A pulsing bass echoes through the concrete gloom of a grimy basement in East London. Lit from behind, a hulking DJ presides over a dancefloor writhing beneath the murky haze spewed out by a smoke machine.
The expression on the revellers’ faces is noticeably intense. Some, their eyes wide, hold their arms aloft as they stagger vaguely to the heavy beat.
One sports a crude skull-and-crossbones tattoo on his right hand, and some unusual cardboard headgear furnished with crepe paper and glitter. His brother is less impressed and has retired to the chill-out zone, where he remains fast asleep under a blanket.
VIP seat: A young clubber, armed with glowsticks on his father’s shoulders
He is to be excused: it must be exhausting to attend your first rave at just eight months old. And this is nap-time, after all.
It is Sunday, mid-afternoon, a time when families are polishing off roast dinners or ambling through the park. But I have brought my husband and two small children – aged two and four – to sample the latest in trendy parenting: the mini-rave.
From leafy Tunbridge Wells to Liverpool, one company alone – Big Fish Little Fish – has staged more than 150 such events in the past 12 months, and they have sold out as parents who grew up during the rave generation of the 1990s clamour to reclaim a glimmer of their misspent youths.
Big Fish Little Fish claim to be the ‘2-4 hour party people’ who are ‘helping parents to be responsibly irresponsible’. It’s a relief. We’ll be home by Antiques Roadshow.
Hannah Saunders at one of the first family raves with her daughter Winter
The company (whose name, for the uninitiated, refers to a classic and much parodied 1990s dance move involving rapid hand gestures) is the brainchild of former Whitehall mandarin Hannah Saunders, 48, who quit her job as deputy director of policing at the Home Office six years ago when she spotted the gap in the market.
From five events in its first year, its popularity has rocketed and it now holds ‘raves’ nearly every weekend in towns all over the country and at festivals including Glastonbury and Camp Bestival. Other companies are following suit.
Today’s venue, an actual nightclub called Mangle, is yards from the wide green spaces of London Fields in Hackney, which are bathed in winter sunshine. Mangle’s reputation is less than child-friendly because in April, during a packed nine-hour adults-only event called Love Juice, 14 people were injured in an acid attack carried out by Arthur Collins, the ex-boyfriend of Towie star Ferne McCann. He will be sentenced next month. I’m hoping spilt orange juice is the worst we can expect this afternoon.
Today’s theme (there is usually a theme) is togas, but my spirited four-year-old daughter has rejected the sheet and, for reasons of her own, has insisted on dressing as a witch, complete with pointy spiderweb-clad hat, which inevitably she later loses. Having forked out £10 for adults, £6.50 for the children, we descend a ramp into the gloom, the thud of the bass reverberating along with the screams particular to small, feral children.
We are met by an official-looking lady in a high-vis vest clutching a clipboard, who ticks our names and hands us a couple of glow sticks.
A bit old-skool, but a nice touch, I think, wrapping one around my wrist. The woman interjects, not unkindly.
‘Er, actually, they’re for the kids,’ she says.
The crowd, mostly in their 30s and 40s, look like the cast of BBC comedy Outnumbered (children and adults!). A trendily dressed couple entering behind seem worried. One clutches a car seat containing a slumbering baby.
After a quick recce, the other returns, firm-lipped, to report that ‘it’s actually proper music’ being played, and they debate whether the child should come inside.
Dancing themselves dizzy: A Big Fish Little Fish rave
There is, reassuringly, a bar which sees brisk, if not clamouring, custom. Two guys nurse a couple of well-placed pints while bopping around rhythmically.
Their moves are quirky rather than conventional. Then they turn slightly, and I realise they’re not dancing – they’re each trying to rock a baby to sleep.
One man I see lurching around wild-eyed and frantic looks suspiciously as if he’s taken the raving a bit too authentically for a family event. But he’s just lost his kids. They’re fine – and are discovered hiding inside a tent in the chill- out zone.
And it’s there where all the real action is happening. These raves are designed to be as much for the kids as for the beleaguered parents. There’s a plasticine table, a ball pit for the babies, soft-play toys and play tunnels.
A face-painting table produces fairies, tigers and butterflies while pirate transfer tattoos appear to be all the rage.
The graffiti on the toilet doors is less than family-friendly but, fortunately, my four-year-old is only just beginning to master phonics.
Momentarily tired of running, my son stops dead in front of the stage where DJ SS, a pioneer of the drum and bass sound who set up some of the first official raves in the early 1990s, has just begun his set to joyous whoops.
My son is gazing entranced as, above his head, bubbles are fired from a plastic gun, his reverie interrupted only when giant inflatable balls begin bouncing around the crowd. Some are bigger than he is, but that doesn’t deter him chasing them around. Next, he takes an interest in a large box near the bar with chunky leads coming from it. It has a switch. He turns it off. And on again. And off. And on. Suddenly they’re not serving draft beer any more.
I usher him away, and eventually he passes out on my shoulder from sheer exhaustion. His father used to fall asleep in clubs, so this is no surprise. When the lights come up, it reveals a frazzled contingent. For a brief moment, we were back in the good old days.
Now it’s time to wrestle the kids home for tea. My son, helpfully, starts clearing up the floor, handing me handfuls of glitter.
‘Tidy up?’ he says, demonstrating an interest he’s never shown at home. It’s going to take a long time to leave. And when we eventually make it to the buggy park, he looks forlorn.
He’s not the only one. We pack up our buggies and head out to the darkening sky. For a brief moment it’s as if we had been dancing until dawn – if it weren’t bathtime.