Exhausted and parched, Eric Lin sat on a Los Angeles sidewalk while a man wearing gloves with glowing fingertips gave him an impromptu light show.

The Weinberg third-year’s long pants and Doc Martens clashed with the scantily clad masses rocking to electronic dance music under the summer sun. It was his first EDM festival, and he was overwhelmed.

“I needed a moment to sit down, take in my surroundings,” Lin says. “Just like when you go to some beautiful natural scenery and stand there for a moment and take it all in, that’s what I was doing.”

At a club, Lin would be wary of people approaching, but the gloved stranger embodied the warm festival spirit, becoming Lin’s first rave friend.

The following school year, Lin averaged 11 EDM shows per quarter – that’s more than one each week. He grew to love the brain-tickling music, diverse crowds and freedom to move in new ways.

“Rave allows us to be engaged in non-normative stuff we wouldn’t do every day,” says Communication professor Thomas DeFrantz, who studies Black and queer performance.

Ravers can be in high school or middle-aged. They rave alone or in groups. They headbang and mosh or watch the swirling neon visuals. They say “excuse me” and trade “kandi” – handmade accessories – when they like a stranger’s vibe. Some enhance their experience with drugs, and others stay sober.

The subculture comes together in its values of creative expression and music. Northwestern ravers pay $20-80 ticket fees, compared with the free or $10 entry at many clubs, to avoid drunk college students pushing and hitting on them when they dance.

With the rise of TikTok, videos of the once underground subculture flooded feeds, and websites like Resident Advisor Guide made upcoming rave events accessible to anyone. As more people enter the scene, Lin worries about the “dilution of rave culture.”

“People sometimes think raving is just go out, do drugs, be crazy,” Lin says. But he says its core is “to be creative and organize marginalized communities together.”

Is raving political?

Under lasers and smoke machines, some people find political meaning beyond the dancing and garb. Several Northwestern ravers say politics shapes the mainstream culture, so the countercultural history of raving is a defiance of societal norms.

The rave subculture is rooted in political expression. Early raves bumped house music, which originated in Chicago’s South Loop in the 1970s. There, in the post-Civil Rights environment, Black communities danced for the possibility of tomorrow, DeFrantz says.

Today, DJs and ravers debate online whether the scene is inherently political.

“Just because you don’t WANT politics in the EDM scene doesn’t mean you can erase its history,” one person posted on X in January.

But some rave-goers, like Weinberg third-year Kat Cui, say raves are apolitical: They are about music and the environment.

Raves began as secret events where the bass-heavy darkness offered an “escape from society,” DeFrantz says.

The term “rave” first appeared in 1980s London to describe electronic dance parties. A few years later in the United States, DJs drew on hippie ideology to promote peace, love, unity and respect – what ravers know as P.L.U.R. The acronym communicates that raves are for dancing, not fighting.

The scene became popular among marginalized groups, particularly the Asian American community, which created the “Asian raver” stereotype.

On TikTok, Asian American Gen Z-ers discuss how raves offer a release from the model minority myth. There’s no pressure to be perfect at an event that promotes sweaty and chaotic movement, they say.

While no data breaks down the ethnic composition at raves, an anecdotal study describes the “recent proliferation” of Asian representation at these shows.

Weinberg third-year Erika Kramer says the belief that all-Asian American groups command the EDM scene might be accurate, stemming from the abundance of Asian rave influencers.

But Kramer, who is half Vietnamese, says she’s “not one of those people.”

“I go with my friends, we’re not all Asian,” Kramer says. “We’re not all this or that.”

A place for religion and drugs

Lucy Rubinstein got her first DJ deck over winter break during her first year of college. Two weeks later, she was mixing at a Chicago nightclub.

She was underage, nervous and raising the volume at the wrong times. Now, around three years and 40 sets later, the Bienen fourth-year’s stage fright is worth the moment she “clicks” with the crowd.

“Being a DJ is really about being able to read a room and give the crowd what they want,” says Rubinstein, whose DJ handle is r00bies4ever.

DJs who specialize in EDM – an experimental genre that includes house, techno and dubstep – read the crowd to mix unique sets live. When the crowd’s energy lulls, Rubinstein says her “creative intuition” tells her whether to slow the track or turn up the bass.

As the beat ramps up, so does the crowd’s heart rate, Bienen professor Ryan Dohoney says. “People move faster, and their brains release dopamine.

“This kind of intense physicality and being in sync creates huge senses of euphoria,” says Dohoney, who studies how music creates community.

Dohoney says synchronized movement to the pulsing beats can create an out-of-body sense of unity.

