November 20, 2024
By: Megan Farmer and Casey Martin
Somewhere hidden deep in the snarl of train tracks and warehouses of Seattle’s SoDo neighborhood, there's live music that makes the ground shake. Tucked beneath a bridge is the dusty, gravel lot music lovers whisper about online.
“Renegade just means ‘done without permission,’” said Ev, president of Impact! Foundation, a Seattle based LGBTQ+ owned rave production group, under the overpass before a rave in October.
These raves aren't exactly legal. For that reason, KUOW agreed to use only the first names of rave-goers, including Ev, who requested it.
“Before Covid there was a lot more activity, but now there’s this new wave of people coming up and throwing shows and we’re part of that,” Ev said. “I think on some level it kind of fulfills a spiritual need inside of people, something like going to church used to fulfill. It’s got this ritualistic aspect to it.”
Ev said that people have been throwing parties under this bridge for 20 years.
Renegades are free, often announced a day or two before they happen, and usually only promoted on Instagram and TikTok. Some require calling a “party line,” where an automated voice message reveals the location and time of the rave. Most shows start around 10 p.m. and are scheduled to go until one in the morning — though most ravers stay for after-parties (called “afters”) that keep going until 4 or 5 a.m.
“There’s a lot of hedonistic, individualistic, consumerist aspects to it but it’s also really collectivist. It’s a home for people who don’t really have anywhere else to go, who don’t fit in anywhere else. It’s both of those things at the same time.”
Michael, a 25-year-old software engineer, was here a few weeks ago and noticed something was missing: No light show. No lasers.
"A rave without lasers is like an angel without wings,” Michael recalled saying to himself.
So he talked to the show promoter, they bought some gear, and now Michael sits next to the DJs at the gravel lot and runs the laser show on some nights. That's the spirit of these unofficial raves: A guy who has no experience can jump in, learn, and be part of the show. The DJs, the lights, the fog machine — it's all set up on a whim. And it's not just under this bridge.
“It’s everywhere,” said Josh Repple, one of the many DJs who organizes these shows. “We go on rooftops, we do beaches, we do parks."
"This is new, dude, the way it's happening,” Repple said, gesturing to the dancing crowd, shrouded in fog. “How instant — like we didn't plan this or nothing. We're just like, ‘Oh, we're [fixing to] pop up.’”
That's the freedom of these shows: There’s no cover charge and no security.
But it’s not exactly new, according to longtime Seattle radio DJ Drew Bailey.
Bailey is a self-described proud, lifelong raver who hosts the morning show on 89.5, the longest running dance station in the country. Bailey recalled one of his favorite shows, a renegade in a liquor store on First Avenue South in 2009.
Back then, breaking into liquor stores on Christmas was one of the few places you could enjoy that kind of music. One of the few established clubs for ravers was NAF Studios in West Seattle, an industrial venue that closed in 2002.
“That was like the place to be,” Bailey said. “We complain about it — how dirty and sticky and gross it was. But now, 20-plus years later, we still can't stop talking about it.”
Raves and electronica music belonged to a small subset of fans. The word "rave" was synonymous with drugs — even though people did drugs at all kinds of shows. Bailey says some DJs even stopped using the word rave altogether and called them parties because of the stigma.
"We weren't the cool kids, right? They made fun of us,” he said. “You know, every joke was about a glow stick."
Over time, as more people have experienced these shows, that reputation has changed.
Now, electronic music has gone mainstream. DJs sell out huge venues like The Gorge. There are now multiple clubs in Seattle, such as Trinity and Monkey Loft, for people to enjoy different genres of electronica. One of the reasons for this growth is that the music has become more inclusive, he said. Bailey attributes the positive vibes to an old maxim: PLURR.
"’Peace, love, unity, and respect,’ the old raver mantra which was key to the early Seattle rave scene,” he explained. “I like to add an extra R, so ‘peace, love, unity, respect, and responsibility.’ Because you’ve got to be careful out there."
Back at the renegade beneath the bridge in SoDo, crowds of dancers spin around in the gravel, cheering when trains pass.
“I think that there are treasures to be found if you’re willing to look for them,” said Mandy, who has been throwing and attending parties under the bridge for over a decade. “If you’re willing to take that leap and do something sketchy, or what’s seen on the outside as sketchy, you’re going to find gold nine times out of 10.”
Many ravers spoke to a sense of community under the bridge that they haven’t found elsewhere.
At almost 2:30 a.m., Aex Zacapu, known onstage as R3TRÖ, was about to perform his set. The crowd was still going strong, ready for more music, and Zacapu said there’s no other place he’d want to be DJing.
"Putting on free shows is all I care about,” he said. “I don't make any money off of it. But it doesn't matter. You know, I love putting smiles on people's faces. I love the energy that I put out and other people bring out. So, it means a lot."
Credits
Story: Megan Farmer and Casey Martin
Design: Teo Popescu
Video and photos: Megan Farmer
Editor: Dyer Oxley
Product Manager: Lisa Wang
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