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Sky-high fees, absurd riders, diva schedules, exclusivity clauses, we used to think all that only applied to EDM DJs (whom we actually like, just… not their fees). Then techno got involved, tired of not making enough money, maybe jealous of the big stages too. At first, slowly, almost shyly. Then all at once: identical line-ups, sterile formats, and a once-radical scene turned into a business model.
Today, the independent promoter’s worst nightmare wears a cap, plays at 155 BPM, remixes Britney Spears and Papa Roach, and charges more than a six-act local line-up. The new enfant terrible is called “hard techno”, and it’s as elusive as it is profitable. Fueled by TikTok, a young, massive audience, a thirst for unrelenting intensity, and sometimes even the whiff of far-right aesthetics creeping into the margins, this new subgenre has become an industry. More audience, more views, more money: the logic is airtight.
The big players didn’t miss a beat. In just a few years, every so-called “underground” brand got bought out by major groups: Boiler Room, Time Warp, DGTL, Sonar. What once claimed to be experimental is now a franchise. The result? Clubs fall in line. Those that survive bend the knee. Bankable collectives now appear on line-ups that would’ve turned them away just a few years back, not because they’re bad, but because their presence fits an economic brief, not an artistic one.
Clubs become distributors. Of collectives. Of sponsored stories. Of interchangeable artists. No longer spaces for vision, just dates to fill. Worse: some venues give up on artistic direction just to lock in brand deals or fill a room. In the end, everybody loses.
Media are complicit too
It would be too easy to only blame the clubs, the agents, or the artists. Media, including us, also hold responsibility. If we’d said no to money more often, especially when it dictated editorial content, maybe some of these brands wouldn’t have had the same influence. If we’d spent more time digging than chasing ad revenue, maybe some of these “industry plants” wouldn’t have had the space or the credibility.
And no, we’re not talking about survival, we all know running an independent media outlet today is nearly impossible. But when sponsored content isn’t labeled as such, when a flattering article is the result of a partnership, it distorts everything. It clouds the view of the scene. It sidelines those without the money, the network, or the algorithm.
Just yesterday, we sent over some interview questions to a photographer. Their reply: “How much do I have to pay for the interview?” Surreal. But not shocking. The scene we complain about is also the one we helped shape.
What’s Already Been Tried?
Some clubs aren’t just talking, they’re testing real alternatives. In Lyon, Le Sucre launched a monthly subscription model to make nightlife more accessible and less reliant on headliner buzz. It’s a bold move: prioritizing regular attendance and a sense of belonging over exceptional peaks.
In Dortmund, Tresor.West rolled out a three-month experiment called #SaveTheUnderground. The idea: free entry on Saturday nights, anonymous line-ups, a focus on local talent, and a clear message :this club belongs to the community. The result? A packed dancefloor, overwhelming support, and proof that people still care deeply about underground culture.
But the project also hit a wall: without a minimum entry fee, the revenue wasn’t enough to sustain the quality of the events. The team responded transparently, adapting with a low-barrier model : free before midnight, €5 after, still without announcing the line-up until after the night. It’s not perfect, but it’s thoughtful, honest, and rooted in values.
These experiments show that there is a way forward: but it requires trial, error, and community support. Clubs need to feel they can take risks without collapsing. And we need to reward those who try something different.
So what now?
This isn’t about mourning some golden age. It’s about regaining control. First move: stop putting all our chips on headliners. They’re too expensive. And their crowd often shows up for one track, records a clip, and leaves. They don’t dance to the warm-up. They don’t stay for the closing. They consume. They’re not loyal.
The night might be sold out, but it doesn’t build anything sustainable.
In contrast, local artists, embedded in the scene, are often more committed, more accessible, more invested in the night, before, during, and after. No need to beg them for a story repost or write it into the contract just to make sure the headliner does their part.
Clubs should treat residents like headliners: invest in their sound, their story, their progression. Build a narrative not just a line-up.
Artists too need to reflect: commit to venues, resist the precarious trap of exclusivity clauses and cheap touring cycles. Fewer flights, more residencies. Less ego, more connection with local communities. The irony? These very artists, the ones invisible to big festivals, are often the ones tagging venues, sharing the event, engaging with the crowd.
And when a venue rebuilds a real artistic identity, guess who ends up wanting to play there? The headliners. Because image, in the end, is worth more than a fee.
The public plays a role. Yes, you.
Maybe it’s the only real leverage left. Start listening to artists you don’t know. Trust your own taste. Listen to a mix before judging a name. Go to clubs that share your values, not just the ones with the biggest events on Facebook. We’re not saying be monogamous, but be faithful to something.
The public underestimates its power. And those who profit from the system have no interest in reminding you of it. But taking back our nights might just be the first step in taking back everything else