#35 __ the fear of missing out

On my first visit to Berlin, I didn’t go near Berghain. I knew I was clueless, and what little I’d heard told me that I shouldn’t waste my time when I can’t even conceptualize what’s inside. Maybe later.

A year of raving passed, and in that time my head was filled with tales from the grand cathedral of hedonism. The temple of techno. Big daddy’s house. Friends told me I would have no trouble getting in, because I belong there. It’s made for us: the freaks, the queer ravers. That’s me. I had memorized the running order for the whole weekend. I’d picked this moment hoping to catch Fiedel and Dr. Rubinstein. My nails were freshly painted, my fanny pack full of the everything I’d need to keep dancing for 20 hours straight. I couldn’t be more ready.

The first time I was rejected, I was shattered. What was wrong with me? Why was I not worthy? My entire trip had been building to this moment, and with one shake of the bouncer’s head, it was over. I shuffled back to the hostel in stunned silence, questioning everything I’d spent my life on over the last year. I felt like such a naive fool.

The second time I was rejected, I felt free. I had just watched a whole group of straight drunk dudes waltz in ahead of me. This wasn’t a reflection on me. This didn’t mean anything at all. Nonetheless, I stared longingly at the silhouettes of dancers in the windows of Panorama Bar as I walked away. Better luck next time.

The third time I was rejected, I understood. These feelings of self-doubt, the implied inferiority, the desperate desire for inclusion — these are not accidental side-effects. I am meant to feel this way. They’re counting on me telling this story of rejection to all my friends. I am a pawn in a game of reputation.

This strategy is as old as the club itself. Studio 54 was infamous for its ruthless door policy, plucking only the hot, famous, and eccentric from the teeming throngs at the door. While Berghain’s criteria for selection may be quite different, its reputation for exclusivity is fundamental to its enduring appeal. It’s more than just curation; it’s a promotion tactic that keeps people talking. It sustains mystery and invites curiosity. What’s happening in there? Whatever it is, it must be good.

Dig in to most party promotion — whether it’s flyers, newsletters, videos from peak sets, crowd shots, or even thank-you posts — and this is the response you’re meant to have. Don’t miss out. This is one for the books. Tickets are going fast. It was unforgettable. Where were you? Why didn’t you come? But you’ll be there next time, won’t you?

The language of advertising and techniques of influencers are not left only to the megaclubs and festivals (as a recent Mixmag piece explored in gruesome detail), but have infiltrated to the heart of the underground. DJs are no longer just selectors of music; they are cultural ambassadors and lifestyle representatives. Whether it’s through hot takes on Twitter, high-fashion selfies, or a steady stream of acerbic memes, the popularity of many parties and artists depends on presenting an aesthetic or ideology that lends credibility to the music. Building brands is what social media is meant for, after all.

When I first encountered the underground, I was surprised at how easy it was to find the parties on Facebook and Resident Advisor. It’s all out there in the open. I naively thought that you had to be in the know, that you had to be in with the right people. Sure, there was some sifting to be done, finding the signal amidst the noise — but there was nothing particularly clandestine here, no closely guarded secrets. The underground is seemingly just as desperate for attention as everywhere else.

I was reminded of this a few weekends ago, after getting an invite to a party that intentionally kept no online presence. It was spread by word-of-mouth alone, and you had to RSVP through a previous attendee. No phones or photos allowed, and no posts on social media. I quickly started asking all of my promoter friends if they knew anything about this, and nobody had heard of it before. It was exhilarating. For once, something completely unknown, underground in that most traditional sense where it was hidden away from prying eyes. It was refreshing to go into something blind, without a bunch of presuppositions concocted from Instagram posts and old Facebook events.

It ended up being unremarkable thanks to an utterly bland and stiff crowd. The whole point of making something invite-only is to have the best possible group of people. Nonetheless, the experience of being intentionally, personally invited reminded me of something that the Brooklyn underground simply doesn’t have: curation. It was a proof-of-concept demonstrating that the underground doesn’t need social media as much as we believe it does. If 100 people could show up for this, the same can be done in techno.

Most promoters and DJs feel there is little choice in the matter of whether to play the social media game. The opportunity that it represents is too great, because there’s nothing more terrifying than an empty dance floor. Promoters dare not shirk their duty to the venues and DJs, so they are forced to play the unflinching hypeman at all times. Every party must be the wildest, every venue is the hottest, and every DJ is pushing boundaries and blowing minds. Otherwise, why should anyone fear they’re missing out?

Thank you so much for reading.

See also:

• #33 __ the tourists
• #31 __ the warehouse
• #15 __ curating crowds