. Compilations like Techno! The New Dance Sound of Detroit have helped to cement the genre to the city forever ​ more. However, the very essence of the music is to abstract from geographical groundings. Through the use of electronic technology, Juan Atkins et. al. produced a new sound that did not overtly reference their city, or their environment of influences. But in the very process of creating alien, technological music, which purposely dislocated itself, the musicians made music that perfectly aligned with Detroit. Technology and an alien status run through the veins of Detroit, and it is these characteristics that Detroit techno cannot dislocate itself from.

Techno music is a concrete example of sound and space having a direct relationship with one another. Whilst I have focused on the relationship between techno music and Detroit city, the underlying theme is that a sound can align with the space it exists within. It does not have to be music. Ambient sounds and noises will align with the urban space in which they

21 occur (Atkinson). No matter the sound, however, the argument remains the same. The alignment between sound and space gives a reason not to ignore the former when considering the latter.

22 Rave and the English countryside

The following is taken from section sixty-three of the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act, 1994 - legislation introduced to UK law that brought about the end of rave culture:

63. Powers to remove persons attending or preparing for a rave (1) This section applies to a gathering on land in the open air of 20 or more persons (whether or not trespassers) at which amplified music is played during the night (with or without intermissions) and is such as, by reason of its loudness and duration and the time at which it is played, is likely to cause serious distress to the inhabitants of the locality; and for this purpose— (a) such a gathering continues during intermissions in the music and, where the gathering extends over several days, throughout the period during which amplified music is played at night (with or without intermissions); and (b) “music” includes sounds wholly or predominantly characterised by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats. (Criminal Justice and Public Order Act, 1994)

Subsection (1b) is the most striking here because it singles out a particular type of sound - perhaps the first time that specific sounds have been made illegal in the UK, rather than a more general prohibition of “noise”. After this bill passed through Parliament, electronic dance music could no longer be played at the raves that had been taking place across Britain from the late 1980s, because it is characterised by repetitive beats. It is unclear whether the same restrictions would apply to a group of twenty or more people listening to, say, rock’n’roll music, because this genre does not fall foul of the specific characteristic. Andrew Hill argues that singling out rave music in this way can be read as a reaction to the “moral panic” that rave had caused in Britain, and indicates the disruption that both the music and scene had caused to Margaret Thatcher’s hegemonic political project (2003 p.220-221). (And although the bill was eventually passed during John Major’s reign as Prime Minister, there are arguably very little differences between his government and Thatcher’s (Halfacree p.45). The hegemonic project of Thatcherism (Hill 2002) was still going strong when the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act was passed).

In a second and closely related essay, Hill states that rave’s disruption of Thatcherism was amplified because of the space in which it often occupied (2002 p.89)6. As shown in chapter one, rave organisers must avoid noise complaints and the attention of the police. In England, this was done in either post-industrial or rural locations (Collin p.183-184; Hill 2002 p.89). More specifically, the recent completion of the London Orbital Motorway, or M25, gave the capital’s revellers easy access to the rural countryside surrounding London (Hill 2002 p.94). These spaces, collectively known as the Home Counties, became a focal point for raves during the period, and it was here that rave’s disruptive effects were most heightened. Even to this day, the Home Counties are a significant site for the Conversative party. At the time of rave, they

6 At this point, I think it is important to note the different terms that Hill and I are using. Hill writes about ​ ‘acid house’ parties and I am discussing ‘raves’. Some would argue these are different things, but for the purposes of this chapter I am using them synonymously. For more detail on the evolution of house music into acid house, and the subsequent description of larger parties as raves, see Collin (p.25-51; p.196).

23 were thought of as “a bedrock site of conservatism, order and respectability, presenting what could be conceived as a core site of the values of Thatcherism and its conception of the nation'' (Hill 2002 p.94-95).

Hill’s argument suggests that there is an interrelation between sound, space and power. For Hill, rave’s disruption was exacerbated because the spaces in which raves were often held had been imbued with the values of Thatcherism. In this chapter I will make a similar, but broader argument. Rather than the specific values of Thatcherism, I believe rave presents an interruption to the hegemonic conception of the rural space as a rural idyll. I will demonstrate that the rural idyll is related to power because it has been established as an expression of English national identity. It excludes those who do not belong, giving it some similarity to the values of Thatcherism (Hill 2003 p.220). As such, rave’s interruption of the rural idyll demonstrates the same interrelation of sound, space and power that is at the heart of Hill’s essays.

