PLANOMANIA [noun]: A DEEP IMPULSE TO LEAVE HOME AND DISCARD SOCIETAL RESTRAINTS.

This wasn’t just a word—at the onset of the 90s, it was a way of life. A generation fed up with the glossy, sanitized version of reality was ready to escape, to abandon the familiar and dive headfirst into the unknown.

This wasn’t just rebellion; it was a hunger for something raw, something real, something that the mainstream could never offer.

The warehouses, the raves, the underground scenes—they weren’t just destinations; they were sanctuaries for those who felt the effects of Planomania in their veins.

Here, in the shadows of a world that felt too small, they found a place where the rules didn’t matter, where the only law was freedom, and the only restraint was the dawn.

A Sanctuary Found

Abandoned warehouses weren’t just forgotten spaces—they were the skeletal remains of a faded industrial age, left to rust as society moved on. These once-thriving hubs, now silent and hollow, stood as eerie monuments to economic collapse and corporate desertion. But where the world saw decay, the 90s rave scene saw untapped potential. These crumbling buildings became the battleground for a new kind of cultural war—a place where the disenfranchised reclaimed what was left behind.

Turning those desolate spaces into the epicenters of an underground rebellion wasn’t just about finding a venue. It was a bold statement of defiance. By choosing these gritty, unpolished settings over the sanitized glitz of mainstream clubs, ravers were rejecting the status quo, carving out a raw, unfiltered reality of their own. These weren’t just parties—they were cultural revolutions, breathing new life into the forgotten relics of a bygone era.

Grit & Grandeur

Walking into one of those vast, empty warehouses was like stepping onto a blank canvas, waiting to be splashed with the wild colors of rebellion. Inside, it was more than just a dance floor and speakers—it was an immersive experience. Graffiti artists turned cold, blank walls into bold, rebellious murals. Light installations cut through the gloom, morphing the industrial landscape into something otherworldly. Lasers, projections, and bursts of color melded together, blurring the boundaries between the physical space and the sensory overload.

This was a full-on assault on the senses. The art, the lights, the movement—it all evolved with the night, echoing the collective energy of the crowd, amplifying the pulse of the music. Every piece of art carried its own message, often as fiercely anti-establishment as the raves themselves. These warehouses became living, breathing artworks that engulfed you, pulling you deeper into the raw, chaotic beauty of the scene.

Sonic Infusion Therapy

Let’s talk about the sound. Those warehouses, built to contain the roar of industry, were perfect for the bone-shaking, chest-thumping beats that defined rave music. With their high ceilings, concrete walls, and cavernous spaces, these places didn’t just play the music—they amplified it, turning every bass drop into a seismic event. The concrete and steel didn’t just echo the sound—they made it a physical force that rattled through your entire being.

The raw, industrial vibe only cranked up the intensity. The cool, damp air, the gritty smell of dust and metal, the echo of footsteps on cracked concrete—it all combined to create a sensory overload. The environment heightened everything, making you feel like you’d stepped out of reality and into a world where the usual rules didn’t apply.

Church is Held: Cathedrals of Chaos

The architecture of those warehouses was more than just a backdrop—it was the soul of the experience. Vast, open floors, towering ceilings, rusted pipes, and forgotten machinery gave the space a gritty, unrefined energy that no polished club could ever replicate. This raw, unfinished aesthetic was the perfect stage for the anti-establishment ethos that powered the rave scene.

These sprawling spaces could hold massive crowds, letting the collective energy surge and flow without barriers. No velvet ropes, no overpriced drinks—just a wide-open playground for creativity and chaos. Every rave became a unique, ephemeral escape, a one-night-only journey into a world that existed just for those who dared to find it.

And those locations—often buried deep in the fringes of urban wastelands—only added to the thrill. Getting there was an adventure in itself, navigating through shadowy streets and unfamiliar territory, with the anticipation building with every step. By the time you reached the warehouse, the air was electric, and the space itself seemed to vibrate with untapped potential.