Is Underground Music Dead?
An essay on the meaning and commercialisation
of ‘underground’ in the digital age
„I feel like the internet has killed culture and subcultures because it’s made everyone separatist. No one goes outside of their comfort zone. Facebook and Instagram are not reality. Of course everyone you like is going to like the same shit as you. That’s the world we live in now. It’s one big echo chamber. The culture I come from, you had to bring something. You had to have a personality or a talent. You had to bring something to the party instead of taking something away.“
Subcultures used to thrive on direct exchange and personal encounters. Today, visibility is mainly determined by digital algorithms. Honey Dijon, a successful DJ, producer and activist from Chicago who advocates for queerness, black culture and the preservation of the underground, describes this very change: Instead of personal achievement and genuine expression, digital echo chambers dominate, where trends become predictable and culture becomes mass-compatible.
The pandemic has sped up this change. Clubs were closed, parties banned, exchanges cut off. For independent artists and DJs, this threatened their livelihoods: no stage, no audience, no way to show their art. While large event organisers were able to take a break, small scenes were facing extinction. The ‘underground’, which defined itself through physical spaces, word of mouth and close-knit networks, lost its foundation – an environment in which streaming never played a role. Its artists were deeply rooted in their communities, played in small collectives and operated outside the mainstream industry. Digital platforms such as Boiler Room and HÖR Berlin kept the scene afloat, but also changed the dynamics by making success dependent on views and click rates. Many of the ‘new’ faces on large platforms had long been part of the scene – they only became visible when viral videos washed them into the digital mainstream.
What began as a stopgap solution quickly became a global phenomenon: Boiler Room sets reached millions of views, TikTok made underground tracks popular overnight, and major brands marketed the ‘underground’ aesthetic. This raises fundamental questions: Can subcultures that once defined themselves by their invisibility still exist when they are visible everywhere? Does the underground lose its meaning when it becomes commercialised? Is ‘underground’ today just an aesthetic, a sound, a marketing term? To answer these questions, we must first understand how some popular subcultures emerged from the underground and became commercialised throughout music history.
What is ‘underground music’?
Underground music stands for sounds and scenes that deliberately set themselves apart from the mainstream. It is raw, experimental and independent – free from the constraints of commercial structures. Instead of mass appeal, it is about creative freedom, innovation and collective identity – music that emerges from real communities, not marketing strategies. They are the heart of the underground: they organise themselves, often consisting of marginalised groups who are connected by similar life realities and count on each other. It’s not just about music, but about safe spaces that enable artistic and social freedom. Whether punk, techno or experimental electronica – underground can appear in many genres, as long as it opposes the commercial music market and goes its own way.
The eternal cycle: from underground to mainstream
Precisely because underground music is authentic and conveys genuine emotions, it develops an appeal that extends far beyond its original communities. Its innovations shape the music landscape, but as soon as the hype becomes big enough, major labels recognise the potential and commercialise the sound. A counterculture becomes a product – often without regard for the communities that created it. This pattern repeats itself over and over again in genres such as jazz, hip-hop and the ballroom scene, which began as expressions of marginalised communities and were then appropriated:
Jazz began to evolve from ragtime after the American Civil War (1865) as a mixture of European classical music and West African rhythms. Initially rejected as chaotic ‘street music,’ jazz became increasingly accepted by a wealthy white audience in the 1920s and moved into chic concert halls. For example, while Glenn Miller sold 1.2 million records with ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ in 1941 and was the first jazz musician to receive a gold record, black jazz musicians were structurally excluded from important studio jobs and radio appearances at the time.
A similar pattern can be seen in hip-hop, which emerged in the 1970s from the streets of the Bronx as a creative protest movement against social inequality. Initially criminalised and portrayed as a threat, the genre eventually evolved into the most influential music genre in the world. Today, hip-hop has created a £15.7 billion industry and accounted for 31% of all music streams in the US in 2020, according to the Year-End Report by MRC Data and Billboard.
This pattern is also evident in the ballroom scene of the 1980s: originally emerging in New York’s queer Black and Latinx community as a refuge for the marginalised, voguing, houses and competitions created safe spaces where queer identity was celebrated. Madonna’s ‘Vogue’ brought the aesthetic into the mainstream, while the original community continued to struggle with poverty, marginalisation and the HIV epidemic. Later, this aesthetic was profitably marketed by luxury brands such as Jean-Paul Gaultier, who incorporated ballroom elements into his 2014 haute couture show.
What began with jazz continued with hip-hop and is repeated with ballroom culture and many other subcultures – movements born out of the experiences of marginalised communities, first criminalised and rejected, then celebrated, and finally commercialised. While the music and aesthetics generate billions, the people who created them often remain excluded.
Honey Dijon on house music’s Black Queer legacy – Southbank Centre
What happens when underground music becomes accessible to everyone via the internet?
Streaming platforms such as Spotify, SoundCloud and others make it easier than ever to discover music, network and gain visibility. For many artists, this is an opportunity to gain recognition, reach and financial independence – without major labels or traditional gatekeepers.
But before that happens, algorithms decide who becomes visible, what is heard and what is consumed. Can it still be underground if digital mechanisms determine success and relevance? Social media reinforces this effect. Trends and hypes are fuelled algorithmically and often taken out of context.
