Trance, house and makinero: the electronic music that resists reggaeton

Trance, house and makinero: the electronic music that resists reggaeton

In the mid-afternoon, an online station called Dancefmlive Trance has been playing non-stop for hours. It's not the formula of the charts, but something else: the soundtrack for those looking for a dancefloor without falling into reggaeton. Electronic music after the 80s is a vast territory, and the debate over what to call it flares up again every time someone drops a classic.

The war of labels: everything is 'tecno' in Spain

The first clash is semantic. While some argue that 'tecno' is a catch-all that includes trance, house and disco, others demand precision. 'So far you haven't played anything that's really techno,' was the retort to a first batch of songs. The response was immediate: 'Trance, disco, whatever you want to call it. You can say TECNO, we're in Spain.' The analogy with heavy metal works: here heavy covers everything from hard rock to symphonic metal, and nobody bothers to fine-tune.

Purists have a point: trance appeals to hypnotic melody and emotional build-up; house retains its black soul and thick bass; techno is drier, more mechanical and repetitive. But in practice, on the dancefloor the borders blur.

Old skool techno and the rescue of the 90s

Nostalgia works as glue. 'It's old skool techno,' someone warns when sharing an old track. And from there come Robert Miles with his versions of 'One and One', the remixes of Talk Talk's 'It's My Life', Michael Cretu or classics from the Genlog label. The conversation fills with versions and more versions: Allan Jay's, Mint Julep's, the original. The 90s listener recognises themselves in each one.

For those who grew up in that decade, the 'golden age of trance' was more than music: it was the soundtrack of adolescence, of first trips, of early mornings. Recovering those tracks isn't musical archaeology, it's reconnecting with yourself.

The makinera grandmother and the pulse of the subwoofer

In the middle of the jungle of genres, makinero deserves a separate chapter. 'As a curiosity, the makinera grandmother,' a video is introduced. The makinera scene, child of the Valencian bakalao, has its own mythology: extremely high BPM, strident samples and an ironic aesthetic that laughs at itself. While some asked for 'noise to push the subwoofer', others blew speakers with Genlog's Trance Makinero.

The controversy reaches the details: 'The one that played at Overdrive wasn't the original, but the remix.' And the reward is finding the collaborator who updates the reference: Amber Broos's version at Tomorrowland is placed as the best interpretation for many. There's no consensus, but there's passion.

Valencia, cradle of the electronic party

The Valencian claim runs through the whole story. 'In Valencia the party started, in Spain and then in the rest of the world,' it is stated without nuances. 'Without Valencia, electronic music wouldn't exist.' It's a risky thesis, but respectable: the Ruta del Bacalao and the clubs of Valencia are historical heritage of the global party scene.

After the tragedy of the DANA, one of the participants in this long conversation paid tribute to the city and its people, posting songs of the so-called 'Valencia sound'. The gesture turns nostalgia into solidarity, and music into collective memory.

The legacy of radio: Zona 3 and the voice of Sonia Britz

Before streaming there was radio. 'Some of you here will remember the programme Zona 3 on Radio 3 that aired in the early hours of weekends, with that sensual and poetic voice of the late Sonia Britz in the 90s,' recalls a participant. The programme's intro theme is an artefact of pure nostalgia, a sound capsule that connects generations. Public radio, with its experimental programming, was the vehicle that brought these sounds to those who had no access to clubs.

The algorithm as DJ

The nostalgia thread wouldn't be possible without the new DJ: the YouTube algorithm. 'Did the algorithm put these tracks in for you?' someone asks at one point. And the answer is yes: automatic suggestions are recovering gems that had been forgotten for years. It's not a minor phenomenon: the discovery of a producer called Chipstyler led a trinc to treasure 200 songs and sets of his. 'It helped me reconnect with my 16-year-old self,' he confessed.

Automatic recommendation is rewriting the canon of electronic music, and there's a generational component: those who used to search in record shops now find in the 'next video' listings.

A farewell with 200 songs

The conversation doesn't end: it transforms into a library. The closing of one of its stages came with a testimony that sums up the mechanics of the phenomenon: 'I met and rediscovered songs, artists and memories,' one of the regulars said goodbye, after reconciling with his 16-year-old self. Makinero, trance and house are still there, waiting for the next DJ, whether human or algorithm.

In a world dominated by formulaic reggaeton and prefabricated dancefloors, that resistance has something of militancy. The difference between BPM and sentimentality is up to each person, but the dancefloor that was born in the 80s hasn't gone out. It's just waiting for someone to press play.