By interruption, I mean something that has “only temporary force and may dissolve into or be co-opted by the very conditions it seeks to resist” (Jordan and Lindner7). Rave interrupted the rural idyll, providing a temporary challenge to its conception of English identity. However, this lasted only until the above legislation was passed. At this point, the rave scene was crippled. It dissolved into the countryside, as the rural space was restored to its imagined, idyllic state. I believe that by passing the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act, the government was in fact supporting the idea that the rural space is representative of national identity. Today, the English countryside is the same exclusionary space that it has been since the Industrial Revolution. Furthermore, the conception of English national identity is the same exclusionary idea that has existed since that same period.

To make this argument, I will look closely at a short film made during the aftermath of a 1992 New Year’s Eve rave in Berkshire, one of the Home Counties. Accessible via the M25 and taking place just before the above legislation was passed, this is a perfect example of the raves that Hill writes about. The film was posted on YouTube by user RockSimian under the title “Old ​ ​ School Rave - The Morning After The Night Before”. I will look at how sound in the film especially interrupts the rural idyll, and subsequently the notion of English identity. However, I will add that for today’s viewers, the film also reveals the extent to which nothing has ultimately changed. The sights and sounds of the film are a stark contrast to assumptions we still hold about the rural space. This serves as a reminder of the temporary nature of rave’s challenge to the rural idyll.

Rural Idyll

As I have briefly explained above, Hill writes about the friction between countryside raves and Thatcherism. Much has been made about the relationship between the two, with many arguing

7 Again, due to the Covid-19 lockdown I have been unable to source a copy of Cities Interrupted: Visual ​ Culture and Urban Space. Jordan and Lindner’s chapter “Visual culture and interruption in global cities” ​ was available on Google Books, but without page numbers. ​ ​

24 for the latter as a catalyst for the rise of the former (Collin p.11-12; Deller; Reynolds p.171). I agree with these ideas, however it is not my intention here to provide another critique of Thatcher’s political project. Throughout this thesis I have simply been interested in sound and space, and it is here that I wish to remain. For this reason, I want to look at a broader, yet no less hegemonic, conception of the rural space. The Home Counties were significant before Thatcher’s reign, and they continue to be significant today. Hill himself even suggests this, writing that ideas about the Home Counties, and all of rural England, “constituting a rural idyll have persisted as a leading conception of this space across the twentieth century” (p.94). The rural idyll is the broader, hegemonic conception of the English countryside that I wish to consider with regards to rave’s interruption.

In short, the rural idyll is the common, idealised image of the rural space and rural life that exists across all forms of literature, film, advertising and so on (Bell p.150). It is the assumption that the countryside is an unchanging, prelapsarian haven of tranquillity, peace and prosperity. Not limited to England, David Bell identifies the idyll “on holiday in Catalonia” (p.149) and in “the classic American western movie” (p.150). It is therefore something that refers to a general (Western) idea of ‘the rural’, and specifically differentiates rural from urban space (Ibid.). Different variations of the rural idyll can be identified throughout Western history (Short), but in England it rose to prominence during the industrial growth of the eighteenth century (Haigron p.2). As more and more people relocated from the countryside into cities, the “preconditions for a nostalgic regard [...] for the reassurance of village family ties” (Short p.137) were strengthened. This mood was used by the Romantics, whose works subsequently influenced a general assumption that the rural space was idyllic. Common features of their works were an aversion to modernity and industrialisation, instead describing the beauty and morality that is found in the wilderness (Ibid.).

However, Romanticism went further than to simply describe the countryside as the idyllic counterbalance to the city. At the time of urbanisation in England, nostalgia for the past was closely connected to a sense that the nation’s identity was changing: “there was a general sense that the close-knit, narrow, rural world of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries had vanished forever” (Short p.140). Literature, poetry and paintings dealing with the rural space became comments on an inherent ‘Englishness’ that for many was rapidly disappearing8. By presenting the countryside landscape as a symbolic site for a past way of life, Romanticism was instrumental in making the rural idyll a representation of English national identity. Bell writes that the idyll is used for “shoring up” national identity (p.151) - something that is identifiable even

8 Haigron is right to point out here an incorrect conflation between Britishness and Englishness when discussing notions of ‘national identity (p.2). It is always unclear whether Britain encompasses England in terms of identity, whether Britain can be considered to be a nation, and who sees themselves as English, Scottish or Welsh over British, and vice versa. Haigron does identify, however, that despite there being other instances of magnificent countryside across Britain, it is always the English countryside that is the ​ ​ paradigm at the heart of British identity (Ibid.). However contentious this may be, for reasons of brevity I will speak here about the rural idyll in terms of the English countryside and being representative of ‘Englishness’. I am assuming it to have the same effect across all of Britain.

