’90s Thunderdome, 2000s Central European techno events, free tekno culture and the reality of certain drum & bass scenes
This is one of my recurring themes. But it comes from my direct experiences with people across the electronic music spectrum.
It is also shaped by the nature of electronic music itself: it can run almost continuously and does not depend on human factors as much as instrumental music does. This reality was one of the reasons why various pathologies emerged — such as nonstop noise lasting through nights and days in the case of certain subcultural ideologies like free tekno, as well as the spread of substances that enable uninterrupted raving.
In my view, electronic music has brought not only a great deal of happiness, but also a great deal of harm.
When people use fewer drugs or nothing, they focus more on the music — on its structure, emotions, tension, silence, and the energy between the beats. Space opens up for art and for culture. But once attention shifts to the substance, music retreats into the background. It stops being the goal and becomes mere scenery. Without chemistry, many people are no longer able to enjoy the music at all. And it is precisely at this moment that the character of an entire scene breaks.
“Why does everybody always talk aboutdrugs, when I care about is stroking my cats.” Cats by Flava D
This mechanism has been repeating itself in electronic music for decades, and it can be clearly observed in three concrete examples: ‘90s Thunderdome in the Netherlands, techno culture in the Central Europe, and contemporary drum & bass events.
In the 1990s, Thunderdome represented an extreme, raw form of hardcore. The music was physical, uncompromising, built on intensity and collective pressure. At the same time, it very quickly became associated with mass use of MDMA and amphetamines. Extreme tempo and the length of sets stopped functioning on their own — drugs became the means by which the music could be endured at all. The audience’s attention shifted from listening to the state of intoxication. Hardcore ceased to be perceived as a musical direction and began to be perceived as a chemical ritual. The scene burned out quickly, and what remained in memory was more the image of drugs than the music itself.
A similar shift can be observed in Czech techno culture. The original idea of trance, repetition, and deep immersion from techno in rhythm was gradually replaced by MDMA and methamphetamine as the primary source of energy. The drug began to dictate the pace of events, the duration of events, and people’s behavior. Music no longer led — it merely sustained attention. It is therefore not surprising that many people abandoned techno music — because of an environment in which drug use is so normalized that without it, a person does not fit in or is unable to function.
Drum & bass today is often presented as an emotional, community-oriented genre. There is talk of “good vibes,” connection between people, and joy through music. The reality of many events, however, is different. MDMA, cocaine, ketamine and amphetamines are the silent standard on which the evening’s dramaturgy is built.
Rapid succession of drops, minimal space for atmosphere, and long nights without pauses create an environment that simply does not function without chemical support. Music is consumed, not experienced. Emotions are intense, but short-lived and hollow.
Across all of these cases, the same pattern repeats itself: once drugs become the primary tool for experiencing music, culture and music and art begins to lose depth. People stop focusing on sound, track selection, and the shared moment. They focus on themselves, on their state, on making the effect last as long as possible. Art is pushed into the background.
The true test of any music scene is simple: does the music function on its own? Can it move people, connect them, and create a community even without a chemical crutch? If not, it is not freedom itself, but dependency — and a dependent culture does not have a long lifespan.
