The Revolutionary Spirit of UK Underground Dance Music Scene: Tommy Dumbarton and the Blackburn Raves

The Revolutionary Spirit of UK Underground Dance Music Scene: Tommy Dumbarton and the Blackburn Raves

July 12, 2024 Off By Editor

Scottish-born Tommy Dumbarton is a central figure in the history of the UK’s Acid House dance music scene, known for his pivotal role in the legendary 1980’s/1990s Blackburn raves.

 

His journey into dance music began in Berlin, where he first encountered the burgeoning acid house movement. A theatre actor by circumstance, Tommy stumbled upon a new world of relentless beats and communal euphoria that contrasted sharply with his experiences back in England.

The sense of unity and the transformative power of dance music inspired him to bring this movement to his home country. Upon returning to England, he found a society ravaged by Thatcher’s policies, with industrial decay creating a backdrop for the birth of a new subculture. This socio-economic climate, combined with his experiences abroad, galvanized Tommy to create spaces where people could escape their grim realities through music and dance.

The Blackburn raves were not just parties; they were a revolution that repurposed the abandoned mills and warehouses of Northern England into sanctuaries of music and freedom. These events, often held in secret locations, drew thousands of ravers from across the UK, transcending traditional rivalries and uniting people through a shared love of dance.

The raves became infamous for their sheer scale and the euphoric sense of community they fostered. Tommy’s leadership and vision turned these gatherings into more than just nightclubs; they became cultural milestones that challenged the status quo and created a legacy that still resonates in the dance music scene today. The Blackburn raves symbolized a defiant celebration of life and solidarity amidst the socio-political upheaval of the time, embodying a spirit of resistance and creativity that remains influential.

“There were no jobs, there were no dreams. Worse than that, there were no aspirations. There was nothing for people to believe in.”

Mike Mannix: Nice one, man. Why did you start the Blackburn Raves?

Tommy: “Ok, Mike. There were no jobs, there were no dreams. Worse than that, there were no aspirations. There was nothing for people to believe in. Thatcher was still decimating the north of England, all the old mills were shut down, the jobs were gone, the housing was shocking, rampant capitalism had taken hold, and the place was ravaged.

So one night, I went to the Hacienda. I went there, and it wasn’t elitist as I’d heard, but it was still the city thing. The bouncer said to me one night, that was the catchphrase at the time, ‘It’s not your night,’ and I thought, it fucking will be my night, but I’m going to fucking do it myself. So we went back to Blackburn and got into this club run by a drag queen called ‘Clitoral Kate,’ who was actually on Mincing Lane, you couldn’t even make it up.

He would let us play the music. It was licensed for 50 people, but within a fortnight, there were over 200 in it. Hot, sweaty, you know, pulling off the ceiling—one of those old-school vibe places.

Right there and then I can remember, for me, that something was happening here. I’m putting it—this wasn’t a fucking glitzy nightclub, don’t stand on my shoes. This was get stripped off, get into the beat, something tribal, something ancient.

the only people who would work with us would be gay people and Irishmen.”

Something ancient was getting stirred inside you. And from then on, I knew this was going someplace. So basically, we soon outgrew that club and went up to another place. It was this club called The Set End, affectionately known as The Sweat End. It was an Irish fella—the only people who would work with us would be gay people and Irishmen.

And really, that was the base for the springboard to be built for the legal parties. We started doing small events in old shops and old units and stuff like that. So for us kids, this was all we had. There was nothing left; there were no jobs at all in those old mill towns.

Most of them couldn’t afford to go to the Hacienda because that was like—I think it was a tenner in and 20 quid for a pill. Which was a lot of money. Unemployment benefit, I think, was 14 quid a week.

Mike Mannix: Yeah, exactly. Two weeks’ giro was gone in a fucking night!

 

Tommy: ”I mean, the war cry at the time was ‘can you feel it?’ But we transformed that into ‘can you afford it?’ That was the most important thing for us. Because we came from the working class, we were used to the police picking on you and oppressing you in a certain way and marginalizing you.

