‘It started off as just another rave. It was never meant to keep half the city awake’

“I found out about it because a friend of mine was the van driver. Most people there would have got a text with a phone number to call after 10pm on the night.”

For something that seemed to keep most of Sheffield up two weekends ago, evaded the attentions of South Yorkshire Police for more than 12 hours, and made headline news across the country, the organisation of Sheffield’s biggest illegal rave in years was surprisingly simple. Those in the loop heard about the event via Whatsapp messages or word of mouth — around 100 people were summoned to an exposed field off Ripon Street in Attercliffe on the evening of Saturday, 25 February. Many of them stayed there until 3pm the next day.

Pictures of the event shared on Facebook and Instagram show a group swaddled in multiple layers to combat the evening’s chill. Huddled tightly around each other and facing a large stack of speakers, it looks like they’re praying to some kind of god. Behind them, a rickety-looking frame tent houses the DJ booth and a basic lighting system. Videos of the event posted online show head-splittingly loud music and flashing strobes coupled with hand-held documentary style camerawork. 

If social media’s anything to go by, all of Sheffield was awake — those who weren’t at the rave being kept up by the rave. But of course, the reality is a little less black and white. I first heard about it on waking up the next day.

Scrolling through Twitter and Facebook, I saw dozens of posts about a loud party in Sheffield that had kept the whole city awake all night. Reports came in from Wybourn, Heeley, Meersbrook, Woodseats, Millhouses, Totley, Nether Edge, Broomhill, Crosspool, Crookes and Stannington. I, on the other hand, perhaps aided by being in the pub the night before, managed to sleep through the whole thing. Eight hours of undiluted shut eye: the joy of craft beer.

Some people were, understandably, not best pleased. Having to go to work the next day after a bad night’s sleep can’t have been pleasant. “Urgh to the all-night rave organisers in Sheffield whose event has kept me awake three miles away,” wrote one. “I hope a pitchfork wielding mob chuck your stupid sound system in the river.”

But not everyone was annoyed. On the Raved in the 90s Facebook group (of which, in the interests of full disclosure, I should acknowledge that I am a member), dozens of people gave the rave rave reviews. “As annoyed as I might have been, fair fucking play 14 hours later still going strong,” one Sheffield resident wrote. “May the rave be with you.” Others, like BBC Radio Sheffield presenter Kat Cowan, seemed more worried that they hadn’t been invited.

By late on Sunday morning local media had picked up on the party due to the sheer number of online comments about it. A statement from the police released to the BBC said they believed there had been not just one but two illegal raves in Sheffield overnight: one in the Darnall area and another up at Ringinglow. They asked for anyone with information to come forward, but it sounded more in hope than expectation. Since then, there has been nothing.

I began this piece with lofty ambitions: I’d find the rave’s location (check); chat to people who were there and get a sense of how it came together. The latter two parts have been harder to establish. While technically, I’ve spoken to half a dozen people who were at the party, “spoken” is a stretch. The interviewees I found defaulted to messaging me on Facebook or Instagram or via email — they had no interest in so much as a quick phone call. Every one of them has been cagey about speaking to me, worried either that I’m a muck-raking hack intent on getting people in trouble or else naive about the need for an underground movement to stay that way.

And who could blame them? These free parties are, of course, illegal. After an infamous week-long free festival took place on Castlemorton Common in the Malvern Hills in 1992, the then Conservative government introduced legislation which targeted free parties and even electronic music itself. The Criminal Justice and Public Order Act 1994 specifically outlawed unlicensed parties which played music “wholly or predominantly characterised by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats”.

Attended by an estimated 20,000-40,000 people, the Castlemorton rave was the culmination of a movement that had been brewing for four or five years. The acid house explosion of 1987 led to the so-called “Second Summer of Love” in 1988. At that time clubs were in their infancy: free parties were where it was at. In the South East, party-goers would famously cruise around the M25 in convoy waiting to be told where the rave would be. It’s easy to see how exciting it must have been at the time. The sense of adventure. Of not knowing where the night would take you.

