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I

t’s groundhog decade

in Banwen, a

small village in Wales. When the mak-

ers of the film “Pride” needed a location

for an embattled Welsh mining commu-

nity in the 1980s, they chose the tiny

village on the edge of the Brecon Bea-

cons. When 3,000 ravers arrived last

weekend, that dubious decade seemed to

be making a comeback. 

Headlines about illegal raves recall

the “second summer of love” in 1988,

fuelled by the rise of dance music and

party drugs such as ecstasy. The closure

of clubs has revived that spirit this year,

despite coronavirus restrictions banning

gatherings of more than 30 people out-

doors. The Metropolitan Police has re-

corded more than 1,000 raves (which it

defines as unlicensed music events with

more than 20 people) in London since

the end of June. Between 2015 and 2018,

the most raves reported to the Met in a

single year was 133. 

Even before the pandemic, raves were

making a comeback. A combination of

expensive rents in big cities and precari-

ous operating licences has changed

Britain’s nightlife. Big venues have

passed their costs on to clubbers—entry

to Printworks, a factory-turned-club in

south-east London, can cost £40 ($54)—

and drugs are less tolerated. In 2016

authorities revoked the licence of Fabric,

a famous club in London, after two drug-

related deaths. It reopened five months

later, but with stricter rules, including

id

-scanning and lifetime bans for any-

one caught asking for drugs. 

Smaller venues have taken advantage

of big venues’ problems, and so have rave

organisers. “You’ve got block parties,

hippies in the woods, and London ones

with middle- class people, thrown in a

professional manner,” says James Morsh,

who runs PillReport, a group that en-

courages people to rave responsibly. In

May Mr Morsh organised the first social-

ly distanced legal rave, with permission

from Nottingham council. He had over

750 requests to attend, but could only

allow 40 people to take part. He admits

that it’s “not really what partying should

be like”, although the arrival of 12 police

officers gave the event an authentic feel.

Once the police were satisfied that the

revellers were not breaking any rules,

they let them carry on. 

Tougher punishments were intro-

duced last month to deter people from

partying. Eight organisers of the rave in

Banwen were given fines of up to £10,000

each under the new regulations. But

stopping determined ravers is hard,

when locations are kept secret until the

last minute and details shared through

WhatsApp and Instagram. Mr Morsh

thinks that the new penalties will have

little effect: “The people throwing parties

are going to keep throwing parties.” 

The consequences for Banwen were

not as grim as some feared. “When that

many people turn up it’s a bit like ‘Oh

shit, what have they come to do? Have

they come to ruin the village?’,” says

Alun, who lives nearby. But on checking

it out, he found a fairly civilised event.

Some attendees were even using hand

sanitiser.