But a lot of these kids didn’t get used to that. If you had your dole card and you brought that to show you were unemployed, you got in for nothing. For us, it was more important to get people in.

“So, we took advantage in that sense. We came from a healthy disrespect of law and order. That was instilled in us from an early day.”

Mike Mannix: Yes, exactly! So, that helped it grow as well.

Tommy: “I mean, a lot of things helped it grow, really, initially. Ironically, some of the best things that helped it grow were the local paper, which was a scary Tory rag. They used to give wild headlines. I mean, outrageous stuff like ‘Frenzy Acid House Revellers.’ The best advertisement we could get!”

they turned up the next week at the gaff, half-naked girls, fucking night romping, three quid a head, fucking I’m in.”

Mike Mannix: You couldn’t buy that shit.

Tommy: “Another one was, we had this one, ‘30,000 Set For Acid Invasion.’ I mean, it was like the fucking aliens were landing. But my all-time favorite was a huge turning point because we had an event in, believe it or not, an old slaughterhouse. You know, when they came up on the Monday morning and we’re like, ‘What the fuck’s that on the walls?’ The headline was, ‘Half-Naked Girls in Acid House Romp.'”

Mike Mannix: Haha, fucking brilliant.

Tommy: “So, the following week, all the townie guys who wore the shirts and the ties that went to the nightclubs, they turned up the next week at the gaff, half-naked girls, fucking night romping, three quid a head, fucking I’m in. So, the numbers leapt greatly from there. You know, they almost doubled, I would say. Jesus. And it grew exponentially from that.

Within, I would say, three months,

we went from 50 people to 5,000. It was really phenomenal,

looking back on it, really, you know, it’s a fucking hairs on the back of your neck moment.

And the thing was, they were coming from Liverpool, Manchester, these traditional enemies, you know, from way back. You know how they divide the working class. This was bringing them together.

And to see such a growth of a thing, from a seed that we had planted growing up, it would make you weep with joy, basically. You know, we realized anything was possible.

Tommy Dunbarton photography Craig Dewse

”You know how they divide the working class. This was bringing them together.”


So, that was the initial stages, and then it just got bigger and bigger. It became more inventive as the police, you know, tracked us down. I mean, for instance,

“I seldom stayed in the same place every weekend. They were always looking for us. A lot of people were getting arrested.”

The thing is, when you’re arresting people, I kid you not, there were a hundred people queuing up to take their place. Such was the devotion. Such was the belief.

Suddenly, it’s something they believe in, something they fight and die for. And it was just fantastic. That was the early stages for us, really. The old mills. We loved the old mills. I don’t know if you know Lancashire, but it was famous for cotton back in the day.

”So, we’ve replaced that generation who sweated their fucking lives away in those old mills for nothing. We replaced the noise of that machine with booming bass. Such was the belief.”

 

So, a few generations later, the grandchildren of that generation were back in the mills sweating away, fucking sweating away en masse, but for a different reason, they were coming out with eyes wide open, headlong into a new dream. That was the old mills for us.

Then it changed.

I mean, Thatcher, God bless her, God bless her, fucking! The North was decimated, then they came out with this crap, Enterprise Allowance Zones. Right, well, they brought this Enterprise Allowance bollocks in, pretending people were coming from London to save the North, and fucking monkeys, they’re going to bring the work, they’re going to give you employment, and no, that’s fucking absolute bollocks. The good thing for us was, we watched it with relish.

”They built these brand new warehouses. We couldn’t have asked for better, honestly. So we’re like, you’ve done what?”

Mike Mannix: Wicked haha!

Tommy: ”Aye, haha we could get out of the rabbit hole of the wee toons and get straight onto these big industrial zones. Unit 7, that’s an important one to remember. That’s an iconic story in the Blackburn parties. It’s called Unit 7. It’s called Enterprise Allowance Zones. Sounds like a fucking spaceship, doesn’t it?

On the whole, we were the first ones to use it. We were in their fucking doors, beautiful, smooth dance floor, toilets, massive roll shutter, fire exit doors. Honestly, it was fucking brilliant. We made hay with them Enterprise. Exactly.”

