I spent a lot of my twenties in clubs (raves, warehouse parties, festivals included). A lot.

I spent a lot of my twenties in clubs (raves, warehouse parties, festivals included). A lot.

Audio in Brighton (now Patterns) saw me Tuesday through Saturday, like clockwork.

You could look at that and see something negative: escapism, excess, wasted time. But that misses the point.

I wasn’t just dancing. I was connecting.

Club culture creates a kind of belonging you don’t need words for. It’s unspoken: the nods, the moves, the shared understanding of what’s happening without anyone saying a thing. You’re not thinking. You’re feeling. The bass. The lights. The sweat. And somehow, in the middle of all that chaos, I’m still. Present. Alive.

I’ve been going to Berlin every year since I was twenty. I’ll be forty in two years. Why do I keep going back? For that.

I can do it sober at 4am and still hit the same state: that beautiful dissolve of ego. Connection. Something bigger than me.

Gigs, same thing.

Nils Frahm at the Dome moved me to tears, not because I was sad, but because I was in a room full of strangers all completely locked in to the same moment. Jon Hopkins’ Ritual 360 at Polygon earlier this year: total sensory surrender. Pure joy.

I’m seeing Daniel Avery at Chalk on Thursday. I know exactly what I’m chasing.

This, I think, is just another part of what I keep coming back to: connection. What it means, where we find it, and why we need it.

Looking forward to understanding more about how club culture meets brands, advertising and the creative industries by reading “Selling The Night” by Andy Crysell.