Have you ever tried explaining to someone why you keep coming back to crypto? It’s rarely just the charts or the potential gains. More often, it feels like something pulls you in on a gut level—almost nostalgic, like rediscovering a long-lost vibe. For me, that feeling clicked when I realized crypto today echoes the raw energy of 1990s rave culture. Not in superficial ways, like glow sticks or baggy jeans, but in the deeper currents: the search for belonging, the rejection of rigid gatekeepers, the thrill of building something real together in the shadows of failing systems.
It’s easy to dismiss that comparison as poetic fluff. But stick with me. There’s substance here. Both movements didn’t start because someone spotted a market gap or invented a better gadget. They bubbled up from dissatisfaction—quiet at first, then explosive. People weren’t chasing efficiency alone; they wanted access, connection, and a sense that their presence actually mattered.
Why Crypto Echoes the Underground Spirit of 90s Rave
Back in the 1990s, rave didn’t explode because clubs were too expensive or DJs too scarce. It thrived in abandoned warehouses and empty factories—spaces industrial decline had left behind. Those locations weren’t chosen for convenience. They symbolized something bigger: the old order had moved on, leaving gaps where new forms of community could take root. Young people, often ignored by mainstream society, found places to lose themselves, to connect without judgment, to exist outside the usual hierarchies.
Fast-forward to now. Crypto lives in a similar kind of vacancy. Trust in banks, governments, and legacy finance has frayed. Inflation feels endless, wages stagnate, homeownership slips away for entire generations. Institutions seem distant, opaque, sometimes outright hostile. Into that void steps blockchain—not as a polite reform, but as a parallel universe where anyone can join without asking permission.
In my view, that’s the real hook. Crypto doesn’t primarily sell better returns (though it sometimes delivers them). It sells participation. You don’t need a degree, a suit, or a referral. You show up, you contribute, you’re in. Sound familiar? It’s the same unspoken rule that governed the best raves: your ticket wasn’t money or status—it was simply turning up and dancing.
The Edges, Not the Center
Both rave and crypto began far from centers of power. Rave organizers didn’t lobby city councils for permits; they found empty buildings and spread the word quietly. Crypto developers didn’t wait for regulatory approval; they coded in open-source repositories and let the network grow organically. That marginal position wasn’t accidental. It was necessary. When the mainstream feels closed off, people don’t storm the gates—they build their own entrance.
- Rave spread via pirate radio, handwritten flyers, whispered phone lines.
- Crypto spreads through Discord servers, Telegram groups, viral tweets.
- Tools change; the logic stays the same: informal, fast, trusted only by those already inside.
Perhaps most telling is how both reject centralized gatekeepers. No promoter could decide who “deserved” to attend a true underground rave. No bank or broker can decide who “qualifies” to hold or transfer value on a public blockchain. That openness creates fierce loyalty. People defend these spaces because they finally feel seen.
Identity Shaped by Action, Not Credentials
One of the most liberating aspects of early rave was the dance floor’s strange equality. Suits, students, laborers, artists—none of it mattered once the bass kicked in. You were judged (if at all) by how you moved, how long you stayed, how much joy you brought. Background faded; presence became everything.
Crypto recreates that magic digitally. Behind an ENS name or a pixelated avatar, traditional markers—job title, net worth, alma mater—carry far less weight. What matters is activity: Are you building? Are you helping? Are you here consistently? In both worlds, identity isn’t handed down; it’s performed through participation.
I’ve always thought the pseudonymity in crypto is less about hiding and more about leveling the field. You don’t need to prove who you are to be taken seriously—just show what you can do.
— Long-time crypto contributor
That shift feels radical because it is. Mainstream systems sort people by pre-existing status. Alternative cultures sort by what you bring in the moment. No wonder both attract misfits, dreamers, and builders who never quite fit the conventional mold.
Community Comes First—Utility Follows
Here’s where the parallel gets really interesting. Early ravers didn’t gather with a five-year business plan. They showed up because the music moved them, because the people felt right, because the experience was unlike anything else. Meaning, loyalty, even eventual infrastructure (better sound systems, larger venues) emerged from that collective energy.
Crypto followed an eerily similar path. Bitcoin launched without a whitepaper promising DeFi or NFTs. People mined and traded it because the idea was intoxicating: money without middlemen. Only later did developers build exchanges, wallets, smart contracts. The community formed first; the applications came after. Value didn’t lead participation—participation created value.
- People discover the space and connect over shared disillusionment.
- They experiment, collaborate, sometimes fail spectacularly.
- From that chaos, useful tools and ecosystems slowly crystallize.
I’ve watched this pattern repeat across multiple cycles. The hype may fade, but the core group stays—because the belonging matters more than the price ticker.
Structural Anxiety Fuels Alternative Worlds
The 1990s weren’t all ecstasy and neon. They carried real pain: factory closures, rising inequality, the sense that the future had been canceled for many. Rave offered temporary escape and, for some, a glimpse of a different way to live.
Today feels similar. Technology races ahead—AI, automation, blockchain—while social safety nets fray. Jobs feel precarious. Wealth concentrates. Institutions lose credibility. Crypto doesn’t fix those problems directly, but it provides a sandbox where people can experiment with new rules. It’s not utopia; it’s agency when everything else feels predetermined.
That context explains the emotional pull. Crypto isn’t just another asset class. For many, it’s a cultural lifeboat in uncertain waters.
Commercialization: Inevitable, Not Fatal
No underground movement stays pure forever. Rave eventually birthed superclubs, sponsorships, EDM festivals. Some originals walked away, feeling the spirit had been diluted. Others adapted and kept pushing boundaries.
Crypto has entered its own commercialization phase. Institutional money flows in. ETFs launch. Corporations build on-chain. Costs rise, scams proliferate, narratives simplify. Early participants sometimes feel pushed out. But this isn’t failure—it’s maturation. The question isn’t whether the scene will change; it’s what survives and what new forms emerge next.
Perhaps the most exciting possibility is that crypto keeps the best parts of rave—openness, experimentation, community-first ethos—while scaling responsibly. The future isn’t about returning to the underground; it’s about carrying that spirit into broader adoption without losing the soul.
At its core, the rave-crypto parallel reminds us of a timeless human impulse. When the dominant system stops serving people, they don’t always revolt head-on. Instead, they quietly build something else—something participatory, provisional, alive. Crypto still feels like a rave in the 1990s because it’s still young, still contradictory, still figuring itself out. And honestly, that’s exactly why so many of us can’t look away.
What do you think—does this resonate with your own journey into crypto? Or am I stretching the analogy too far? Either way, the conversation feels worth having.