However, by the time I started clubbing in the mid-1990s, things had changed. The consequences of the Castlemorton rave meant that the more utopian illegal rave scene was winding down. The money men (legitimate and otherwise) had realised just how much cash could be made from the millions of young people who wanted to dance themselves to exhaustion every weekend. Just like that, the subversive side of acid house was over and the era of the superclub had begun.

But while the free party scene dwindled, it never really went away. Spiral Tribe, the socialist soundsystem responsible for Castlemorton, moved to France to escape the strictures of the Criminal Justice Act, but over the last ten years have begun hosting events in the UK again. And just last year, on the 30th anniversary of Castlemorton, a huge rave on a former airfield near Davidstow in Cornwall took place, although this time far fewer than 20,000 people turned up.

Over the last few years, some have claimed there is evidence that illegal raves are making a comeback, fuelled by what The Guardian called a “groundswell of young devotees and fortysomething nostalgia” (so maybe there’s hope for my raving days yet). One of the reasons often given for the return of the free party scene is lockdown. And it seems logical that when legal clubs shut down for the best part of a year between 2020 and 2021, the pent up desire to party would find a way of getting round social distancing rules. But even minus lockdown, minus social distancing rules, raves remain popular.

Which brings us up to the present day. According to one person who was there, all sorts of dance music was played at the rave, but techno, trance and garage dominated. “Being there just felt fun,” they texted me. “You know you’re doing something a bit naughty and there's no one stopping you from just dancing all night or doing whatever else you want to do!”

The same person texted that they didn’t think anyone there realised the whole city could hear them. “There was a general feeling of ‘oops’ when people started reading the news articles and the Reddit thread the next day and realised just how much of a disturbance it had caused.” The crowd was “interesting”, as they generally are at these parties: they said there were plenty of arty types, van lifers (people who instead of renting or owning, live in their vans and on the open road) and the odd minor celebrity DJ, but declined to name names. 

In the morning, they reported that some locals came through, mostly dog walkers who “were friendly for the most part.” They said the dog training class next door to the rave didn’t seem too upset either, and just requested that no one took pictures. They also told me that the police were monitoring them throughout the night and were friendly and professional, pointing out that there was nothing to be gained by them stopping the party, since it could be dangerous to encourage revellers to drive home under the influence. Instead, “they kept an eye on us and just let it wind down on its own and made sure we cleared up at the end.”

When I continued to interview those who attended two weeks ago, I got significant pushback. Some of the mistrust and anger directed towards me for trying to do this piece has come from people who have accused me of wanting to publicise one of the “last remaining subcultures”, or else expose it to people who would take away its innocence. There is also still a clear political element to the scene as well, with some of those who were there claiming that the return of the free parties were a direct result of what they called the government's “vendetta” on the arts and events industry. 

Here, they cited the recent government ad campaign for people involved in the arts to retrain as IT experts, the continual replacement of long-standing clubs and music venues by gentrified flats, the widespread closure of youth clubs and poorly regulated door security systems.

While plenty of people were annoyed by the rave, I wondered how the Old Guard of Sheffield’s dance music scene might feel about what had taken place. Andy Tattersall (or DJ Tat as he was known 30 years ago) was heavily involved in the pirate radio scene in Sheffield in the early 90s. He currently lives in Chesterfield but was told about the rave by a friend. On hearing about the party, did he get a warm feeling inside — a feeling that the kids are alright? “Absolutely,” he tells me. “When I first heard about it, part of me wanted to seek it out.”

Like me, he’s ultimately put off by the fact the demographic who go to these things now is less than half his age. But he does feel a sense of kinship with “the kids” as he describes them who hosted the recent party. “What they did is hugely reflective of what was happening in the city in the late 1980s,” he tells me. “Back then we’d had Thatcherism and the miners’ strike. We were feeling disillusioned about the future and our opportunities.” These frustrations led to a DIY ethos among young people, a desire to make their own culture.

