Dreams, doofs and dancefloors

A brand-new electronic lifestyle

Born in vibrant queer clubs and underground parties in cities across the world, electronic dance music had become a way of life by the '80s. Experimental rock and Kraftwerk-inspired synths bled into the New Wave movement, which led to shaggy-haired youths massing in Melbourne's Crystal Ballroom and Festival Hall. Then came the acid house boom in Chicago, futuristic techno in Detroit, and jungle and hip-hop waves in the UK's multicultural hubs.

Paul remembers the moment when global sounds converged amid rapid evolutions in audio technology: 'The exciting thing about electronic music was that you were making something that was new,' he says. 'You'd discover new stuff as the gear was still developing throughout the '90s and think, "Okay, what can we do with that? Let's create this mood, let's keep pushing."'

‘There was a speed of genre creation that came from overseas, but it was our take on that mash of influences. That feeling of discovery is why I listened to Lorna’s show Down Low Disco. The creative process is fed by listening to other people who are innovative and going, “Oh, I'd love to do something as innovative as that.”’

Paul helped define the sound of an era, crafting some of Australia's most influential dance tracks, including his 2001 hit 'Just The Thing' featuring Peta Morris – a catchy blend of conga percussion, house and disco. But his mainstream success was built in the underground, where remixing, experimentation and collaboration were the norm. As one half of Itch-E and Scratch-E alongside Andy Rantzen, he created the surprise ARIA-winning anthem 'Sweetness & Light', a track where repetition and sampling led to transcendence. Its chattering breakbeat, hazy vocals and layered piano and synths became a blueprint for dancefloor euphoria.

The many lives of ‘Sweetness & Light’ reveal the excitable creativity of Australia's early rave scene. This archive pull features a remix by fellow electronic pioneer Meem, taken from a compilation CD by Freaky Loops – a series of dance parties hosted by 2SER in the late 1990s. Heard side by side, the original and its remix capture a scene that thrived on exchange, where radio, clubs and artists continually reshaped one another, and every track became the starting point for something new.

Lorna calls this community atmosphere ‘our form of social media’ in the pre-internet era. 'We had to go out and be in spaces to be able to talk to people, to be able to meet new people,' she says. 'You connected through the style of music, what those parties represented, the DJs that played. Your social cachet was built through knowing about the parties and building a community. If you wanted to hear new music, you either had to listen to 2SER and a couple of other small stations, or you had to go out, physically be there, and listen to what people were playing. It was our gateway to the world.’

The space was fringe, but also fundamentally democratic: ‘Everyone dressed the same. Everyone was in baggy t-shirts and jeans. Male, female, rich, poor, everyone had the same sort of outfit. You couldn't tell who was who in the crowd.’

The dance floor was the artist

Electronic dance music has since exploded into a commercial phenomenon. But precursors to the massive sound systems and stadium-scale festivals of today were Sydney's legendary RAT (Recreational Arts Team) parties at the Hordern Pavilion and the thriving LGBTQIA+ clubs across Australia.

They defined the look and feel of the underground, introducing not just new sounds but immersive visual performances that transformed dancefloors into complete sensory experiences.

'The first Mardi Gras and Hordern parties that I went to, the thing was that you danced with each other,' Paul recalls. ‘You dressed for it and you were the artist. That was revolutionary: that the audience, the dance floor was the artist.’

‘Places like Club Kooky and a room in Club 77 with a smaller crowd of 200 was way better than 10,000. It was queer-based, but not exclusively. It just supported creativity. There was often a live show, be it a performance artist or a live techno act. It was this whole other creative meeting spot, a sharing of creativity that fed other people to be more inspired to keep it going.’

Music and video fused in these ephemeral moments of gathering. Artist collectives like Subvertigo staged performances using a diverse collection of equipment, from cameras and video mixers to VCRs and oscilloscopes, mixing images live in response to the crowd and music at techno parties. Meanwhile, concern over the drug culture inherent to the scene resulted in campaigns that were artworks in themselves. Funded by the government, the psychedelic ad below was custom-made for the free-party scene of the '90s, designed to blend seamlessly into the atmosphere of a rave while flashing messages like 'SAFE SEX' and 'NEW FIT SAFE HIT'.

This undeniable artistic explosion soon crossed over from the underground into pop charts and bigger venues. ‘Rave music in the early ‘90s and jungle and techno actually had the capability to move into Top 10 mainstream, like Top of the Pops in the UK and Video Hits over here,’ Lorna says. ‘It was popular culture at the same time as being underground and I've never seen that happen before or again.’

It's a sensation that both artists feel conflicted about. ‘I look at what has become commercial in the current climate, and it feels like it's been produced quickly and efficiently,’ Lorna continues. ‘Not with deep care or passion or the desire to push boundaries.’

'Commercial EDM is like: "Give us the hits, mash them up"', adds Paul, who has worked across both underground and commercial spheres. ‘Now that I'm lecturing at the [Sydney Conservatorium of Music], that's what I'm trying to do when I teach – I show the history, because a lot of people think it started with David Guetta.’

Yet despite its ever-changing forms, the desire to dance together endures. For both artists, the pursuit remains the same: to experience newness and create it for others. ‘Paul, you would know this,’ Lorna says. ‘When you DJ, you don't just walk into a room and play music. Selecting the music is the last thing I do. I don't have anything pre-prepared. I walk into the room, and I feel where people are at. And then I think about where I would like to take them.’

‘You want the DJ to take you somewhere unknown,’ Paul affirms. ‘That's the goal. Take me somewhere I've never been before.’

Midnight memories

After decades of late-night parties, can any epic nights still stand out?

‘My memory is pretty terrible,’ laughs Paul. ‘But definitely Club Kooky. It was a weekly event, and it was $5 entry. There was free vegetarian food, there was always a live act, and it went on till the early morning. Even when I was living in Katoomba, you could just dance through the night and catch the 5 am train home. And it was cheap – when you're on the dole living in Surry Hills, you could still be there.’

'In the early rave days, when the Hordern got shut down, everyone had to get pretty creative about where things were held. It was often the gay parties for me. There was just something about the lack of aggression.'

Growing up in suburban Western Sydney, Lorna felt similar: ‘I was used to pubs fuelled by alcohol and male aggression. You didn't feel safe. Discovering dance music and dance culture, I realised those spaces were largely not aggressive and not sexualised, it wasn't about hooking up.’

As Lorna reminisces about nights along Oxford Street, record stores, alternative fashion shops and the Bentley Bar, an older, more formative memory stands out. 'I lived with my parents and my brother in a one-bedroom flat in Glasgow,' she recalls. 'Tiny space, we had no money, but my parents had community, friends and a love for partying. As little kids, we'd hear Giorgio Moroder and Donna Summer pumping through the wall to my bedroom and how joyful everyone was, dancing in the other room.'

‘That gave me this insight into nightlife: music spaces are what bring people together and can allow people to connect in a way that removes inhibitions. Why I continue to DJ, to do a radio show, has always been because of how meaningful music is in giving us a shared emotional language – when people often don't have a verbal emotional language.’

'I've forever been following those one-off parties,' Paul adds. 'And there's still Bad Dog, there's still Mad Racket. There are scenes and sounds that I'm sure younger people are creating that I'm just completely unaware of ... The older I get, I still have this passion for listening to and creating music that has not existed before.'

Explore more of Australia ‘After Dark.’