This cover story is part of We Are Everywhere, them.'s 2020 Pride issue. See more from the series here.
The ongoing Black Lives Matter movement has sparked a reckoning in many industries — from film and TV and media to fashion and beauty — in the United States and beyond. Yet despite making vague statements about committing to “change,” the major institutions of the American music industry have yet to make any major, public moves to atone for nearly two centuries of commodifying and profiting off music traditions rooted in Black culture.
The large umbrella of what many refer to as “electronic dance music” — which encompasses subgenres from ballroom and Jersey club to trance and dubstep — derived from two sibling genres: Chicago house and Detroit techno. These two styles were pioneered by Black DJs in the ‘80s and ‘90s, who played for rooms of Black and Brown queer people seeking refuge and release on the dance floor. From its outset, house and techno culture surrounded radical ideals of liberation, utopia, Afrofuturism, protest, and collectivism — all in the face of white supremacist models of exploitation and oppression. These are the same models that now seek to erase dance music’s Black queer origins, marginalize Black queer DJs, and push Black queer people out of nightlife spaces in order to commodify their culture for the masses.
Over the past few years, collectives like Discwoman and the festival and online platform Dweller (both co-founded by Frankie Decaiza Hutchinson); hyper-local parties creating Black queer nightlife scenes around the country; club initiatives like Rave Reparations; and the work of emerging writer-historian-DJs like Ash Lauryn, DeForrest Brown, Jr., Aloiso Wilmoth, Tajh Morris, and many others have made strides to decolonize the dance music industry by re-centering electronic music’s Black and queer legacy through their work.
But since George Floyd’s death sparked a national uprising for racial justice, the push to reclaim the narrative around dance music has taken an unprecedented urgency. In the past few weeks, music platforms like Dweller released resources about electronic music’s history; the label HAUS of ALTR released a stunning compilation of featuring the “future of Black electronic music;” musicians spanning generations — from Kevin Saunderson to Aluna Francis — made public statements about the racial inequalities within dance music; and the long-running dance publication Resident Advisor became seemingly the first major music site to outline specific changes they’ll take to become more “racially equitable.”
Whether major dance publications, festivals, and labels will eventually do right by Black queer artists remains to be seen. But what is certain is that the Black queer creatives who are creating their own spaces, platforms, and parties are already forging a new, better, brighter model of what electronic music can look like. “[The system] either needs to change or it just needs to be burned to the ground,” Brooklyn DJ SHYBOI tells them.
That’s why them. has reached out to some of the leading artists, scholars, and organizers currently pushing dance music culture forward. We asked them to reflect upon the Black queer legacy of house and techno, how they honor it through their own continued work, and their thoughts on the future of dance music. Their efforts and stories represent just a small slice of the work being done to honor dance music’s history within marginalized communities, and we hope that their words will help some discover a portal to a brave new world — one that has always been there.
Curtis Lipscomb (Executive Director of LGBT Detroit and found of the Hotter Than July festival): Techno is truly a dance sound rooted right here in Detroit and it never went away. I'm a middle aged man who grew up on it and that music is still being encouraged and celebrated [locally].
Juana (DJ): I grew up in Chicago. In the ‘80s, dance music was pretty much a ubiquitous thing for me. You could hear house music and disco classics on the radio. Especially early house music just feels so fucking gay. At the Warehouse there were gay nights and straight nights, but all the straight people — including my mom — wanted to go on the gay night, because it was so much more free. It makes sense because in so many other corners of life, people still have to be very closeted and concerned about getting bashed.
DeForrest Brown, Jr. (DJ, theorist, and writer): I got into techno through the book that inspired the name, through Alvin Toffler's The Third Wave. Juan Atkins, the inventor of techno, read that book in a classical future studies in high school and was like, "Aha, techno music." I was like, “Wow, a Black person took this really highly theoretical idea about data sciences and economics and condensed it down into a music style.” This whole world opened up to me. Unbeknownst to me, I grew up with this music my whole life. My dad would play Juan Atkins all the time.
