OK Zoomers, it's time to quit the cringe. Let's dance
A Sydney University Study published last year found having a groove is not just physically good for you but also reduces anxiety, distress and depression while improving motivation. It's also spiritual. I am not a person of faith but the times I've felt transcendence have been on the dance floor at Mardi Gras, Sleaze Ball, warehouse parties or Big Day Outs. I still have a chat group 'meet you under the mirror ball' with friends forever connected through nights of musical worship where we danced until dawn. A certain strobe light at Vivid can take me back to that communal bliss. The Faithless song God Is a DJ is a cultural anthem that celebrates a dance floor's connection to a transformative power. As Maxi Jazz rapped, 'This is my church. This is where I heal my hurt'.
Loading
Far from being faithless, this Buddhist from Brixton understood that the dance floor was a place where 'young lives take shape', where they can be 'content in the hum'. He told me he relished the power that dance had to raise consciousness. And when he stood on stage, spread his arms out wide and sang to the heavenly heaving mass, he was a high priest of house.
Dance grounds you; it pulls you into your body, but it also allows your brain to let go and lose your body to the beat. Dance is healing. It's a mutual high and a communal hug. It's a blessing with a dose of devilishly sexy delight. It's where drums match heartbeats and bodies move together, apart. And in that universal devotion to dance there's a synchronicity of hearts and minds. A dance floor can be a place of love, compassion, kindness, respect. And it's a rite-of-passage for a young generation to feel that connection.
While Generation Z avoid the dance floor, people of my age are returning. Ministry of Sound is a nightclub and record label based in London reviving its original anthems in day parties. Last year it hosted DJs and laser lights over three nights at Sydney's coolest heritage venue – the remodelled White Bay Power Station. Thousands danced on the tar-blackened concrete floors where we had danced at illegal raves in the '90s. Back in their church of beats, bellied and balding Generation X-ers regained their communal connection in comfortable shoes.
Loading
Due to a (dance floor) injury, I have not danced for years. But my physio has just cleared me for action. In fact, he has prescribed it. I'm feeling the nerves of the young – contained, constricted and cringed. Perhaps I'll begin with 'No L' – a dance floor in darkness, liberated from the judgment of others.
I'd like to suggest these as a gateway dance drug for the generation who don't dance enough.
So come on kids, you can't afford housing, your future is uncertain and old, rich, angry men are ruining your world. Take to the dance floor and let it all lift for a few hours. I wish you communal joy and the therapy of the throng.
Warm up on TikTok where everybody dances. There's talk there about 'cringe mountain'. The idea that everyone who is cool started as cringe. Every good dancer started as bad. Nudge nonchalance away, climb cringe mountain, throw the phone away and dance like nobody's watching.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
ABC News
12-07-2025
- ABC News
Regional Queensland town known for gem fossicking embraces its queer community
En route to the Queensland outback, the Gemfields region is known for its sparkle. One of the biggest sapphire-bearing areas in the world, it's a popular stop for tourists hoping to find their fortune. But the long dirt roads also lead to something more unlikely in the bush: a thriving queer community, headed up by a particularly bright gem, Willow. "We have visitors who rock up and they think they're coming out to fossick for gems in the middle of nowhere, and it's pretty rough and rugged country," Willow says. Willow moved back to the community a decade ago to care for family, and decided to reveal a new part of himself to his parents and his home town a few years before that. "I said, 'Mum, I need to tell you something,' and so I came out to her, and she was great," he says. "My dad grew to understand and just support and love me for who I was." The town of Rubyvale, with just a little over 1,000 residents, embraces all. Headed by Willow, there is a thriving and supportive queer community, which hosts an annual Mardi Gras in September or October and regular drag blingo nights, where all are welcome. "It started as a party that I held for my 50th birthday. I couldn't go away, so that was the next best option," Willow says. It's now an annual event that attracts visitors from all over central Queensland. "I've been able to help facilitate a space where queer people can come and visit or come and live," he says. Willow says visitors have embraced the culture and more queer people have moved to the area in recent years. "You can't be it if you can't see it, and I know by doing what I do, it's made a difference, and I just love that's been the outcome," he says. Caleb Christensen is from the United States and first came to the Gemfields to visit friends. "I came over and two days later, the Australian border was shut with the COVID pandemic, so six months turned into two years, which has turned into five years now," he says. Growing up in a small town in Minnesota, Caleb says he had initially struggled with his sexuality and felt pressured to downplay his queerness. "I didn't want to be too flamboyant or this or that. I wanted to be a palatable kind of queer person for them," he says. Over the years, he grew increasingly more comfortable with his identity and, after moving to the Gemfields, he says he can finally be his true self. "I would say it was moving to the Gemfields that made me finally accept in my heart who I was," Caleb says. When asked why he's stayed this long, Caleb says it's because of the community. "The people — 100 per cent. The people are just warm and eclectic, it's a very niche lifestyle, but you have people from completely different walks of life," he says. "When I was told they had drag queen blingo at this pub in rural Queensland, I was completely shocked." Caleb runs a drama club, not exclusively for the queer community, but a supportive space for everyone. Willow acknowledges that while homophobia still exists in the region, those who support him and the community outweigh this. "There are people who will try to bring us down and create division and fear, but we simply will not go away," he says. Casey Morrison is one of those allies and is a manager at one of the local pubs where drag blingo is hosted. She wants to replicate the vibrant environment where she had worked previously. "Where I lived in New South Wales, they held similar events and everyone who works here are allies," Casey says. "We just love people, we love individuals … they can be from anywhere. "At the moment, we've got everyone here watching the sport, but it could be that everyone is here for blingo as well."
