Modern Life: What are sober raves? Ella Carr
Sober raves are what happens when the worlds of ‘wellness’ and raving collide. They’re morning dance parties where drugs and alcohol are replaced by a blend of yoga and turmeric shots, and allied to the millennial notions of mindfulness and self-care.
Together with dry bars and wellbeing festivals, sober raves are part of a growing revolution in mindful partying, trailblazed by a generation of semiteetotal yogis.
Lots of sober raves have sprung up across the UK, but Morning Gloryville is the original and most successful. Launched in east London in 2013, it now operates in 20 cities worldwide (from Paris to New York), hosting up to 400 people at each monthly event.
Revellers turn up between 6.30am and 10.30am, usually in fancy dress – though this isn’t mandatory. They’re greeted at the door by hug-administering ‘morning angels’. Inside, a vegan ‘bar’ serves green smoothies and energy balls; sometimes there’s a ‘love doctress’ on hand for relationship advice.
The disarmingly well-lit dance floor is integrated with yoga classes, reiki and free massages. Music sets are usually presided over by a new breed of ‘conscious DJ’ (these have included well-known DJ Fatboy Slim) playing a mash-up of genres, including funk, hip-hop, house and 1990s club anthems.
In spite of the zeitgeisty lingo, sober raves aren’t the sole preserve of millennials. At Morning Gloryville, every ilk and age rub shoulders, from teens to aged hippies, suited businessmen to thirtysomething yuppies, with babies bouncing on their chests (children are welcome).
Democratising the rave, by bringing hippies and bankers together, was key to co-founder Sam Moyo’s vision – crucially, without the influence of drugs
or alcohol. But is it possible to dance without being drunk, if you’re anything but an appalling extrovert? Neil Greenwood – formerly a successful recruiter-turned-morning angel – says goers who turn up ‘restricted’ inevitably lean into the rave as ‘movement medicine’ takes effect, shedding not only their inhibitions, but any existential angst in the process.
Dancing yourself happy is the aim of the game. Youngsters – 20 per cent of whom experience some kind of mental health issue, and a third of whom now class themselves as non-drinkers – are no longer willing to sacrifice their health (mental or otherwise) for the sake of a good time. This demographic is rewriting the partying script. So, instead of getting battered at a festival, you can do a three-mile run, followed by a mass meditation instead. This might all sound insufferably pious but, once one is inside the rave, it starts to feel quite radical. With the looming spectres of Trump and global warming gnawing at our sense of future happiness, the strident optimism of sober raves is admirable. In a world of Twitter wars and identity politics, bringing hippies and bankers together feels attractively utopian.
By the end of my own visit to a sober rave, the ‘movement medicine’ had kicked in, and my sober self was dancing with unprecedented abandon. Emerging on to Cannon Street in the City of London, I felt buoyed by a sense of achievement, along with a healthy worldview shake-up.
So rise to the challenge of the sober rave; what seems like the height of millennial madness might just be the start of a brave new world.