Austin Martin White
in conversation with John FM

Austin Martin White: I have been making a series of paintings about partying at the end of history. A primary source for the images has been Native American war dances, as well as images of ’90s raving — I chose these sources because they are both depictions of dance at the end of a historical era. The etchings of the war dances themselves are meant to document dance traditions that would soon disappear with Western expansion and the eradication of the peoples depicted in them. The figures in the ’90s rave images have a similar anxiety; we can assume it is in anticipation of the turn of the millennium. I feel that we are in a similar moment now, I feel that we are at an ending — and I am interested in how you feel rave/club culture has changed post-pandemic? I have my own experience — but I feel that it pales in comparison to your experience over the past couple of years.

John FM: In moments of hope, I think of the last protected dance floors. For Black people, I would argue that the last protected dance floor is the roller rink — an activity that expanded into dance, with different regional styles and a focus on Black music. It was once a place that was protested against in the ’50s and ’60s, the civil rights era, when Blacks were designated a specific night when they could skate separately from their white counterparts. Eventually the ’80s hit and the roller skate gave way to the invention of the roller blade, something that — from my perspective — white America became partial to. Though this was happening, skate nights in Black culture strengthened in Detroit, becoming as commonplace a family activity as bowling or barbecues. Furthermore, the activity itself even shows glimpses of progressive thinking via a comfortability between Black males. The patriarchal culture, exacerbated by behaviors learned and passed on from generation to generation by slave trauma, dissipates when groups of Black men join together, literally hand in hand, to dance on the roller rink floor, which promotes itself as a safe space for all peoples to dance, sweat, and peacock as hard as they can, impressing passers-by gawking outside the rink. The protective layer oftentimes comes from their inability to learn how to use roller skates themselves, and to look good on them at that. Traditions passed down from elder to child.
Few and far between am I able to spot places, even in Detroit, that embrace this sense of tradition, a freedom from the plights that American culture propelled to create a sense of belonging to all people. The club is collapsing because the entity of community is overlooked in favor of the dollar most of the time. The real moments feel tangible in Black-owned or ran promotions, which continue these Black, Brown, and queer-adjacent traditions of rave culture. They happen and are happening. Detroit is equally big enough and small enough to continue these things as such, in ways that a lot of other cities in America cannot, in a way that European culture tries to emulate.

AMW: Do you think the ominous thought of climate change has had an effect on the electronic music scene? Do you think there is much self-reflection among people in the scene about their role as global ambassadors, how their presence (touring to exclusive locations such as Ibiza and Goa) may be ultimately harmful to the planet via their carbon footprint? Do you think, among the artists or event organizers who are aware of their role in the climate crisis, that they are stricken with a mood of “doom”?

JFM: There feels like an unfortunate fortitude in the thought of impending doom that leans heavily on ideologies of nihilism. It brings me to the song “1999” by Prince. The story goes that he was in a hotel room watching some religious end of the world TV segment that predicted the world ending in 1999, thus “so tonight we’re going to party like it’s 1999” is akin to partying like there is no tomorrow. On the other hand, these dance floors cultivate a conversation to be had about what can be done to fight these issues, what appears to be the closest existential threat within our control, and so in part, it is an artist’s or a performer’s unspoken duty to bring up these questions by pushing a narrative, in my opinion. And another counterpoint to that is when a person feels their purpose and true joy is beginning to allow them to live on that, it’s hard for them to look backwards and subject themselves to 9-5 work again, disabling them from experiencing the free thought that is afforded by periods of lull in the arts. Under capitalism, it’s all very hard to answer simply.