25 today. When the vast majority of the population lives in the city, it is the rural space that remains constitutive of inherent ‘Englishness’ (Haigron p.2).

Here the insidious nature of the rural idyll begins to reveal itself. Establishing the boundaries of a national identity necessarily involves excluding those who do not belong. For instance, if Englishness is equated with the rural, is the urban majority of the population in fact un-English? Or in some way less-English? Just as Thatcherism was a project that aimed to define “who the people are” (Hall p.71, quoted in Hill 2002), the rural idyll is a system that controls who can and cannot consider themselves English9. Jon Garland and Neil Chakraborti’s investigation into the English countryside discovers that the idyllic image of a “close-knit” (p.159) village is realised in the form of communities with an intense distrust of outsiders. They are often “consertative and essentially circumspect in nature” (p.163), keeping tight controls on behaviour and values. And whilst there is a distrust for everyone who is not from the local area (Ibid.), this is greatly intensified for non-whites (p.161). Garland and Chakraborti identify, therefore, an overlap between the rural idyll, ‘Englishness’ and ‘whiteness’ (Ibid.). Consequently, any interruption of the idyll is not merely a challenge to a vague nostalgia for the past. Instead, it is a challenge to a specific conception of English identity.

What does this mean for raves? Most notably, they are an interruption of the assumed countryside tranquillity. Raves are very loud, busy events. Furthermore, the sound at raves is distinctively urban. In the previous chapters I have discussed two overtly urban spatial relationships of electronic dance music. Born in the city and tied to post-industrial space, the very music itself, as well as its volume, is notably un-rural. Raves, therefore, are un-rural events in rural locations. Considering this in light of the above conception of English identity, raves must be un-English. In the next section I will look at evidence in the short film which suggests that this is unreasonable.

I believe that rave’s interruptive force was not merely about the tranquillity of the rural space. Instead it was an interruption of, and therefore a challenge to, a dangerous and exclusionary conception of English identity. There is an avenue of research that opens up here, questioning whether Parliament’s decision to pass the above legislation was in any way influenced by the perceived threat to such an identity. But this is beyond the scope of what I wish to achieve in this chapter. Nonetheless, by bringing alien sounds to the countryside, raves were able to demonstrate the plurality of values and the multiculturalism that is inherent to English identity. As I will now demonstrate, the short film “Old School Rave'' is a perfect example of this.

9 There is an argument to be made that the rural idyll and Thatcher’s core values overlap significantly, ​ leading one to question whether the former influenced the latter. However, that is a discussion for another paper.

26 Old School Rave - The Morning After The Night Before

In “Old School Rave”, an unseen interviewer and his film-crew roam the grounds of Littlecote House as people stream out of a recently finished New Year’s Eve rave. Throughout, it is evidently clear that assumptions about the rural space, and consequently a specific conception of ‘Englishness’, are being interrupted. Here I will focus on the role that sound plays in causing this interruption.

To my mind there are two distinct ways that sound interrupts the rural idyll in this short film. Later I will discuss the electronic dance music that is notably absent. Firstly, though, is the cacophony of background noise that can be heard throughout its entirety: a large crowd of people chatting and shouting, the rumble of an indeterminate number of car engines, and an incessantly ringing alarm. From the very opening shot, until the very end, it is clear that the peace and tranquillity expected of this rural space are gone.

Looking at one specific instance, the Ford Capri struggling to free itself from the muddy field is a perfect example of rave’s interruption to the rural idyll (2:52-3:04). It struggles because it is unsuitable for the rural environment. The more it tries to free itself, the more noise it makes. The noise then adds to the interrupting cacophony that has been taking place throughout the film. Therefore, in trying to free itself, the Capri only manages to further demonstrate that it does not belong on the muddy field. It has come here because of the rave, and is hence an image for rave’s unsuitability in the rural space.

