“For the culture” – a phrase often found on flyers, funding applications and panel discussions alike. But what exactly do we mean when we talk about cultural work? Is it still about collective forms of expression and social relevance – or has it become primarily a vehicle for personal branding under the guise of culture?

The electronic music scene has grown over the past decades – artistically, economically, socially. Subculture became scene, scene became market. And with that, its players have evolved too: DJs, promoters, collectives and media platforms who define themselves not only through sound, but through stance. But the louder the talk of values gets, the more pressing the question becomes: Is this really about culture – or about self-interest dressed up as culture?

I’ve spent years in the electronic music scene – as an artist, a participant, someone who loves this world. And precisely because of that, I’m increasingly preoccupied with a tension that’s becoming ever more visible: the fine line between cultural intention and pure hedonism. Of course, we celebrate because it feels good. Because escapism matters. Because music creates spaces where the unexpected can happen. But when “culture” becomes a label for little more than lifestyle and self-marketing, the question arises: What is this really about anymore?

I’m not writing this as an outside critic, but as part of it all. I am visible myself, I curate, perform, live and take part in these structures. And I know how easily ideals slip into performance, how quickly a collective “we” becomes charged with personal agendas.

Between Scene and Selfie: The “I” in the “We”

Electronic music culture was once a counter-model to the performance-driven society – a space where collective experience mattered more than status or ownership. Clubs were safe spaces, not stages.

Today, much of that has flipped into its opposite. Scroll through your feed and, between DJ sets and awareness talks, you’ll find a new aesthetic of visibility: glossy photos behind the decks, videos with generic drops, and a constant “I’m here, I’m part of it”.

Of course, visibility is also a form of empowerment – especially for marginalised groups who have long been underrepresented. But at the same time, a new kind of egocentrism is emerging: self-presentation as activism, community as brand, the scene as a career stepping stone.

Many speak of “we” – but really mean “I”. The plural becomes a tool for image-building, the collective a means of positioning. Artists today are not just musicians, but also strategists, bookers, social media creators. Everything becomes part of the portfolio. The scene becomes a projection screen – and a stage.

When Culture Is Just the Packaging

In the scene, people often speak of “cultural work”. It sounds like commitment, like social value, like something bigger than the individual.

But what happens when culture serves primarily as a figurehead – and no longer as a lived practice? Then culture becomes a fig leaf: a pretty leaf in front of one’s own ego that only conceals what is actually underneath.

Parties are suddenly labelled cultural interventions – though they differ little from any commercial club night. And under the banner of subculture, the same kind of content is produced as everywhere else.

At that point, culture is no longer a space for negotiation or change – but a kind of quality seal. A label that legitimises things that might otherwise seem banal or problematic.

But culture isn’t a cloak you throw on when it suits you. And it’s not an Instagram filter that makes everything look a bit more meaningful.

Culture isn’t about the packaging – it’s about how we engage with it, what we make of it, and who we make space for.

The TikTok Paradox: Freedom Becomes Format

Another tension lies in the aesthetics themselves. Club culture was once a place where you could reinvent yourself – against the mainstream, against the rules, against expectations.

Today, many trends feel like copy-paste: the sound is algorithm-friendly, the look standardised, the behaviour predictable. TikTok techno has become a genre of its own – visually and sonically.

Of course, visibility on platforms such as TikTok brings new opportunities. But it also brings pressure to adapt. The algorithms love repeatability, clear structures and memorable reels. What sells well becomes the norm – and what is more complex falls by the wayside. There is less room for radical experimentation, especially musically.

So instead of freedom, we are experiencing a new form of conformity – recognisability brings reach.

So What Does “Culture” Even Mean Anymore?

Culture – this word is both overloaded and empty at the same time. There have always been countless definitions of it: the Duden dictionary describes culture simply as “the totality of the intellectual, artistic and creative achievements of a community”.

In cultural studies, it often refers to a system of meanings, practices and symbols that characterise the way we live together. And in everyday life? Culture is either something that can be promoted – or something cool that you can show off on Instagram.

And maybe that’s the problem. Culture can be anything – high culture, subculture, pop culture, club culture. And depending on who’s speaking, it can be a shield, a sales pitch or a moral upgrade.

In electronic music, this becomes especially clear. Culture is often used like a label: to legitimise parties, to support funding applications, or as a status symbol of scene belonging. In the process, the content often fades into the background. Culture stops being lived – and starts being claimed.

But if everything is culture – then is everything worth the same (or equally little)? If the term is used too freely, it loses its edge. Its political power. Its ability to distinguish between substance and hype.

Perhaps it’s time not to inflate the concept of culture further – but to ground it. Not as a branding, but as an invitation: to negotiation, to attitude, and to dissent.