The Age
11-07-2025
- The Age
OK Zoomers, it's time to quit the cringe. Let's dance
We all need to dance, at all stages and ages of life. But particularly in our 20s. A Sydney University Study published last year found having a groove is not just physically good for you but also reduces anxiety, distress and depression while improving motivation. It's also spiritual. I am not a person of faith but the times I've felt transcendence have been on the dance floor at Mardi Gras, Sleaze Ball, warehouse parties or Big Day Outs. I still have a chat group 'meet you under the mirror ball' with friends forever connected through nights of musical worship where we danced until dawn. A certain strobe light at Vivid can take me back to that communal bliss. The Faithless song God Is a DJ is a cultural anthem that celebrates a dance floor's connection to a transformative power. As Maxi Jazz rapped, 'This is my church. This is where I heal my hurt'. Loading Far from being faithless, this Buddhist from Brixton understood that the dance floor was a place where 'young lives take shape', where they can be 'content in the hum'. He told me he relished the power that dance had to raise consciousness. And when he stood on stage, spread his arms out wide and sang to the heavenly heaving mass, he was a high priest of house. Dance grounds you; it pulls you into your body, but it also allows your brain to let go and lose your body to the beat. Dance is healing. It's a mutual high and a communal hug. It's a blessing with a dose of devilishly sexy delight. It's where drums match heartbeats and bodies move together, apart. And in that universal devotion to dance there's a synchronicity of hearts and minds. A dance floor can be a place of love, compassion, kindness, respect. And it's a rite-of-passage for a young generation to feel that connection. While Generation Z avoid the dance floor, people of my age are returning. Ministry of Sound is a nightclub and record label based in London reviving its original anthems in day parties. Last year it hosted DJs and laser lights over three nights at Sydney's coolest heritage venue – the remodelled White Bay Power Station. Thousands danced on the tar-blackened concrete floors where we had danced at illegal raves in the '90s. Back in their church of beats, bellied and balding Generation X-ers regained their communal connection in comfortable shoes. Loading Due to a (dance floor) injury, I have not danced for years. But my physio has just cleared me for action. In fact, he has prescribed it. I'm feeling the nerves of the young – contained, constricted and cringed. Perhaps I'll begin with 'No L' – a dance floor in darkness, liberated from the judgment of others. I'd like to suggest these as a gateway dance drug for the generation who don't dance enough. So come on kids, you can't afford housing, your future is uncertain and old, rich, angry men are ruining your world. Take to the dance floor and let it all lift for a few hours. I wish you communal joy and the therapy of the throng. Warm up on TikTok where everybody dances. There's talk there about 'cringe mountain'. The idea that everyone who is cool started as cringe. Every good dancer started as bad. Nudge nonchalance away, climb cringe mountain, throw the phone away and dance like nobody's watching.
Sydney Morning Herald
11-07-2025
- Sydney Morning Herald
OK Zoomers, it's time to quit the cringe. Let's dance
We all need to dance, at all stages and ages of life. But particularly in our 20s. A Sydney University Study published last year found having a groove is not just physically good for you but also reduces anxiety, distress and depression while improving motivation. It's also spiritual. I am not a person of faith but the times I've felt transcendence have been on the dance floor at Mardi Gras, Sleaze Ball, warehouse parties or Big Day Outs. I still have a chat group 'meet you under the mirror ball' with friends forever connected through nights of musical worship where we danced until dawn. A certain strobe light at Vivid can take me back to that communal bliss. The Faithless song God Is a DJ is a cultural anthem that celebrates a dance floor's connection to a transformative power. As Maxi Jazz rapped, 'This is my church. This is where I heal my hurt'. Loading Far from being faithless, this Buddhist from Brixton understood that the dance floor was a place where 'young lives take shape', where they can be 'content in the hum'. He told me he relished the power that dance had to raise consciousness. And when he stood on stage, spread his arms out wide and sang to the heavenly heaving mass, he was a high priest of house. Dance grounds you; it pulls you into your body, but it also allows your brain to let go and lose your body to the beat. Dance is healing. It's a mutual high and a communal hug. It's a blessing with a dose of devilishly sexy delight. It's where drums match heartbeats and bodies move together, apart. And in that universal devotion to dance there's a synchronicity of hearts and minds. A dance floor can be a place of love, compassion, kindness, respect. And it's a rite-of-passage for a young generation to feel that connection. While Generation Z avoid the dance floor, people of my age are returning. Ministry of Sound is a nightclub and record label based in London reviving its original anthems in day parties. Last year it hosted DJs and laser lights over three nights at Sydney's coolest heritage venue – the remodelled White Bay Power Station. Thousands danced on the tar-blackened concrete floors where we had danced at illegal raves in the '90s. Back in their church of beats, bellied and balding Generation X-ers regained their communal connection in comfortable shoes. Loading Due to a (dance floor) injury, I have not danced for years. But my physio has just cleared me for action. In fact, he has prescribed it. I'm feeling the nerves of the young – contained, constricted and cringed. Perhaps I'll begin with 'No L' – a dance floor in darkness, liberated from the judgment of others. I'd like to suggest these as a gateway dance drug for the generation who don't dance enough. So come on kids, you can't afford housing, your future is uncertain and old, rich, angry men are ruining your world. Take to the dance floor and let it all lift for a few hours. I wish you communal joy and the therapy of the throng.