He says this human connection can offer “a religious experience outside of church,” which might be particularly meaningful to people who feel rejected by religious establishments.

“It’s the kind of space where you can get these very deep human needs without a kind of oppressive structure, like some aspects of religion,” Dohoney says.

Lin felt this connection while exploring a rave venue last spring when he met a man who had been living on the Chicago trains. The man told Lin he had followed loud music coming from a warehouse to discover a rave, where he encountered people who became his “found family” and helped him transition from living on the street.

“These conversations are really interesting because they start with a simple, ‘Oh, I love techno,’ and then it’s 20 minutes later, like, ‘Oh, so that’s your whole life story,’” Lin says.

Dohoney says the bonds people feel at raves create an expressive environment where hugs and tears are common. Some of these emotions are enhanced by drugs, which have been part of rave culture since its underground start.

Some ravers take hallucinogens like LSD or mood-enhancers like MDMA, also called “molly” or “ecstasy,” which can help them feel open toward others and create a sense of euphoria.

But people can have this experience without substances, Cui says, who raves sober. She says her friends are hesitant to rave because they think everyone trips on drugs. While some people take hard substances, many go for the environment.

“It’s such a good experience that people are missing out on because of the stigma,” she says.

Cui goes out to dance, favoring raves over clubs because ravers tend to respect her space and share her appreciation for the music and vibe.

Weinberg third-year Tony Wang says raving is what he expected from clubbing: good music, kind people and room to move.

“If you’re at some mid Northwestern party, no amount of beer is going to save you,” Wang says. “If you were going to have fun sober, you would also have fun, well, not sober.”

Rave style: Furries and sex clubs

One night, Cui will put on fishnet tights, a plaid mini skirt with white hair extensions to resemble Frankie from Monster High. The next rave, she’ll stamp butterfly tattoos on her chest and face.

“Raving is a chance to play dress-up,” Cui says, adding that she feels “hot” in her curated outfits. Similar to Dillo Day, she and her friends coordinate their looks around a theme.

Rave style borrows from the costumey extravagance of 1970s disco and drag balls, DeFrantz says, where layered garments were often sequined and revealing.

But while those events were dressy, raves welcome frills, grunge and everything in between.

At raves, SESP fourth-year Sydney Gregg sees furries with tails, “wooks” who wear flowy layers and dreadlocks and people strapped in skimpy leather pieces – an ode to Europe’s intertwined rave and sex club scenes.

She says raves invite people to flaunt parts of themselves the mainstream rejects, often through fashion.

“It is going to be a space where people can express themselves in a way that might be different from the direction that our country is headed politically,” Gregg says. “You tend to get a lot of people who find themselves as a minority in mainstream spaces.”

Raves unite people over the value of expressive style, a hallmark of who belongs to the community, Northwestern sociology professor David Schieber says.

This visible representation of interests can help people connect, Schieber says, who studies culture, gender and sexuality.

At festivals, Wang and his friends seek out groups that match their vibe. These interactions begin with style and often result in sharing social media handles or kandi-trading.

To trade kandi, two people make hand symbols representing “peace, love, unity and respect” and then slide a bracelet onto their partner’s wrist.

Wang says kandi is a physical reminder of human openness at raves.

Gatekeepers or protectors?

When Gregg attended a festival alone in 2023, she stuck to a women- and queer-dominated stage because male college students kept approaching her at another set. Recently, she found herself jostled in a packed Chicago club, which she sought out for the artist.

“I was like, ‘Oh my God, this is so bad,’” she says. “Everyone wants to go and be a part of it that they don’t … pick up on the cues of, this is how you act in this environment.”

Northwestern ravers say P.L.U.R. distinguishes raves from typical college nightlife. While creeps are everywhere, the shared understanding to look out for others lessens predatory behavior.

Some ravers are optimistic about the scene’s growth on campus, but others want it to remain a protected space. They worry students will taint the values of P.L.U.R. with club behavior, like going out to drink rather than enjoying music.

“Rave culture is mainly introduced through social connections,” Lin says. “I don’t want to sound like a gatekeeper, but it maybe should be a little bit more picky.”

This debate is common among growing subcultures, Schieber says. It often leads populations to break into smaller subsets.

“People start seeing it through this lens of authenticity like, ‘Oh, no, it’s going to become more inauthentic now that outsiders are part of it,’” he says. “In reality, this is just how people learn about things and genres spread.”

Schieber says genres from gospel to metal offer their followers a sense of belonging. When these scenes change, people form new communities around their shared interests.

Whether students attend EDM shows for the political liberation, style or mind-numbing music, the scene has people raving.