09/12/2026
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Hardline presents Elysia: Into The Feywild
At any given moment in time, the world is full of scorned music genres.
However, there is one genre that stands alone as the most mocked, most misunderstood music scene out there: happy hardcore. The scene seems like a moment in dance history that most would rather forget, something that has been abandoned to cultural dead time and is now destined to forever be associated with all those other sources of moral panic from the 1990s, like joyriding, solvent abuse and Sunny D.
Musically, it’s a punishing mix. Take 170 distorted bass drum thuds a minute, parping synth stabs, breakbeats that rattle around like broken washing machines and sling in vocals that sound sung by kids on pills. It’s perhaps not tough to see why it’s widely regarded as rave’s Pompeii – the sound of the dance music that set the agenda for British youth culture in the late 80s and early 90s collapsing after battering itself with one too many handfuls of eccies.
There’s a snobbishness that surrounds the genre. The common perception is that happy hardcore is rave’s slightly backwards, Subaru-driving cousin. While people who listened to acid house are generally painted as being young, attractive and urbane by the glossy fashion mags that retroactively steer the zeitgeist, happy hardcore seems more synonymous with ketamine colostomy bags and GBH convictions. Where broadsheet journalists laud rave as a generation-defining moment, happy hardcore resists academic warmth. It just goes OOSH-AH OOSH-AH OOSH-AH really fast and has stupid lyrics about flying about in the sky.
Not that I buy into this negativity myself. I’ve been developing a crush on happy hardcore from afar for a while now, and when photographer and filmmaker Ewen Spencer sent me a few images he’d taken at a happy hardcore night in Tottenham at some point in the late 90s, I wondered if it might be time for a reappraisal of HH.