Additionally, each time the Capri accelerates, its wheels churn up the grass below. The damage they exert demonstrates a physicality that the noise from the engine does not. Interruption is a “temporary force” (Jordan and Lindner, emphasis added), and therefore must ​ ​ have some physical characteristic to it. Government legislation indicates that rave’s interruption was temporary, but no more than this. The Capri’s wheels churning up the grass are a good indication that it was also forceful. The damage is a physical mark on the landscape that will remain long after the rave has finished. A material reminder of the interruption that has taken place.

Overall, the Capri is an outsider to the rural space. It is un-rural, and consequently must be regarded as un-English. But this is absurd. The noise from rumbling engines has been a staple part of the English soundscape since the Industrial Revolution. This is the very same time that the rural idyll became a prominent way of understanding English identity. Not a coincidence, I feel. Short describes the rural idyll as an “act of purification” (p.150). At the time of industrialisation, people were concerned about what was at stake through the process of urbanisation. The idyll was a way of purifying English identity. The noise of engines, the noise of the city and of industry were the exact things that it needed purifying from. It was a way of holding onto something that was being lost in the transition from rural to urban. However, that was two centuries ago. Rave was a way of demonstrating all of the things that we must continue to ignore, should the rural idyll’s hegemonic conception of English identity be carried into

27 modern times. The rumble of the Ford Capri’s engine is as English as Littlecote House and its rural grounds. Rave’s interruption of the rural idyll brought this sharply into focus.

But it is not only the noise of engines that does this. Throughout the film, it is evident that electronic dance music is behind the interruptions taking place. The recently finished rave brought all of these people to this remote rural location because of the new, exciting genre at its core. Notably, however, none of this music is heard in the film. I think its absence adds to the palpable sense of interruption that it has caused. It looms in the background, as some sort of sonic spectre. This is most obvious in the two sequences featuring the couple that refuse to stop dancing (0:36-2:18; 3:36-4:22). Their behaviour is a glaring sign that electronic dance music is at the root of the interruptions taking place, even if it is now no longer playing. Their dancing could perhaps best be described as a “succession of repetitive beats” (Criminal Justice and Public Order Act, 1994). It screams ‘electronic dance music’ almost louder than the speakers that powered the rave they have just attended. Whilst watching, you cannot help but hear the music that is in their heads - the archetypal beats that brought about the introduction of the legislation aimed at safeguarding the interrupted rural idyll.

Like the Capri, the couple is un-rural. At 2:14 is a shot that perfectly captures this. A close-up of their feet hopping and stamping up and down on the beaten grass is eerily reminiscent of the Ford Capri’s churning wheels. The shot is accompanied (as if by fate) by a ringing car alarm. The rhythmic, electronic pulse could have been lifted straight from one of the rave tracks that soundtracked the party the pair have only just left. It is this urban music that fills their heads, and causes them to disrupt and damage the countryside beneath their feet, marking them as un-rural, and un-English.

Again, this is absurd. As a black man and a white woman dancing together harmoniously, the couple are symbolic of the multicultural English identity of modern times. Exactly the kind of identity that proponents of the rural idyll perhaps want to suppress. Garland and Chakraborti argue that the perceived whiteness of rural communities (the whiteness that leads to a conflation of Englishness with whiteness) is in fact a myth (p.160). People of all ethnicities live in the countryside, despite the prevalent thought that it is a solely white space. The unnamed black man dancing in the field is an image that interrupts these prevalent thoughts. And this interruption has been brought about by rave and rave music.

At the end of the film, the couple appear again in front of Littlecote House itself (3:36). It appears as though they have been intentionally placed there by the film-crew, but nonetheless the image is resonant. The grandiose country home perfectly represents the rural idyll. It is exactly the type of space that aristocrats would have retreated to during times of urbanisation (Haigron p.2), and from which they would have pined for the bucolic England of old. The house represents, therefore, a belief that true English identity is found in the countryside. The view of the house, however, is blocked by the dancers. The pair occupy the space between the camera and the house, creating another physical instance of rave’s interruption. And whilst the viewer cannot see the physical representation of English identity, neither can she hear it. The

28 omnipresent rumble of engines still continues to disrupt the peace and quiet. And still the spectre of electronic music looms behind everything.

