Today’s young adults were born during the pregame for the Internet age. As one of them, I hear a glitchy loop of 21st-century buzzwords hum in my brain: intersectionality, wokeness, sustainability, boundaries, manifesting, self-care… and, more recently, rave.
Everyone harbours different emotions towards this word. A freshly 18-year-old tethered to their favorite Plateau bar might wince at hearing “I went to a rave on Friday!” during a GPS-guided walk home. But when she attends her first one two years later, she’ll spiritually transform in minutes. This was my experience with the Montreal party scene. I slowly learned that the most memorable nights always start with whispers and giggles rather than a club’s neon-taped posters. Receiving friends’ texted invites and blurry photos felt like opening sacred gifts.
Yet as a 20-year-old student and creative who grew up in an insular suburb, raves have recently become one of my favorite events to observe. I’ve lived in the city for two years and spend most weekends snuggled in my favorite café, munching banana bread, and typing until twilight. As the night rolls around, I run for the shower and open an audiobook—I can hardly call myself a party girl. Yet raves offer me something the one-off club or house party cannot—an outlet for a community of people who value creative expression, reflection, and radicalism.
For decades, raves have maintained their status as the club’s demure older sister. Flyers flaunt “DM for address,” and young leftist organizers cradle their secret locations like fragile dolls. Their efforts towards exclusivity cultivate an intimate atmosphere. We learn that these dance floors are secrets worth keeping—a small price for a glitzy night.
Unlike commercial clubs, raves adopt a DIY format: whether guests dance in an apartment, basement, or warehouse, there’s a mutual understanding of radical ideologies and cultural diversity. Many raves even specify that guests must regard the event as an inclusive space, where people of all lifestyles can conspire. While I sparingly attend raves or stay for “afters,” the weekly partygoers I’ve met emphasize the necessity of these spaces in reconciling individuality and community. As many of them swim in weekday work schedules, raves are outlets to detach from the rigid corners of the world. Now more than ever, raves are a critical site of escape.
My unexpected foray into raves began this summer: my first full summer in Montreal. I spent most of my time as an intern at CKUT 90.3 FM, a McGill-based campus and community radio station. My supervisor is an avid raver who’s called Montreal home for almost a decade. During our Monday catch-ups, she would tell me stories of artist collaborations and dancing until dawn. I was inspired by her initiative to network with like-minded people through the city’s array of independent events.
Later, in July, a friend invited me to an event called “Last Night at the Discoteque,” an indie sleaze “house party” with ample space to mingle on the balcony and dance to live DJs in the living room. There was never a dry moment. Glitter reflected on the trashed floor as my friends and I shimmied in vintage camis, miniskirts, and leather platform boots. My eyes darted between the DJ’s head bop, girls locking hands in the air, and hoards of platform Doc Martens and Demonias. This type of high-energy gig wasn’t my usual weekend event, so I felt like an anthropologist just as much as a guest: observing the dynamic chatter among the coolest 20-somethings I’d ever seen.
Yet many raves are not just pop-up events, but recurring themed parties that offer a space for queer people and people of color. One rising star is Panty Party, a new series of parties that embraces bold, seductive ‘fits and fresh sonic mixes. Playful themes span from neon to Americana to VS PINK. After the party’s over and cans are on the floor, hundreds interact with digital camera dumps on the @pntyprty Instagram. The creator, Bambi, curates a diverse DJ set for each party, maintaining accessibility by offering free tickets for trans women of color and sex workers of color. While most guests flaunt their sickest panties, the event welcomes any interpretation of the themes. Like most raves, it follows an ethos where partiers can express their bodies in a way they enjoy and consent to.
In all their secrecy and mystique, Montreal’s raves unravel hidden dance floors that the flashiest Saint-Laurent Boulevard club can’t emulate. Whether you pose for a cheeky flick at Panty Party or blend into the thick of a techno-loving crowd, raves emphasize that there’s a place for you to bend, jump, and twirl devoid of rulebooks. Your body becomes a temple, refuting the consumerism tightly embedded in many other overhead-lit, straight male-infiltrated events. Stepping into an abandoned warehouse, reworked duplex, or random patch of grass, partiers enter an environment that’s first mysterious, then inviting.
A rave becomes a safe haven through gentle exclusivity, catering to the pulse of a crowd and each tiny heartbeat that composes it. This camaraderie shone through in my friend Shayne’s experience at a Strawberry Gothcake rave this month. Reflecting on her first rave, she remarked, “It felt like everyone was collectively together, but alone… A rave, in a strange way, makes you feel both completely anonymous and deeply connected.”
Guests sign a contract through song: one of mutual respect, radicalism, and artistic appreciation. That’s the impression I felt this summer—my body was connected with the floor’s hypnotic, heat-filled energy, and my mind was a free hummingbird. I observed (and absorbed) others’ jittery highs, flying up to their wavelength. My chest buzzed with their fervor on the Uber home, and my eyes grew heavy as I journaled about the night over tea and dark chocolate.
I bit my chocolate victoriously, and it dissolved into my teeth. Swallowing, I realized a rave’s essence resembles dark chocolate—a daunting concept for most, but a rich expedition for those who dare to taste. A rave is a black cat, a wine aunt, an iced chai, a moody, drizzling sky. I think more people should give 70% cacao a chance. Some might ditch the Hershey’s afterwards.
The notion that raving “isn’t for everyone” is precisely its appeal—its status as an acquired taste allows us to preserve the culture for decades. Montreal is brimming with these hidden sanctuaries—we just need to take our mid-work break to secure a pay-what-you-can ticket. Once we clock out and step onto the floor, it’s time to put corporate duties to bed—and bounce to an EDM lullaby ‘til the sun reappears.
