Since the 90s, electronic music has exploded into one of the biggest movements on Earth. It’s inspired new genres, new ideas, and new ways of feeling alive. But in the beginning, people didn’t go to these shows because it was trendy or cool. They went because it was necessary. Because the world outside didn’t have room for them.

Society told people that unless they wore suits, worked a 9-to-5, and lived inside a box, they weren’t valuable. Electronic music became an escape from all that. It was a space for those who saw through the lies being sold by corporations and culture, the lie that your worth depended on productivity and image.

These early raves and gatherings were more than just parties. They were places where people could finally breathe. People came together in these dark warehouses, not to impress anyone, but to connect. It didn’t matter who you were or where you came from. The dance floor made everyone equal. The Berlin Wall had just come down, and communities were rising up everywhere to push back against oppression, separation, and control. Music became the glue holding people together. It was protest. It was freedom.

The music itself broke structure for a reason. It wasn’t about trying to be different for the sake of it, it was about unlocking feelings you couldn’t experience anywhere else. The rhythms could take you places words couldn’t. You’d get lost in the sound, in the moment, and somehow end up finding yourself through it all. People connected through movement, through emotion, through shared energy. You could have a whole conversation through dance without ever saying a word. It was pure expression. Pure humanity.

People were tired of being told they had to compete with each other to matter. The scene gave them a place to drop the mask, to stop fighting, to just be. These spaces weren’t underground because they were small or hidden, they were underground because only a few people really understood how important they were. They were about unity, creativity, and creating a better life together through shared experience.

But as time went on, things started to shift. By the late 90s and early 2000s, new eyes were on the movement. Bigger shows, bigger production, more press. Record labels and advertisers started realizing there was money to be made from this thing that used to belong to the people. Artists started investing more in videos and branding, and slowly a new kind of standard began to take over. Being a “good artist” became about how well you could sell yourself, not how deep you could make someone feel. Exploration started to fade. The labels were the ones calling the shots, and the artists became tools to make them more money.

Then came social media, and created another massive shift. Initially acting as a way for independent artists to share their music with the world, it soon became about numbers. About who had the most followers, the most likes, the most attention. Artists started to feel like if they didn’t have enough followers, they didn’t matter. Society began equating social media clout with talent, and artists without big platforms started to lose credibility.

Streaming services brought their own version of the same story. They made music more accessible than ever before, which was amazing in some ways. But they also created a system that rewarded familiarity over creativity. The algorithms started favoring songs that sounded like what people already liked. Tracks that took risks got buried. Even the best producers struggled to get noticed without paying fees or getting label backing.

Meanwhile, attention spans kept shrinking. A 2015 Microsoft study shows that the average consumer has an attention span of 8 seconds down from 12 seconds back in 2000. That’s a shorter attention span than a goldfish. The world got faster, and music got shorter. People stopped listening to full albums unless it came from a massive pop artist. Singles became the new standard. Artists stopped telling stories and started chasing trends. Music started sounding familiar not because it was inspired, but because it was safe.

As the industry got more commercialized, the dance floors changed too. What used to be a space for expression and connection started feeling more like a networking event. People stopped showing up to feel something real and started showing up to be seen. Clubs filled with influencers taking pictures just to post online. Venues got more expensive, artist fees went up, and the ones trying to keep the culture alive started getting pushed out. It got harder and harder for people with real intention to compete.

These events were never supposed to be about going out to be something. They were about going out to unbecome and to shed the layers of identity and ego so that your true self could come through. That was the magic of it. That’s what we’ve drifted away from.

But all is not lost. There are still amazing pockets of people around the world fighting to keep this culture alive. Communities that care more about feeling than selling. Artists who create not for numbers or clout, but because they believe in the power of sound to change people. There’s a quiet revolution happening, and it’s rooted in remembering why we’re doing this in the first place.

If you’re reading this, odds are you’re one of us. Support your local event companies, go to the shows that are built with love and intention, not just the ones with flashy marketing. Support your local producers, the ones spending sleepless nights building something meaningful, something with purpose. They’re not doing it for a paycheck. They’re doing it for the community. For the people.

The true feeling is still alive. You can still find it if you look for it. It’s in the small shows, the dusty warehouses, the DIY stages, the faces in the crowd that still close their eyes and let go. That’s where the real underground lives. Not in algorithms, not in numbers, but in the heartbeat that connects all of us. The beat was never meant to be bought, it was meant to be felt.