But rave has not only interrupted one flow of ideas about rural space. It has also introduced its own to (temporarily) replace them. Before continuing onto the next section, this deserves consideration. The couple’s speech distinguishes them as not conforming with the prominent conservatism within rural space (Garland and Chakraborti p.163). “Yeah man”, responds the unnamed man to the interviewer’s opening question (0:42). A colloquialism that seems strange in these surroundings. A modern phrase in a space that since the Romantics has been anti-modern. There is a connection here between the modern, cutting-edge music played at the rave and this phrase. Thinking back to chapter two, for instance, techno music was made in an intersection of futuristic themes and advanced technology. Played at countryside raves, this music facilitated an acceptance of new standards of speech in a space that famously looks to the past and “has no room for difference” (Bell p.151).

Speech is far from the only thing that has been updated. At one moment, a third individual arrives and watches the couple dance (1:10-1:25). With his shirt off under his jacket (remember this is New Year’s Day, the middle of winter), and his sunglasses on despite the grey weather, he is dressed in the same strange and ‘inappropriate’ fashion. He and the dancing girl (wearing shorts) are apparently oblivious to the cold. Their state of undress is probably attributable to the influence of drugs (as is the incessant dancing). This is of course conjectural, however the stereotype of ravers and drugs like ecstasy exists for a reason. Ecstasy played an important role in the development of the rave scene (Collin), and it is more than likely that the majority of the people in the film have recently consumed it. The experimental, liberal values involved with taking illicit substances and dressing in ‘alternative’ styles are the very values that rave music introduced into the rural space. It is these values that interrupted the rural idyll and demonstrated that modern English identity is very different to the one founded during the time of the Romantics.

“I’m gonna keep dancing forever, me”

In this final section, I want to turn back to the temporary nature of rave’s interruptive force. I began this chapter with a section of legislation that effectively ended the rave scene across Britain. With this in mind, there is a moment in the film that takes on greater significance. Asked if she will ever stop, the unnamed woman responds, “I’m gonna keep dancing forever, me” (1:05). But sadly, this was not the case. Towards the end of the very same year in which this film was made, details of the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act were announced (Gross and Ní Aoláin, p.186). Raves were outlawed. And whilst illegal raves do still exist in the English ​ ​ countryside, they are nowhere near the size and scale that they once were (Crisp). The rural idyll was very swiftly restored following the passing of the legislation. Despite the woman’s desires, rave’s interruption was only a passing moment.

When considered in light of the discussion in the previous section, this is significant. Rave’s interruption was not about the mere peace and quiet of rural spaces. Instead it was an

29 interruption of a specific sense of national identity that had its roots in the rural idyll. If rave’s interruption was only momentary, what does that mean for the rural space and national identity today? Jeremy Deller makes an interesting comment in relation to this in his 2018 documentary, “Everybody in the Place: An Incomplete History of Britain 1984-1992”. In the film, he leads a class of London sixth-formers. During his presentation, he refers to “Old School Rave”. He specifically shows them the closing scene that I have already discussed, and states: “For me that's a really interesting, sort of, look at Britain - Britain old and Britain new, at the same time. This dancing, and then in front of this, sort of, 500 year old stately home” (41:52-42:03).

I think there is some nuance to what Deller says here. In one sense the dancers do certainly represent “Britain new”. Their multiculturalism is mirrored by the plurality of ethnicities making up Deller’s class. Britain today is a diverse mix of races and cultures, symbolised by the dancers in the film. However, in another sense, the Britain that they represent has gone. The repetitive beats of rave music drew a young, culturally diverse crowd from the cities into rural areas. By doing so, it publicised the notion that British identity had evolved. But this was only temporary. Once the laws were passed and the music stopped, these culturally diverse crowds stayed away. The perceived whiteness of the rural space remains prevalent today (Garland and Chakraborti). Subsequently, the perceived whiteness of the national identity remains prevalent too.

Deller’s pupils, for instance, never go to the countryside (39:41). They are multicultural city kids and feel at home in London. More tellingly, when Deller asks which of them thinks of themselves as British, he receives no response. One girl says she identifies “more as a Londoner” (39:55). And who can blame her? If British identity is still being pushed as white and rural, how could she, a London girl from a non-white heritage, ever feel as though she is British? The notion of British identity that rave tried to promote can be seen in the couple dancing in front of Littlecote House. However, the fact that this was a temporary interruption of a more dominant conception of rurality and whiteness can be seen in Deller’s pupil’s response.