A prime example is techno: during the pandemic, the genre quickly gained popularity, especially through platforms such as TikTok. The hashtag #techno has already been used 3.7 million times, showing how the genre has become established as a trend in the digital sphere. Techno, once an expression of resistance and collective experience, suddenly became an image with ‘techno moves’ and kinky outfits. But social media loves precisely these fast, superficial trends. Techno is squeezed into a 15-second format – a style that is adopted and discarded rather than lived as a culture. Yet techno has a deeper history that often remains invisible in the mainstream because it is uncomfortable. Uncomfortable because subcultures like techno often arise from social injustices such as racism, queer-phobic exclusion and economic inequality – as an expression of resistance and the need for their own spaces.
The fact that underground culture is changing is also demonstrated by Boiler Room – once a small, independent underground format, now part of a billion-dollar music network. Founded in 2010, Boiler Room brought the club experience directly from dark basements and small venues to the internet. But in 2024, the platform was taken over by Superstruct Entertainment, one of the most powerful players in the global festival and club scene. Superstruct owns major festivals such as Awakenings, Mysteryland and Wacken Open Air, and was recently purchased for €1.3 billion by investment firm KKR. The figures show that this is no longer just about culture, but a billion-dollar business. The former DIY spirit has given way to a professional, global brand strategy. The question remains: do artists and subcultures benefit from this development, or are they simply being marketed? What used to be a counterculture has now become part of the big entertainment industry. Techno has long since become more than a short-lived social media hype – growing public attention has placed the genre in a new context.
From underground to UNESCO honour – who owns techno?
Techno has long since ceased to be just an underground movement and is now recognised politically and culturally as a formative part of social developments. In addition to commercialisation, the genre is now also receiving official recognition, which seemed unthinkable a few decades ago. In 2024, the German UNESCO Commission declared Berlin techno an intangible cultural heritage, which for many Berliners is a sign that subcultures can conquer the world. But the origins of techno? They are only mentioned in passing. The official statement reads:
‘Techno is based on various musical developments, including 20th-century electronic sound production, Detroit techno, Chicago house and EBM from Belgium.’ (UNESCO, 2024)
UNESCO’s recognition of Berlin techno as intangible cultural heritage is an important step towards acknowledging the significance of this subculture. At the same time, it should remain clear that techno can never be attributed to just one city or one particular scene – it is the result of diverse influences, shaped by a wide variety of groups, communities and movements worldwide. While Berlin is celebrated as the epicentre of techno culture, its actual origins remain a footnote. Without Underground Resistance, Juan Atkins or Derrick May, where would Berlin techno be today? The musical influences ranged far and wide, from German electronic avant-garde, including Kraftwerk, to industrial sounds, but the culture that shaped techno emerged from its communities.
Techno originated in Detroit to connect people – not to exclude them. It was a sound that broke down barriers and created spaces for those who often had no place in society. This raises the question of why exactly this inclusive origin is hardly visible in the official recognition. If techno is now recognised as cultural heritage, why does the movement from which it emerged remain invisible?
This selective perception shows how cultural narratives shift. With growing popularity, aesthetics increasingly came to the fore, often detached from the social realities that shaped techno. The genre experienced its first major wave of commercialisation in the 1990s: In Europe, it became a mass phenomenon through the Love Parade, UK raves and commercial Eurodance acts, without any reference to its origins. Today, this process continues. Instead of comprehensive appreciation, the social context remains excluded. This omission is no coincidence – it illustrates how closely commercialisation is linked to cultural appropriation. This does not only apply to music. DIY aesthetics, jargon and streetwear are picked up and marketed, often without reference to the communities that created them. What does this mean for the underground in the digital age? Is there still room for counterculture, or is everything that becomes visible already part of a system that capitalises on rebellion?
Underground 2.0?
The underground is not disappearing – it is changing. As long as there is social inequality, exclusion and the urge to create one’s own spaces, there will always be creative minds seeking new paths away from the mainstream. In the past, the underground was tied to physical spaces – places that were beyond commercial influence. Today, the internet offers new possibilities: it connects people globally, makes alternative culture accessible and creates new spaces beyond traditional structures. While some consciously withdraw from visibility, others use digital networking to strengthen their communities and build independent platforms.
This is precisely why collectives are playing an increasingly important role in club culture. They create alternative spaces where communal values and artistic freedom take centre stage. Rave culture, for example, actively defends itself against the mainstream: it remains deliberately independent and relies on self-organisation. This creates alternative places where people can freely express themselves – far away from standardised club experiences.
But ‘Underground 2.0’ is not just a retreat into obscurity – it uses digital spaces to forge new connections. Social media and streaming platforms have clearly changed the playing field: artists reach a global audience, sub-niches emerge more quickly and become more accessible. Platforms such as Black House Radio and My Analog Journal show that reach does not necessarily mean that non-commercial music scenes lose their core. It’s not about whether underground culture survives in the digital era – it’s about who shapes the new structures and who ultimately benefits from them.
What remains?
What once had to remain invisible in order to exist can now bring people together worldwide. The underground is no longer just a hidden place, but also a network – linked by digital platforms that bring both new opportunities and new challenges. While artists and communities build their own structures, the digital era also offers space for commercialisation: it makes subcultures visible, but often they are gutted and marketed – detached from their origins. Trends come and go, but the reality of the communities that created them remains.
Conclusion: underground culture is not dead – it is changing. It adapts, reinvents itself and yet remains true to its essence. As Honey Dijon aptly puts it: ‘You had to have a personality or a talent. You had to bring something to the party instead of taking something away.’ That’s exactly what remains! Underground is an attitude – DIY-driven, experimental, uncompromising. It is an act of liberation and preservation of identity.