Other incidents reflect ignorance more than malice. Electronic music has a strong tradition of sampling, which got British DJ Dax J banned from Tunisia for remixing the Islamic call to prayer. Nicolas Jaar and Matias Aguayo, prominent South American producers, have spoken candidly about “exotic fetishism” in “ethno-minimal” techno, which lifts rhythms and textures from Latin music without paying attention to their context.
In Detroit, much of the electronic music world rejoiced when techno veteran Dimitri Hegemann of Berlin’s famed Tresor nightclub announced plans to open a branch in Packard Automotive Plant, a former DIY venue for the local rave scene. For many locals, though, it was yet another example of a white European taking something made by their predominantly black city: the gentrification of a genre seeping back into physical space.
Despite its genuine Detroit roots, Movement, too, has had its part to play in the gentrification of electronic music and, by extension, Detroit. The inaugural festival, held in 2000, was the brainchild of Carl Craig—a second-generation techno star in his own right—and Carol Marvin of the event production team Pop Culture Media. They saw Hart Plaza, dead in the center of Detroit’s beleaguered downtown, as the perfect place to host a techno festival, even if most of the city’s residents were unfamiliar with the scene.
Since those first years, Movement has gone from a free event to a paid one, passing through the hands of several directors along the way. Despite changes in leadership, Movement still plays an important role in the narrative of Detroit Rising, which is also the story of Detroit Gentrifying. Hart Plaza itself is now the centerpiece of one of Detroit’s many “revitalized” neighborhoods. As in similar urban zones across the U.S., rising rents have driven out a predominantly middle-class economy, replacing local businesses with high-end establishments and luxury apartments—the early stages of the trend that turned former underground capitals like New York, London, and Tokyo into velvet-rope and bottle-service cities. Growing electronic music scenes in Asia, Africa, and South America show promise, though most investment in those regions goes to venues that cater to the developing world’s growing elite.
Movement today more strongly reflects a gentrifying Detroit than its working-class roots
“At one point in time,” says Ted Krisko, “hand-to-hand flyering was how people found out about the party, which was much riskier. There was a far more intricate element of danger. […] I can’t speak for everyone, but for Detroit, the rave appeal had all of these elements of rebellion.” Walking through the festival grounds, rebellion appears to be in short supply.
A three-day pass costs $155, which is cheaper than most commercial events but out of sync with the economic realities of techno’s origins and of a city where 40 percent of the population still lives below the poverty line. “When festivals were free at Hart Plaza, more people were likely to wander downtown to people-watch and sample the offerings,” says local journalist Desiree Cooper. Sadly, she says, that’s no longer as common as it once was. Movement’s crowd and artist lineup are still noticeably more inclusive than your typical EDM festival, and Detroit’s club culture is still largely-artist driven, but still, Movement today more strongly reflects a gentrifying Detroit than its working-class roots.
Haz Mat and Amp Fiddler performing with Soul Clap Live.
But EDM fans looking for a deeper sound are also fresh blood for Detroit techno and the wider culture of clubbing, creating a mix of faces that harkens back to the spirit of Black Bottom and techno’s early, vibrant roots. “We’re at a brink of a renaissance,” says Krisko. “There’s a huge appeal for quality vinyl DJs that have eclectic styles and are supportive of the origins of club culture: minorities, queers, misfits. There’s a pushback from a more authentic perspective. Artists have started bearing the flag for a return to the spiritual experience of creating energy on the dancefloor, playing music that provokes. [Audiences] still have that innate desire to go dance.”
Prior to the festival, I met local musician and producer Haz Mat at Cass Café in the historic Cass Corridor, a neighborhood known for its artistic community that’s currently experiencing its own gentrification-related growing pains. Despite rising rents placing new strains on local musicians, Haz Mat is optimistic about his city’s techno community. “It started here. So, you could come here and get a pure strain of what techno is. The founders of techno are still alive. You could get that right from the tap here in Detroit.”
“This is a place where you could come be a part of the culture,” he says, “and the world comes here to get that.”