People with passion will always feel the need to party. And to party on their own terms.

True freedom manifests itself in rooms of Royalty, on the beach where no one is watching; and in the greatly illegal parties of Great Britain.

London is one such place where ravers seek their freedoms for the long weekend. Self-styled groups of teenagers assemble in dank bedrooms and empty buildings, attentive to phones which will soon deliver them from boredom. It all begins at 11PM.

One line of text in one group chat has the power. It might summon 2000 people. They hone in on the spot from all over the city. From South East to Staines, from Egham to Essex. They cram themselves onto buses, maybe a quarter of them pay, maybe the driver gives a shit.

Top decks and tube stations are full of colourful tracksuits animating the place with their shouts and sounds. Closer the party, denser the ravers. A final stop, a stream of life piles up the escalator, past the staff and through the barriers. Then they’re gone, and the station is quiet once more.

It could be a forgotten railway bridge, car park, industrial complex, leisure centre, warehouse, World War II bunker, greyhound track, river bank or just a plain old gated field. Professional security guards a gap in the fence, you know a guy it’s free. Otherwise ten pounds.

They’ll take your knives or your glass, the rest can pass. Inside is rampant, loaded. You’ll bare witness to people staggering and stomping, stone cold sober or approaching death. Most of everyone is very friendly.

“This is your first squat? No.. Really??!! Come on have a key.”

This is the squat rave, where dance music rules. Jungle, Drum and Bass, sometimes Techno. There’s a big beat and everyone makes a big bounce. You catch a glimpse of a face when the light some yat stole from Wilko’s hits it.

Ten people deep in the crowd, a wide-eyed girl grabs the arms of whoever might be next to her, commanding their motion. Circles form around the best skankers while MCs take turns on the mic. The sound system is hefty and the ravers respect it, but a few large fellows stand around the mix artist just to make sure.

This scene appears chaotic, but it isn’t entirely. Money is flowing. One thousand patrons is ten thousand pounds, organisers sell balloons, security sells gear and the rest. The sound system is rented to reduce cost and avoid police seizure. Security is well paid, usually. If not, they’ll find the money themselves.

Stories of corrupt security encircling the crowd with weapons lurk on the atmosphere. At any squat event, some patrons aren’t there to party. Small groups dressed in all black teeter at the edge, waiting for dead eyed ravers to stray. They’ll be happy to leave with an iPhone or two.

The organisers know all about this, of course. Safety in numbers and the quality of security are touted on their social platforms. Take care of each other, stay in your groups.

This fresh breed of squat rave is only as old as social media. They’re different from the classical raves of the 90s. Those events were usually free, and took place at least an hour’s drive from town, far from Police and the prying eyes of a City.

London’s new squat raves serve a younger audience, reliant on public transport and pocket money to execute their desires. The background organisation is approaching the extent of legal events now, too. Some organisers impose an 18+ entry cap, requiring that patrons log into their website and send in their ID to pre-purchase a ticket. Although the thing might be locked down by the time you get there.

The Police usually catch on sometime between 5 and 9am. They start by blocking off the entrance, shouting and charging at people who try and enter. The party continues even with the Police outside, until they prick up the courage to ask that everyone to leave. A few people are searched.

People leaving a London squat in the early hours of the morning find themselves squared up against the real world. Tubing through Central alongside their fellow early birds, the guys in suits look but don’t speak. Sneaking a glance at the flipside, envy?

Big thanks to scene in general
Words, images, video by Max Auberon