Russell E.L. Butler (DJ): It's part of a story whose beginnings are forgotten, but there seems to be no end to, and it runs in a constant loop. The white man does shit to us. Black people suffer. They extract our pain like it's gold, and then they sell it back to everybody else. What do you do with that knowledge when you get it? You get used to the betrayal. Part of what really influences my perspective on dance music is that the idea of genre is a form of colonialism and an attempt to minimize, for the sake of consumption, the real and vital cultural developments that come from oppressed people as a means of survival.
DeForrest Brown, Jr.: There is no talking about techno, or Black music as a whole, without talking about the transatlantic slave trade and the literal sort of machinic transition that West Africans went through to become specifically Black people in the Black south of America. When you think about the momentum it takes for a Black body to pick and organize cotton in a line, a plantation's a corporation. It’s a factory. What we know about the Amazon warehouses now started on these plantation farms.
That logic and ethos is literally baked into techno, jazz, and blues. When you're listening to techno — like Juan Atkins or Underground Resistance — it’s like listening to Coltrane. Around the 37th [iteration] of four on the floor beats, you’re suddenly in a daze. I grew up Southern Baptist, so you could say it's like getting hit by the Holy Spirit. It's a feeling. It's a gift from the very long suffering of Black people that I often try to share with others.
Madison Moore (DJ, professor, and writer): The question that always drives my work is how art and beauty are created under duress, or in state of emergency. Through performance and world making in [dance music and queer nightlife], you really get a sense of the state of emergency that marginalized people live in — before this pandemic and the simultaneous pandemic of anti-Blackness that we've had for 400 years.
Akua (DJ): Aaron-Carl. To be a gay, Black man talking about your experience in a way that nobody else has really done before within your genre is amazing, brave and beautiful to be fully owning yourself in that way.
Juana (DJ): I started going out when I was 17 or 18 and heard music by Frankie Knuckles, Jamie Principle, Lil Louis, and Prince. Just hearing all this amazing stuff that I knew about, but hadn't really had a chance to dance to.
Kaleena Zanders (EDM vocalist): You have CeCe Peniston and Robin S. But doing the festivals like Coachella and EDC with all my white friends DJs, I looked around and noticed, "Wait a minute. I'm the only Black chick around here singing." Even white top line girls seem to get more recognition, more followers, and easier access because they're cute and white. But I've been able to make a full blown career out of dance music, so I feel really blessed about that.
Juana: I always try to present the music as being greater than the sum of its parts. When I hear stories about the great [DJs] like David Mancuso and the way he would put on records, he never blended. He was always using a story, not only to express himself, but as this way of consciously undermining the status quo and speaking to the people on the dance floor.
Akua: I try to engage with the elders in whatever way that I can. I will message old school artists I really like and let them know I appreciate their contributions and ask them questions about their experience as a Black person in dance music. I spend a lot of time on Discogs, because I get to listen to somebody's full discography, listen to the evolution of their mood and spirit. It’s essentially getting their spiritual biography.
DeForrest Brown, Jr.: I try to do [things] completely improvised. [My new album] Black Nationalist Sonic Weaponry was recorded in two days. I try to be really quick about it because that's how they would do it in Detroit. There's stories of Underground Resistance, pressing a vinyl overnight. Then while DJing, the actual needle would heat and burn up because the vinyl is so hot off the presses. This quickness, this force, this energy, is how I try to pay homage. By talking to the ancestors and tapping into the epigenetic history that is loaded up in my very contextual body.
Madison Moore: I like to [collage], bringing in these different sounds, artists, and weaving them together. I saw this great interview of Dominique Jackson from Pose, where she talks about being a Black trans woman from the Caribbean, and I brought it into a set. Maxine Waters and her speech about needing to impeach Trump, I brought that into a set. I also make sure that I’m finding Black producers, globally, who are making techno and house [like DJ Bone and Robert Hood], and buying it. Finding the music and putting it in tells a more genuine story of its history, or even contemporaneity.
