At the rave where violence gets a time slot

abyssal Re:Core, taking place at Shoreditch’s Village Underground, marks Anam Maclean and Rain Mueller’s collaboration with music label Year0001 — what I’m queuing up for is, in essence, a marketing event for their joint EP. And those injured men? That’ll arise not out of drunken scrapping, but MMA fights that are scheduled as part of the night. “It’s the same thing as the Roman times,” says someone in the queue when asked about the fights. For Oliver, someone I interview in the smoking area later on, they’re just “rehearsed fucking shit.” Either way, as London’s nightlife scene withers – the number of nightclubs has halved between 2013 and 2024 – promoters are scrambling for increasingly wacky ways to fill venues. 

Numerous articles have already attempted to explain why UK nightlife is going through such a crisis. There are the widely agreed upon scapegoats (it was two drug-related deaths, for instance, that led to the closure of Fabric), as well as all the political stuff that bubbles beneath the surface. Tougher licensing laws, increasing rent and the full smorgasbord of conditions that have led people to compare what’s going on now to rave’s heyday. “It’s no coincidence that the original boom in acid house free parties took place after a decade of Tory government,” an anonymous source told The Guardian back in 2020. According to the same article, there are only one hundred grassroots venues left in the capital. 

So, where does an event like abyssal Re:Core position itself within this crisis? Mueller has said that he wants Genesys to be “the trance ritual of London,” describing his philosophy as one of “world-building.” He’s got rave in his DNA (“my mum tells me she used to take me clubbing in a sling”) and inspirations which speak to that authenticity. In an interview for Culted, he drops a mention of Khoisan philosophy (which I have neither the word count nor desire to get into). 

Add it all together and you’re lulled into thinking that the collective might be doing something revolutionary — something that cuts through the commercialisation. Perhaps the MMA element is a comment on the “violence inherent in nightlife,” as Bee Beardsworth puts it. “Dancing and raving can be an act of transgression and protest.” Perhaps it harks back to the whole point of early acid house raves. “Martial arts is peace and love,” a girl tells me in the queue. She has a lot of facial piercings.

Kirk Field, journalist and author of Rave New World, tells me over email. It’s a brutal dismissal, but Field has seen it all before. “As the summer of 1989 progressed, DJs like Coldcut and Daz Jamieson introduced state-of-the-art visuals,” he continues. “One Sunrise party featured clips from top action movies […] The most popular one in 1988 was Rambo: First Blood Part II. There are 111 murders. One every 90 seconds.” The difference now, though? “Anything sanctioned can’t replicate the experience,” says Field. “This feels very sterilised,” Oliver tells me when I nip out for a cigarette after the fight. “This would’ve been a free party if they didn’t wanna make money out of it.” I get chatting to Oliver because he’s the one to announce to the smoking area that the US has just launched a missile attack on Iran — it feels fitting. 

Even the ostensible veterans of the scene aren’t quite sure what an event like abyssal Re:Core stands for. Take Bruno. He’s a former colleague of mine that I’ve come to realise (since being granted access to his Skins-esque close friends’ stories) is something of a party kid. He first went to a Genesys night at sixteen. “I remember one of the DJs played the Escha & Ytem remix of Shinie by Varg and Bladee,” he tells me. “It genuinely was so beautiful to hear. I didn’t know you were allowed to play that sort of music.” But now Bruno is a self-proclaimed boycotter of the events. That is largely down to personal reasons, but he maintains that the MMA aspect is “hilarious.” “I’m not sure if they see the irony, though,” he adds. For Bruno, DJs becoming the centre of the dance floor has done irreparable damage to the scene. “These fights are just an extension of the problem — turning the night into a spectator sport that kills any real connection.”

But what do we expect from abyssal Re:Core when the predominant currency of UK nightlife is experience, where the potential for viral moments trumps just about everything else? When that’s the guiding principle for what makes a “good night out”, it doesn’t really matter if the advertised fight is two lads in leotards giving each other a gentle biff. “You’ve gotta have something to get people in [the door],” adds Oliver. While founder Mueller had an upbringing steeped in “proper” rave culture, at only twenty-one, he also had a digitally mediated one. If it’s not a fight that Mueller’s fans can pop on their Instagram story (abyssal Re:Core is the second iteration of their “Ultimate Raving Championship” concept), it’s clothing — done in a very Genesys way. At their event in May of last year, a limited edition run of Mowalola’s “Sex” t-shirts were available through a QR code that could only be scanned at the event. “The only people who are going to be able to wear these tops are the people who were there,” Mueller told Culted. 

It’s not run-of-the-mill, “sponsored by CÎROC” commercialisation, but it is still commercialisation — it exists within the same ecosystem. “There’s this weird culture of ‘pop up’ sets by artists at coffee shops or street corners that want to give off the vibe that they are organised with the ethos of a free party,” says Elle Clark, founder of indie label Curving Track, and DJ for Rinse FM. “Realistically, there is always alcohol brands or major label money around it, and it’s always about selling you something.” I’m even subjected to a few pitches while in attendance, my dictaphone functioning as catnip for people wanting to tell me about their brand or adjacent “side hustle”. One guy tells me about how his clothing company is designed so people “get addicted to it.” I ask if they’re on Instagram. “We don’t really dabble in socials,” he replies. 

As the night progresses, I realise that my efforts to go full roving reporter are probably already compromised — that there’s an irony in going undercover at a performance of authenticity. “Everyone here is, like, white and middle class,” Oliver tells me. “I think people come for the adventure.” It’s a subdued one, though. Not one person that I interviewed is getting on it. “​​I’m on alcohol. That’s it,” one guy tells me. I’m crouched down on the floor with him by the bar — our lengthy conversation turns out to be a pointless endeavour because my dictaphone picks up absolutely nothing while I’m inside the venue. I tell the couple I meet in the queue that “I had supposed everyone would be taking drugs.” “No,” is their blunt response. 

Despite their “brat summer” posturings, Gen Z aren’t in touch with their hedonistic side. A recent survey revealed that 39% of them don’t drink at all — there’s a lack of chemical unity as a consequence. But would more drugs actually solve the problem? Would we get back to something resembling early acid house if Gen Z pulled their finger out and started getting more fucked up? Probably not. “Back in the day, everyone was on the same buzz — the same ecstasy pill and water,” Field tells me. “These days, there’s an ever-increasing menu of synthetic drugs. Everyone’s taking a different path, so they ain’t gonna arrive at the same place.” As my friend Molly put it, “ketamine has killed the dance floor.” 

But while they weren’t inclined towards shoving illicit powders up their nostrils, the Gen Zers I met at Genesys had a joyful fatalism about them. Yes, there was pretension, but they were there for their scene, one that contemporary culture doesn’t make space for. I’d come expecting hollow performance, but found genuine investment — even if it amounts to an unconvincing scrap in Shoreditch. It mirrors their broader culture: WW3 memes aren’t crass, they’re adaptive. What choice do they have? 

Sitting on the floor with strangers, listening to people’s genuine motivations for being there – seeking connection after a breakup, wanting “something different” – showed me that the impulse survives, despite being filtered through brand partnerships and Instagram strategies. “There will always be an underground party scene. Youth will always reject mainstream constraints,” Field tells me. So, let them have their “fights”. Maybe scheduled violence isn’t authentic transgression, but it’s a symptom of genuine hunger for unscripted experience in an over-curated world. The guy doing PR for Genesys has also assured me that next time there’ll be “blood and knockouts.” I’ll believe it when I see it, but good luck to them.