Since our last round of Dance Floor Epiphanies back in May, the world has continued to see unprecedented change and upheaval, and the magic of the dance floor is becoming a fading memory. That's why we thought it was time to inject a little nostalgia into the mix with another round of stories from ravers all over the world. RA contributor Taylor Bratches asked for dance floor moments that capture what we miss most about the scene, from connection to empowerment to healing.

Set Me Free Sydney

For the longest time I tried to get out of Sydney. After the lockout laws that began in 2014, which placed tight restrictions on nightlife, I felt like my city was failing me. I joined the Keep Sydney Open political movement, but always felt like I needed to leave, to travel, to find my purpose and community again. One night in 2016 I was looking for clarity, a sign, or symbiosis and found it in the Spiegeltent at Sydney Festival. I was by myself and I loved Black Coffee, and if travelling had taught me anything, it was to go it alone otherwise you miss out. Solo clubbing taught me more about myself than any classroom or therapy session. As Black Coffee played, my soul was scattered over that dance floor. A change swept over me from that night forward. Anxiety left and purpose came in. I wanted to recreate that space where you could dance and feed your soul. Rather than stand by in frustration from the lockout laws, I wanted to help my city grow.

I gathered a few DJ mates and started putting on monthly parties called Freedom Sessions, to hold space for people to come and be what they wanted and needed. We kept it free so you could be free. It was made by club-heads and highlighted street dancers, while honouring the founders of the music and bestowing thanks to the original custodians of the land upon which we danced. Since seeing Black Coffee in 2016, Freedom Sessions has become not just a party but a community. The dance floor is where we call home and music is the language we share. Music and movement in any form will always be the answer. LJ, Sydney

Music's Got Me Feeling So Free: From Pakistan To California

It's July 2007 and I am standing on a steep hill in Berkeley, California. The silhouette of the Golden Gate Bridge hangs under the full moon over the bay. We're all sweating on a grassy dance floor where we've been dancing since sunset, staring at the giant pyramid of a DJ booth before us.

The dance floor is a place where none of my visa restrictions matter. I came to the US from Pakistan to study engineering, but unlike most kids from back home, I've been on a heavy diet of electronic music since age five. It started with my sister's Human League tapes, and became a solid obsession since the day I bought the soundtrack to [1997 movie] The Saint. That was the first time I'd ever heard Daft Punk.

One day, I'll be back in Lahore; that's always been the plan. Until then, every single DJ act I seek out is a once-in-a-lifetime experience for me.

Ableton Live is triggered, and the "human" vocal sample picks up pace. The lights move in time with the tempo. My childhood bestie from Lahore, JJ, and I are lost in mathematically pure light glowing and echoing off the hills of the Greek Theater. As the encore comes to its crescendo, Stardust's "Music Sounds Better With You" kicks in, and everything unfolds exactly as I had dreamed.

I'm walking back to the car, drenched, looking at JJ, and thinking about how we—two boys from Pakistan—have just lived out a high-school dream. These simple words taught us how to stay young forever:

Music's got me feeling so free
We're gonna celebrate
Celebrate and dance so free
One more time.
Khurram, Lahore

Raising The Spirits On Día De Muertos

On November 1st, 2019, the music collective EXT. planned a Día de Muertos party in Mexico City among friends and family that signalled a new "bringing to life." The party, called gRave, summoned attendees in a smoky, barely lit space. After finishing late-hour work at our radio station, Aire Libre, my friends and I rushed to see the powerful lineup of Amanda Mussi, Resom, Fig back-to-back Koscoy and DJ Delphis. EXT. called us to abandon all judgement. Music was the only anchor. Our collective belief of death being reaffirmed by life was embodied in the form of sweat and dancing, and euphoria arose within us.

Out of the blue and red lights, a thin man with elegant and calculating moves approached me. We didn't speak a word. Our dance moves, smiles and glances said so much with little effort. Our mutual love of music translated into our silent two-step. As daylight grew near, my intrigue for this character led me to ask his name. He leaned closer and handed me a white business card, which read "Spirit Interpreter." I think he understood that on this dance floor, music and spirits could be united by honoring death as a natural phase in life's long continuum. The spirits danced among us. I still carry this man's message and this memory, where no words were needed because music really said it all. Solidarity, communion and unconditional love are all elements that exist by themselves, but what I do believe is that Mexico City's rave culture brought all of these elements together that night, forming my view of how I want to lead my life. Miranda, Mexico City

Before We Start Unraveling

It was a Monday morning in August 2018 and Valentino Mora was entering his sixth hour at Berghain. Prosecco-fuelled couples fluttered by the bar. It was the last weekend of a whimsical summer I spontaneously spent in Berlin after leaving my draining job of almost two years—a reset. I was to go back to California the next day. Wrapped up with my three dear friends, T, A and P, only the four of us existed that night. Other friends were peppered throughout the club, but I paid them no attention—I was irrevocably locked into the energy of our cocoon. The night unfolded before us as a pattern of gentleness and grace, carved out with sharp control. Unlike other nights there, I lost sight of the full spectrum of the room, and fully became the core, the center of the dance floor: a mass of beautiful bodies connected by elated wavelengths, laughter and subtle smiles circulating playfully. We didn't even have to hold each other to feel that invisible thread that tied us together, one that said: Hey, I'm taking care of you, and we belong to each other for this little while.

After all of it, we asked ourselves: what was so satisfying about this club night? It possessed a precise flow, every intimate moment seeming to occur at the exact right time, without a delay or hiccup. Rarely was anyone left searching for anyone; instead, people were finding each other again in perfect timing. Instead of mourning the end of the night, the end of this nested intimacy, I felt its continuation, reverberating within us as a swath of life, deep with emotion, and as light as a handful of blossoms. That night I felt empowered, radiant and effortlessly focused. In all its hedonistic flow, everything was in its right place. Eugenia, Bologna

Finding The 808 State, 1989

In late 1989, acid house still hadn't really hit me in the suburbs of Milton Keynes. I was 19 and very much an indie kid. My interest in four-on-the-floor rhythms and relentless basslines had been piqued a little in 1988, as a slew of underground white-label imports were making their way onto radio: strange, otherworldly space music, beaming in from the outer reaches of Chicago. I didn't quite "get it," but a seed was sown. Things really changed for me upon hearing 808 State for the first time. Their now legendary track "Pacific State" really got under my skin, and I was hooked.

Around the same time, I met a girl at work who regularly went clubbing in London. On Thursday night—December 21st, 1989—we took the train down to London and went to Paul Oakenfold and Nancy Noise's Balearic night, Future—which followed on the heels of the seminal party Spectrum—at Heaven in Charing Cross. When people say "eclectic" I always think of this night, not only the music but the people: a guy in his British Rail uniform danced away in a corner. My friend and I split a yellow callie pill. On the dance floor an hour later, the music seemed to kick up a notch as if to greet the rush of serotonin we were experiencing. Oakenfold played his still-unreleased remix of "Hallelujah" by Happy Mondays. Eyes, smiles, glowing white teeth all around me. I tingled everywhere. My hair stood on end as if reaching out for the music.

Flashes of disembodied hands and arms as dancers rode the wave beneath the UV lights, purple and green trails from the chug and throb of the bassline. I felt connected to everyone, unspoken understanding and knowledge. Sadness evaporated, empathy for all. I got it, I really got it. I was still the same indie kid, but I got the whole thing. Togetherness. Jason, Edinburgh