Russell E.L. Butler: I'm certainly humbled by the legacy of those who came before me. But simultaneously, I feel like it would be a bit hubristic or, at the very least, quite arrogant to be like, "I'm totally doing shit for Frankie [Knuckles]. He would be proud.” Fundamentally, my shit is about connecting deeper with myself so that I can heal and make sure I'm a better community member, so that I can go out into my immediate world and attempt to have a positive impact. I'm not about escapism. To me, this approach is about being present, especially as a nonbinary person who still deals with gender dysphoria and body dysmorphia… I've come to learn that so much of the time that I spend in [my body] is entirely disassociated from it.
Turtle Bugg (DJ and writer): I play 90-95% all vinyl records. It’s not something where I think I’m better than anyone. I look at it like, there's people who paint and there's people who do graphic design. You need both of them, and they both have their uses. But it would be bad if the art form [of DJing] was lost because of access to technology. A lot of the movement of finding rare records and the history of this music is told largely from a European perspective, because they have the means and interest to do so. But I like to say, “How can you know where you're going if you don't know where you've been?” If no one's getting the stories from the source, you're not going to get the truth. It’s imperative that Black people hear the stories from Black people from another Black person.
Curtis Lipscomb: Hotter Than July is the second oldest Black Gay Pride in the world and now the longest running Black Pride experience in the world. It’s a community-based, Black founded and led project, and that has never been a question. It’s a protest. There was this presentation amongst Pride that was a common European way of expressing freedom. We wanted a Black pride experience where we could celebrate ourselves. DJs are the ones who curate a space for celebration. [At the festival] there’s usually classic [Detroit] techno, but you also have hip-hop, new jack swing, and beats created in the ballroom scene.
Alima Lee (Founder of Rave Reparations): Our original thoughts for creating [Rave Reparations] was to add space for Black people, Black queer people, and Black trans people that wasn't available. We were angry. We would end up going to a lot of these events [in Los Angeles] like, "Okay, wait, like where's other Black people?” The ticket margins were creating a lack of diversity. So we were like, "If you can't get more Black people in here for free, at least give us discounted tickets."
Mandy Harris Williams (Founder of Rave Reparations): [Our mission is], one, Black queer people should get in for free. Two, support Black party throwers. And three, support Black contemporary music makers and DJs. That is really just borrowing strategies from civil rights elders. Rave Reparations utilizes some older models in a new, relevant, and necessary form. There should be some sort of acknowledgement of who historically is responsible for this music and who were the people in this space, and an acknowledgement of why that no longer is viable for so many. We've had friends who were harassed, abused, kicked out, profiled by security because they're not white at raves. Here in LA, you're not going to go talk to the Better Business Bureau. You're not going to go file a civil rights complaint, because it's unregulated.
Alima Lee: Yeah. [White promoters] have the money to throw these parties. I'm not saying that they're not passionate about house or techno, but they're not using their generational wealth in the right ways. You are using your privilege just to make more money. But use your platform and your privilege to give back from what you're taking from — that's all that we're asking from them.
Kenni Javon (Founder of Dick Appointment): For one, booking. We book nothing but Black and Brown people, because that's the party. Then, the flyer and visuals. We want people to know that this is the energy and this what you're going to get. Pretty much everyone who hosts are our friends. It’s really just keeping it Black and keeping it to our roots.
Kadar Small (Dick Appointment photographer): I also think everyone [at Dick Appointment] is very comfortable because everyone can identify with one another. When you go to this party, you see yourself. We stick to our rules, we book trans women. So it's very clear that if this is not necessarily your environment, you're going to feel out of place even if you do show up.