Mike Mannix: You were the epitome of what the whole fucking thing stood for haha!

Tommy:  ”We actually created the fucking jobs. We made everybody full-time dancers and said, “There’s your wages. You fucking pour it out in sweat.” That’s where we were coming from in that essence. Of course, that’s when it started expanding again.

”The police, even the police, had their own convoys. It’s hard to imagine because we were there.”

I was talking to somebody last week and he said, “Tommy, I don’t remember where I was fucking last week. I can tell you where I was 32 years ago, when I was 16.” That kind of sums it up.

Tommy Dunbarton Rave photography Craig Dewse

It was all about belief. It was still a belief in people. We were always going to, because of the way we were brought up, about revolution and all that stuff and taking over and seizing control. Not only your own destiny, which prior to that was marshaled by alcohol or violence or football terraces. You were fed into that channel. You were that tribe.

”Suddenly, people came as tribes and they left as families, basically.”

That’s how we loved the enterprise zones. One story I often recall because it stuck: we met this guy from Leeds, Andy, he was called. He came into one of these units and he’s like, “Tommy, fucking hell, man, you’ve done it.” Off his fucking head, of course. “You’ve done it, you’ve done it.”

I said, “What? You’ve done it, man. You said you were taking over.”

“Fucking hell, the revolution’s happening. We’re fucking taking over the state, blah, blah.” I said, “Andy, what the fuck are you talking about?”

He said, “You’ve got the police working for you.” I said, “What?” He says, “Yeah, we’re coming from Leeds, 200 strong in a convoy.”

“The police stopped us asking ”You’re going to Blackburn.” He says, “Yeah,” we said, he says, ”follow us.” and took us right there.

”They didn’t fucking realize, or they wanted the crazed up ravers off the motorway, you know!”

People were willing to believe, you know, which they never had before. Yeah. And then, we started realizing the importance of dancing en masse. I often look at it, as people do, actually, like a religious experience, if you will. You know, I mean, a true religious experience. We were dancing what some would consider the Sabbath, mainly.

”We were worshipping, you know, the dance, worshipping the music, and embracing each other. Pure love, pure joy, pure ecstasy.”

I’m not talking about a pill; I’m talking about pure ecstasy. And many of us realized, and still realize to this day, you know, it sticks with us, what is possible—not what was possible, but what is still possible.

When people gather that, we are an important, sharing, loving vibe. When they’re not gathering to fight or argue or anything. Then, of course, you’d have the Holy Communion, which came in. It actually looked like the Holy Communion; it was a wee bit smaller, but you know, it was more of a transformation effect than that fucking thing that stuck on your tongue back in the day.

You know, so I thought, yeah, this is, well, everybody found God, man. Once that fucking thing popped to the back of your neck, it was fucking down your throat, and you found God then. You better believe it, man, it was fucking…  God was the DJ and so on.

Once you took that Holy Communion, you were in.

”You suddenly became a devotee, and there was no going back.”

There was no going back for anybody. It’s so true, man. To this day, to this day. And the thing is, I’m still doing events. People are coming up and they’re chilling. My brother was at an event with his two-year-old, his fucking grandchildren. You know what I mean?

Tommy Dunbarton photography Craig Dewse

So that shows it wasn’t a fashion because I hated fashion. It was like fashion, again, was controlled by the media, controlled by the campus. This was real. And that’s why we’re still watching it to this day.”

That’s why we’re still sitting here talking 35, 40 years on.”

Mike Mannix: Legend man!

 

Tommy Dunbarton’s influence on the UK dance music scene and the Blackburn raves extends far beyond the events themselves. His visionary leadership and commitment to creating inclusive, transformative spaces for music and community have left an indelible mark on the cultural landscape.

The spirit of unity and resistance that defined the Blackburn raves continues to inspire new generations of ravers and music enthusiasts. As we reflect on the legacy of these revolutionary gatherings, we are reminded of the power of music to transcend socio-economic boundaries and foster a sense of belonging and hope in even the most challenging times. Tommy’s story is a testament to the enduring impact of grassroots movements and the unifying force of dance music.