Conclusion

Throughout this chapter I have discussed the interrelation that can exist between sound, space and power. The rural idyll is more than just a set of characteristics about rural space. Beneath the surface, it is a notion that the rural represents English national identity. Rural tranquillity becomes paramount because it is representative of ‘true’ England. Anything and anyone perceived as potentially disruptive of this tranquillity is made to feel unwelcome, or prevented access.

Sound became involved with this relationship when rave music started to interrupt the tranquillity of the rural idyll. For a few years from around 1988 to the passing of the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act in 1994, the rural idyll’s conception of the rural space was subverted. It was no longer solely a quiet space. Or a white space. Or a conservative space. As had been assumed since the Industrial Revolution. Instead it became a space for everyone.

30 Today, in the place of raves that could once attract thousands of people at a time, the summer festival business in Britain (and across the world) is booming. Tens of thousands of people are drawn to specific places, often in the countryside, to attend music festivals catering to all tastes and genres. I think a good place to further this discussion would be an investigation into the relationship between summer festivals and the rural idyll. Because the festivals are arguably as disruptive as any rave ever was, however they are much more legitimate. I wonder whether the money that can be made, and the commercial opportunities that are present, play any role in placating the rural idyll. I would not be surprised if they do.

31 Conclusion

The three spatial conditions considered throughout this thesis are distinct from one another. However they do share connections. Post-industrial and urban spaces share more with each other than with rural locations. The Cause, for instance, is in a city. Furthermore, entire ​ ​ cities can themselves become post-industrial. When the auto companies relocated from Detroit, the city moved into a new period of its history. A period that was post-industry. It was left with a huge number of empty industrial spaces very similar to The Cause’s. Even before electronic ​ ​ dance music ties the two together, therefore, these spaces are related.

Rural space is quite different. Urban and rural are often posited as opposites of each other - the rural idyll, remember, was established as an antidote to the accelerating urbanisation taking place across Britain. However, rural space is now connected to a music that is fundamentally urban. Chicago and Detroit are the two key cities for the development of house and techno (Salkind; Sicko). New York was important before them as the home of disco (Lawrence). Berlin has been critical to their expansion (Rapp). London is the home of jungle, drum and bass, UK garage and more (Bradley). The question I want to reflect on as a way of conclusion, then, is how has electronic dance music brought rural space and the urban/post-industrial pairing closer together? What visible connections are there between these diverse instances of space?

In RA’s video for The Cause, Stuart Glen sits with his dog on a green Chesterfield ​ ​ ​ ​ armchair in the middle of the empty warehouse (Take a look 0:26). The furniture is interesting ​ because it is completely out of place. Chesterfields do not belong in dusty north London warehouses, instead the piece of furniture would be much more at home in a large countryside manor. It is almost as though it has been taken straight out of Littlecote House. On the very morning “Old School Rave” was filmed, one can imagine a reveller stumbling across the chair and taking it home as a souvenir.

Furthermore, Glen’s appearance also references the countryside. Sitting in his rustic armchair, wearing a hat that is fractionally too large to be taken seriously, he resembles a modern day take on Lewis Carroll’s ‘mad’ Hatter - a character and novel built around the countryside and rural themes. Both Glen and his chair, therefore, can be read as lingering echoes from a history of rural electronic dance music events. Echoes that tie rural and post-industrial spaces closer together.

Later, the focus of the film turns to The Cause’s DJ booth (1:22-1:30). The first remark to ​ ​ make is that it looks fantastic. The team is obviously very proud of it, and rightly so. But the combination of metal wiring and wooden boards gives another suggestion of rural themes inside a post-industrial warehouse. Whether intentionally or not (probably not), the booth cannot help but resemble a coop for livestock. I find this image very pleasing. For me, it is an acknowledgement of the importance of events that have taken place in the past. A history of music and parties can be read into the wooden-coop-come-DJ-booth’s fusion of the countryside

32 with a post-industrial setting. Placed in the middle of an urban warehouse, it perfectly captures the connection that electronic dance music has forged between the post-industrial, urban and rural.

It is this connection that brings my thesis to a much broader discussion about the importance of sound to space. Electronic dance music has a relationship that traverses across different instances of space, thus bringing those instances closer together. Sound can have a tangible impact on the way space is experienced. Therefore sound should be referenced when analysing space.

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