Martez Smith (Dick Appointment organizer): Yeah, and we want to be sex positive. [Our society has] really criminalized and punished the Black body, and told us like, "Yo, you are not allowed to celebrate your sexuality. You are not allowed to be queer." And here we are, creating space for these bodies.
Akua: I place importance on supporting other BIPOC artists in the community. Historically within Black dance music communities, there was a lot of that — sharing resources and checking in with each other to make sure that somebody can express themselves to the fullest extent possible.
Dee Diggs (DJ): All of the queer collectivism that's been happening a lot in [nightlife] in recent years, I think that’s definitely a callback to ballroom culture and houses. These are not just crews, booking agencies, or parties. They're groups of people working together to sustain a vision and each other. Discwoman, BUFU, and New World Dysorder (Jasmine Infiniti’s party, record label and collective). I think collectivism is always a good idea, but you have to make sure that your ethos is correct and that everyone's motivations are correct.
SHYBOI (DJ and video artist): Dweller, the festival that Frankie [Decaiza Hutchinson] founded and throws… Not only was it important for people to see there's this many Black people who do this across this many generations and genres, all over the country. It also showed bigger establishments that you can book an all-Black lineup and not only will you make money, you will sell out. This is a symbiotic relationship because this is a business. So [white promoters and booking agents putting Black people on lineups] is not welfare. It’s not tokenism. This is creating an economy for people to be able to survive doing what they love.
Luz Fernandez (Founder of HECHA / 做 and Make Techno Black Again): Collaboration is really at the core of everything we've been doing over the past five or four years [as HECHA / 做]. We each fulfill specific roles naturally in the stuff that we're doing.
Ting Ding (Founder of HECHA / 做 and Make Techno Black Again): HECHA / 做 is an empathy-driven cooperative. We all live in capitalism, especially in America. Everything that we do, we want to put out with an intention. What I wanted to do was to try to grow the brand organically, not do any paid ads, not to try to find short-term solutions, but rather, [take a] bottoms-up approach and give people context about what the brand does.
.jpg)
Akua: I hope that people try to take the time to really educate themselves. For so many white people and non-Black people who benefit from white supremacy, [I hope they] realize: "My engagement with dance music is appropriative. If I choose not to fully engage with the discourse around this current moment and choose to not to educate people with my platform, I am only further promoting this appropriation." For so many artists like myself and people within the Black dance community globally, we've taken on this burden of trying to educate for so long.
Sarah Raymore (DJ and founder of BabexHouse): In a KEXP interview, one of my DJs, a trans Black woman named Reverend Dollars, made a good point in saying that [nightlife spaces] try to make themselves inclusive by posting, “No homophobia, no transphobia, no racism.” But they don't do the work to keep that up. A piece of paper or poster is not going to do the job. If you're going to step into a Black or POC space, recognize how much space you take up as a white person.
Kaleena Zanders: The recognition needs to change and I believe that that will. I’ve been grinding just to get the money that I deserve for making these guys’ tracks. Black artists like me are still fighting to be in front. If these DJs really allow for [us] to push the platform… I do believe that it will happen.
SHYBOI: [For those who have the money to create spaces], there need to be conversations about substance abuse. How can we create a space where trans people feel comfortable in, do what they need to do, leave, and get home safely? How are we making sure that it isn't an all-white lineup? And yes, having a white woman on the lineup is still an all-white line up. This needs to be reflective of every single day, put into practice [not just during Black History Month or Pride Month.]
.png)
Sarah Raymore: I was very vocal about [the need to center Black trans women] during conversations in Detroit for the Black Lives Matter movement, and local newspapers were interviewing me. Using that opportunity, I tried to put BabexHouse back on the map and get people to recognize that the roots of house and many other genres often come from Black trans people. [It’s about] giving them credit, giving them back their platform, instead of [letting] normal white cis men take over and colonize the movement.