“Back then, there were free parties and free parties,” he tells me gnomically. By this he means that there were genuine illegal raves, most of which took place in remote parts of the Peak District. Organised by the notorious travelling sound systems like DiY from Nottingham and Smokescreen, many of these were tied to the new-age traveller movement. However, as well as these high profile raves, he says there were also loads of other events which took place in the city which had at best questionable legality. Taking over community centres, industrial buildings or even spaces above shops, these parties included nights that had no licence, or that stayed on far longer than they should have done.

Which sounds a bit like the recent rave, which also persisted for longer than anyone expected. Earlier this week, a police spokesperson told The Tribune that the decision to close events like these down was a “balancing act” between the threat and risk they posed against the number of resources that would be required to prevent them continuing. No arrests were made, the spokesperson added.

The venue which was chosen for the party is a well-known spot which has been used before. It’s also a plot of land which is earmarked for development by Sheffield City Council, which until recently was owned jointly by them, the Canal and River Trust and the Duke of Norfolk. Over the next few years, 900 homes are due to be built on the so-called Attercliffe Waterside development. Work was due to be completed later this year, but as yet has not begun.

The Tribune has been told that usually, party spots further out into the countryside tend to be chosen to minimise disturbance, but that appropriate places are limited and organisers don’t want to overuse particular locations. This time, the central location, the high-end sound system used, the geography of Sheffield and maybe even the wind direction seems to have carried the music to every corner of the city. “It started off as just another rave,” said one. “It was never meant to keep half the city awake.”

Chief Inspector Gareth Thomas from South Yorkshire Police said event events like these were “challenging” to deal with due to their remote location, the number of attendees, and the presence of alcohol or drugs. “For this same reason, they are inherently risky for those who choose to attend them, as they lack any proper control or management, with the absence of any fire safety accreditation, health and safety certification, security industry accreditation (SIA) staff, professional medical support or temporary event notices.”

I wasn’t able to extract much more about the gathering out of police, who were possibly the only people less excited to speak to me than the ravers. When I first approached them on Wednesday, they denied they had ever found the rave’s location. It was only when I emailed them a photo I had of them at the site, that they conceded they had been there. Potentially they were being economical with the truth to avoid publicising the event further. 

Some of those we spoke to acknowledged “fringe cultures” can sometimes bring with them problems, but said when you compare it to the amount of trouble that takes place at most nightclubs in towns and cities, they were few and far between. “Parties manage and ‘police’ themselves,” one of those who attended told us. “There’s no need for security when everyone is looking out for everyone.” The same person added that party organisers take health and safety, parking, locals and the environmental effect very seriously, even going so far as to tidy up after themselves. “If [the police] thought for one minute it was worth shutting down, they could have,” they continued. “Instead they agreed a time to turn it off, which was 3pm Sunday, no mess was left and everyone got home safe.”

However, for many of those who went, the very attraction of these parties is that they exist outside the traditional boundaries of society. Where normal rules don’t apply. “There’s not many places you can dance under the stars and forget for a while about authority figures and capitalism and all the other bullshit that comes with modern day living,” one told me.

“In the 1990s, the illegal rave scene was thriving,” they added. “These parties are just a shadow of that, thrown by people who don’t want to see the dream die.”

When I ask DJ Tat if he still keeps the rave dream alive, he tells me he’s still got a set of decks, and also does radio shows and festivals. He even has a letter from former Chesterfield MP Tony Benn about the Criminal Justice Act framed in his downstairs toilet. “I’ve also got way too many records, as my wife always says,” he jokes. But now, with the wisdom of experience, he knows how to prolong parties by fiddling with the mixing levels. “The problem is always the bass,” he says.

Annoying people for one night in a year might be a price worth paying for keeping the spirit alive. As someone who remembers what the free party scene was like back in the day, he endorses it, he tells me. “Music has to have an edge,” he says. “A lot of electronic music is quite sanitised and vanilla, but these kids are being authentic. They just want to dance.”

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