What do we want from the night?

Search for the romance of an evening on the dance floor and you might find it in the spontaneity of its choreography: the blinding, blurring brilliance of unannounced convergences of sound and acquaintance. Some say it’s in the waiting—moving through the days before with an eye on the promise of the night ahead—while others champion the cultivation of memory, cherishing internal snapshots of hours lost most beautifully in the dark.

Last week I returned to the club: a rare appearance following my semi-retirement from partying. Enticed by the nostalgic warmth of a Berlin summer night and a coveted spot on a friend’s guest list, I found myself re-immersed in the swaying of bodies that used to feel like home. I’m 34 now, and spent the majority of the weekends between 2009 and 2018 in nightlife venues of all scales and reputations, carving out a routine of preparation, perspiration and recovery that fed my hunger for experiences unknown. But things feel different now.

In 2020 the clubs fell silent. In 2022 I had a baby. Nothing is the same, and neither are our collective expectations of the night. Journeying home just a few hours after I arrived—sober, alone, content—it occurred to me that the bar for a successful nightlife experience hasn't just moved, it has shapeshifted into something almost unrecognisable. Club night line-ups read more like festival programmes, with shorter sets and more names—often rushing through a menu of crowd-pleasers that offer bursts of excitement without the need for build-up. Aside from that, there is less homogeny of experience, with sober and non-sober ravers increasingly dancing alongside each other. Have our ambitions for the night changed? Or are our means and methods for attaining them simply evolving? Let’s consider the experiential pillars that define them.

In an age of online promotion, streaming platforms, pre-sales and re-sales, the anticipation of coming together for these shared experiences has, for many of us, become counterintuitively detached; scouring the internet for line-ups, travel options and ticket availability weeks and even months in advance through the uninspiring glow of a phone screen.

And still the heart finds room to soar—the gift of anticipation. For events that pride themselves on their diversity of bookings, such as Berlin Atonal, the announcement of the programme has emerged as a moment of its own. It invites us to dare to dream in unison of the possibilities of the five-day festival, allowing us to enter the festival already engaged with the experience.

The bodily experience, not the drug.

While rave culture of the 90s and early 00s was built on the fusion of mind-altering substances and ascendant electronic music, the rise of more sober approaches to partying—like my own—has allowed for an abstraction of the nurturing of moments of ecstasy.

The social restrictions of the pandemic stripped us of physical communion, and with it: the tactility of community. They say you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, and with a renewed appreciation for physical interaction, I find myself increasingly present in my body—riding high on the physical being of my peers, led by the poetry of bodies inspired to move. A younger version of me took corporeal pleasure for granted, instead chasing some ‘higher’ spiritual sensation in a bid to escape the trappings of a self-condemned imperfect body, but now it is the privilege of attendance and proximity that frames my experiences.

“I think being in an environment where you are able to fully let go, be present in your body and with others, in a safe context, where the music is fresh and pushing the boundaries of what is currently trending, is what’s most important to me,” says artist sofii, who will be debuting at this year’s Berlin Atonal.

More and more I sense that modern life demands hyper-independence, so the act of entering the club alone feels like one of radical defiance. While at first glance the solo raver might appear in isolation, it is the feeling of resonance among strangers that presides over many nightlife venues that enables this confidence to exist alone, together.

To witness hands, arms, hips and feet moving in rhythmic unison is to comprehend the depth of alignment and understanding that comes from showing up alongside each other; an unspoken trust that we are all there to be truly present and listen, without distraction or agenda.

Could it be that the sudden rise of listening bars and rooms—such as the one local independent record label PAN will host at Berlin Atonal this year—reflects an increased desire to feel rooted in the moment? Festival attendees will be presented with selections from ENTOPIA, PAN’s series dedicated to “expanding the function and form of the soundtrack.” These soundscapes, by artists Cyprien Gaillard, Jenna Sutela, Anne Imhof, Mohamed Bourouissa and Jeremy Shaw, grant us permission to expand the listening experience, begging us to speculate on new forms of sonic embrace and all that sound can achieve. Music has always been a form of artistic expression, but this broad shift in experiential expectation appears to blur the lines between the two fields further, challenging us to desire a dynamic more.

Dark rooms, bass-heavy sound systems and hours-long sets offer a chance to indulge in a sensation of timelessness; to be liberated from structures that demand clock-watching, multitasking and unlimited access to our energetic stores. In the context of events, DJs, curators and performers are tasked with transcending time, providing a portal to a freedom that is increasingly difficult to embrace in the post-internet, eternally online era.

Billy Bultheel, the artist behind ‘A Short History of Decay’, uses performance to explore “collapse as both a sonic and political condition.” Bultheel reveals that what he wants from the night is “heresy,” suggesting the need for spaces where rules no longer apply. But who makes the rules, what are they, and who said we had to follow them? Society as a concept demands constructs and rules to uphold them, but our nightlife venues can be platforms for liberation and evolution—places where we embrace individual reform and enforce freedom through individualised action.

Perhaps the legacy of the night is the way that shapes the future of society. Experiences made memorable by their depth of emotional and physical intensity leave an immovable imprint on a person that will inevitably influence both individual and collective actions as they move through life beyond the doors of the club. The intangible archive of after-dark memories we cherish might be the most potent gift given to us by the night.

“As somebody who doesn't go out much, I attach importance to my memory of nightlife from my late teenagehood; when time seemed to have stretched,” says French electronic musician Malibu, who will perform at this year’s iteration of Berlin Atonal. When asked what she wants from the night, she responds simply: “To feel something.” And don’t we all?