Dee Diggs: Uprisings kind of make us see that we don't have to just settle for that bare minimum. We can push for some more deeper systemic changes, putting more Black people into leadership positions. You just need to have someone on your team and not only give people that opportunity, but also make them feel comfortable and empowered enough to speak up. I really hope that that's what comes out of this.
Russell E.L. Butler: I'm 34. I'm not trying to say that I'm some super old head, but I've seen a couple waves of this. I've seen this shit happen where people are like, "Oh, I want to do better.” Then ain't shit happen. The reason why each time we see the uprising get more intense and go for longer and longer is because motherfuckers aren't listening willfully at this point. Let's keep it two Virgils right quick. White people know what they've done. I mean just dance music aside, let's talk about the fucking chokehold that killed Eric Garner that was already illegal and that Bill de Blasio also very quietly made legal again in the immediate aftermath of that. Now, there's this executive order saying that chokeholds are illegal. It's not even like one step forward, five steps back. It's like walking in a very small, tight circle at this point.
The majority of the work has to be done by the people who hold the most power. It's going to mean conceding a lot of shit. It's going to feel really uncomfortable, but it's not going to feel as fucking uncomfortable as being on the other side. They have generations of spiritual pain that they have to atone for. That's not just going to go away by some fucking retreats, a couple of hashtags, and throwing a couple different people some Venmos. Material, real structural change needs to occur. Some of these big white DJs need to take a step back.
Dee Diggs: I don't think I would be a part of this culture if I didn't believe. On the days that I don't believe, I close my laptop, and I go and listen to the music. That's what makes me believe again. That's what makes me come back and give people a second chance, because I know that I'm not perfect and not even the oldest records I'm listening to are perfect. Some of them have skips and scratches. But that feeling, that human essence, that realness, it's still there — that's what this is about. So I hope that [the uprising] truly transforms not only people's hearts, but their business minds and to align it with just a better industry that's fair across the board.
SHYBOI: If we can have [COVID-19] managed... I can’t even imagine what's going to happen when we can safely be at clubs and dance. We're going to be like, "Here we are literally fighting for a new world. We get to fight together on the streets at the protests, and here we are at the club doing it.” Because it all relates to each other. It always does.
Responses have been edited for length and clarity.
Akua is a Brooklyn-based DJ.
Alima Lee and Mandy Harris Williams are the founders of Rave Reparations, an initiative that works to offset ticket costs for Black, Brown, and queer partygoers. Lee is an artist and designer, and Harris Williams is an artist, theorist, writer and consultant.
Curtis Lipscomb is the executive director of LGBT Detroit and the founder of long-running Black Pride festival Hotter Than July.
DeForrest Brown, Jr., Luz Fernandez, and Ting Ding members of the HECHA / 做 brand and collective, which facilitates the Make Techno Black Again project. Fernandez and Ding are artists and designers, while Brown, Jr. is a scholar, writer, and DJ known as Speaker Music whose book Assembling a Black Counter Culture arrives this November.
Dee Diggs is a Brooklyn-based DJ.
Juana is a Washington, D.C.-based DJ.
Kaleena Zanders is an EDM vocalist whose new EP arrives this July.
Kenni Javon, Kadar Small, and Martez Smith are the team behind the Brooklyn queer dance party Dick Appointment.
Madison Moore, PhD, is a scholar, professor, DJ, founder of the queer party Opulence, and author of Fabulous: The Rise of the Beautiful Eccentric (2018).
Russell E.L. Butler is a New York City-based DJ who is remixing their work as Black Jeans for release July 3.
Sarah Raymore is a DJ and founder of the BabexHouse collective.
SHYBOI is a Brooklyn-based DJ and video artist whose Rave Down Babylon EP arrives July 3.
Tajh Morris is a writer and DJ known as Turtle Bugg.
Correction: A previous version of this story incorrectly stated that Russell E.L. Butler is based in the Bay Area, not New York.
Get the best of what's queer. Sign up for our weekly newsletter here.
