“contradictory, confusing and oddly enjoyable”
Since the ripe old age of (cough) 14, I have been as sodden as they come. Booze-soaked and loving every boggy, blurry minute of it—or so I thought. But as my twenties receded in the rear view of the Uber, and my thirties rolled relentlessly into my present, cracks began to appear.
So that lands me: a culture writer with a gaping void where alcohol once proudly sat. What will I get up to next? What high jinks await? Extreme sports? Learn magic? Get really into baking? Try methamphetamines? Hand-rear a cuttlefish?
Thankfully, I live in London in the year of our Lord 2025. Sobriety is cool now, don’t you know? There are many an activity, group or individual ready to sell me a life that involves not a drop of the devil’s Fruit Shoot.
So, at eight o’clock in the fucking morning, I braved the decrepit travel network and hurtled along the purple line to Daybreaker’s first UK festival-sponsored rather aggressively by Brita (the filtered water company).
Founded in 2013 by Radha Agrawal and Matthew Brimer as a social experiment to enjoy dancing sans-substances. 180 friends (popular!) gathered in the basement of a coffee shop in New York for a morning of subterranean wellness. LA and San Francisco followed pretty sharpish, and then it went international with Amsterdam, Tokyo and Buenos Aires and that was just the beginning.
In the surprisingly cubist land of Stratford-by-the-canal, Hackney Bridge crystallised like a metal city made of shipping containers. Ten a.m., and we slotted in with the bright and bushy-tailed, everyone in costumes tight enough to see urethra prints in lurid blues and neons-all in the hopes of a free water bottle and to beat the crowd. Everyone was good-looking in that clean-skin-innate-smugness way that bubbles up and minimises pores. Dodging a glowing beauties welcoming hug, we experienced the first joyous American of a very long day. “Boom, you’re in,” he chuckled as he scanned our tickets. Boom indeed, my Yankee friend.
What followed was one of the most contradictory, confusing and oddly enjoyable days I’ve spent for many a moon (which would eventually be full, as one of the guests conspiratorially informed me). As a critic and a deeply cynical person, I of course took issue with almost everything, but there were nuggets of gold within the concept that still managed to shine. A morning run with fellow panters is pleasant and a great way to start a festival-waking you up and terrorising the local flora and fauna of Hackney in the process. Big fan.
Saunas, cold plunges and free massages are an undeniably chirpy way to meet people, and are wonderful until the numbers overwhelm the silver-foil-covered caravan and two-wheeled wooden saunas. If you can move past the influencers and their tripods the steaming atmosphere and eyelash-stinging heat fosters an atmosphere of chummy chattiness-intimacy without too much flushing of sex-and camaraderie that’s tough to find or foster in the modern world.
Groove Armada’s set at the tail end of the early evening proves that banging music is danceable no matter what your blood alcohol level. Sam Devine and Madame Gandhi also bring the party as best they can.
But contradictions come thick and fast. The culture shock is something else. The beaming, positive Americans promise safety for our bags without lockers, as there aren’t enough to go around. As if any Londoner would believe that-I’ve had my phone stolen twice on my own street in the last three months. The cheeriness is revolting, grating and disingenuous as always, but it speaks to a deeper issue.
The commodification of basic human rights. The concept of subliminally mentioning mortality to sell a product (mainly, ironically, cigarettes) is well-documented, although it’s rather fallen out of vogue in our clean-living age. Death crops up far more than one would imagine at an ultra-healthy sober rave, and therefore the philosophical attitude of the ‘community’ peddled by Daybreaker and their life-giving partners, Brita. An unbearable panel discussion had its heart in the right place- discussing running clubs, city saunas, dance workshops and their own careers (Madame Ghandi is a community all to herself, apparently). Yet they all highlight this slushy human connection while under the beaming banner of Brita. The concept of living-of drinking or not drinking, of walking/running or bathing-is somehow being sold to us as a novelty, a break from the toxicity of a broken, poisoned world. But it is still utterly wrapped up in the late-capitalist hellstream. Being sober won’t give you immortality any more than not being sober, and the minutes you claw back through your healthier choices simply give you more time to-according to DB-buy filtered water, mushroom coffee or matcha powder.
The sun, diving between the buildings and the resulting in a golden hour, cast its beautiful shadows on the ravers. Fruit platters, carried like suckling pigs, were borne out into the crowd and descended upon like vultures-certainly not helping the cult vibes. We whooped and hollered and tenuously felt connected, but that might have been the fifteen coffees and three mushroom gummies vibrating through my system. The skinny white men (Groove Armada) left the stage and we were ready to head home-it was, after all, 8 p.m. and we had been “actively alive” for ten hours at this point. However, the ‘big momma’ of DB asked us to hold hands, lock eyes with a stranger and tell them we loved them. I squirmed but did my best as a good journalist. As washy house music whumped, we connected-and it did feel great, if I’m honest. However, she swiftly passed the mic to a Brita representative, who was still speaking about the identity-affirming liquid while my friend and I snuck out.
Sweating, straining with and speaking to strangers is to be recommended, no matter where you fall on the Richard Burton spectrum. But the pernicious packaging of simple human processes and interests as sellable commodities is enough to drive anyone back to drink.
Keep an eye out for the next ceremony… sorry I mean event, click HERE!