Note: This essay is quite long, and I realize not everyone has the time to sit down and read something so long. So, it’s inspired me to experiment with adding audio to my posts. I myself like listening to many of the Substack creators I follow, and it makes it easier for me to keep up with their work. I’m sure I can learn to get fancier with my recordings, but for now, I hope this is sufficiently audible to entice a listen.
The summer months, when I’m writing this, are usually the times when I don’t have to teach. It’s time for me to focus on my research, and really let my creativity loose. Of the various things our research lab has going on right now, one thing in particular has me quite giddy. This is something that has been in the works for almost five years, and it looks like this is the year it might finally come to fruition. I’ve been incubating this idea to create an expressive arts intervention for trauma survivors that will integrate dance, other modes of creative expression, as well as social connection. This will be not only a research project, not only a wellness intervention, but it will also be an artistic creation for me personally. Finally, after a long and patient wait, I have a student who understands this type of work, and she will be conducting research on the intervention for her Psychology undergraduate Honours thesis. I tried out a version of this group during the pandemic, running groups online for students via Zoom. But this will be the first time doing it for a trauma-specific group, and collecting data on its impact. Creating the curriculum for this project has got me in my feels, reminiscing about my own history with music and dance, and how it can connect us with a sense of the transcendent. Let me paint a picture for you of some of how I got here.
It was the fall of 1994, and I sat in my friend Kelly’s basement with our other two high school friends, listening to music. At age 16, I had already gotten early admission to university, but figured I was too young to start my studies. I took an extra year of high school to do some advanced courses, university-type prep courses, to get myself ready for university. As the first person in my family to go to university, it was going to be a big step to take, all by myself. But mostly, that year was all about music – lots and lots of it. At least once a week we were travelling to the city to see shows. For most of my high school years I was, like many people of that time period, into grunge, punk, and indie. In particular, we were super fans of the band Oasis, and we travelled all over the place to attend their shows, including a 24-hour bus ride to see them play the Bataclan in Paris (yes, this was before the days of the Channel tunnel). The biggest let-down at that time was a near-miss on getting to see Nirvana. They were set to do their first big tour outside of north America, and I was beside myself with the fact I’d managed to get a ticket. But alas, it was not to be. Much like how certain people will remember exactly where they were the moment JFK was assassinated, or when 9/11 happened (I can definitely remember the latter), I will always remember the exact moment I learned that Kurt Cobain had committed suicide. These vivid memories etched into our brain are referred to as “flashbulb memories”. It was, of all people, my gran who called me on the phone to break the news. Colette - that young boy that you were going to see in the show…I think he’s killed himself. Standing speechless, holding the receiver, I wasn’t sure what gave me greater pause – the news about his death, or the fact it was my grandmother telling me this.
Despite my love of grunge and punk, 1994 was the year I was introduced to electronic music in a serious way – and it has remained my primary love ever since. The year prior, I began flirting with electronica by way of our cheesy high school disco, specifically, acid house. Mainly it was an excuse to wear dayglo and massively oversized pants, and try out weird dance moves along the lines of big fish little fish cardboard box. Kelly’s brother, just a few years older, was a budding DJ. We thought it was super cool that our friend had a brother who was a DJ, for crying out loud. Not exactly the coolest kids in high school, this became instant street cred for us. While lounging about in Kelly’s room trying to nod along to Oasis on vinyl, we would increasingly hear these fast and furious beats coming from the other end of the basement.
Finally, after many nights like this, I asked Kelly, what is that music he’s playing in there?
Oh, I think that’s drum-and-bass, she said.
I was intrigued. There was a harshness to it, a chaotic energy to it, maybe even at times a bit aggressive. Yet underneath there was this thumping, thumping, thumping, that seemed to drum right into my cells and soothe me. Occasionally there would be a respite in the form of a jazzy interlude before the synth would come grinding back in; or the sonic blows would be softened by some haunting vocal track. Goldie’s Timeless is one of the most iconic drum-and-bass tracks of that era – and remains a classic today. In many ways it perfectly exemplifies these tensions and contradictions in the music. (Yes, it’s a 20-minute track, but a worthwhile investment – think of it as a musical journey rather than just a ‘song’.) I started to investigate this music for myself, following the trail of breadcrumbs from Goldie to Metalheadz (Goldie’s label) to softer-styled artists such as LTJ Bukem and Alex Reece.
At times I felt a bit like I was cheating on my prior musical relationships, and I felt compelled to keep the various musical styles going along in tandem in my regular rotation. But by the time I moved to Glasgow to attend university in fall of 1995, I was ready to split up with grunge and punk and go fully monogamous with electronic music. You see, this was the height of the rave scene, at least in Europe. MDMA or Ecstasy (or “Ekkie” as we called it Scotland) was becoming extremely popular, alongside various other club drugs. (I actually ended up doing my own Psychology Honours project giving Ecstasy to hamsters, but that’s a story for another day. I no longer do animal research, thankfully.) I was lucky enough to be in a city that had a vibrant electronic music scene. Somewhat of a sister city to Detroit, Glasgow similarly had a thriving techno scene, but there was also lots of house and trance and everything in between. And, of course, drum-and-bass. Kelly’s brother had told us all about the clubs there, mainstays such as The Arches and the Sub Club. I was counting down the days until I would turn 18 and could finally go. Honestly, at that point, this became the most exciting part of moving away for university. One Guardian article deemed Glasgow “Britain’s best city for music lovers”. Another article I read recently talked about how the ‘90s in Glasgow was its most iconic era for music. It makes me so happy to have been part of that era.
My experience going to grunge and punk shows was always a bit fraught. Being only 5 feet tall, I always felt a little bit like I had my life in my hands, amidst all of these seemingly very tall people pogo-ing up and down with little regard for who was around them. At one concert I split open my chin and got a concussion, thanks to an erstwhile crowdsurfer who kicked me in the head. At another concert, I will never forget the moment the band came on, and the entire crowd seemed to elevate, with a roar, in unison. In fact, the crowd pogo-ed so hard that they lifted me clear up off the ground and threw me back down, after which I got trampled on to the point that my life actually flashed before my eyes. It certainly wasn’t what you would call a relaxing or soothing experience. At some point the thrill of each concert was simply that I had actually survived in one piece, a badge of honor of sorts.
I was not really prepared, then, for the revelation that was to be my entré into the rave scene. My first night at The Arches was something I’ll never forget, almost 30 years on. I remember standing in line with my roommate for a good half hour waiting to get in. She was a good egg, not exactly a music fan, but willing to pal along with me, so desperate was I to go.
Shuffling under the railway bridge at what felt like an interminable speed, my body was shaking with excitement and too many Red Bulls. Finally, the guy on the door stamped my hand and let me in. Crossing the threshold, I gasped as I stepped into this cavernous space, navigating the first of a series of archways to pay my cover, check my coat, use the restroom, then hit up the bar. And then – the sight of the first of the main archways. Immediately I felt a difference in the crowd from all of those punk and grunge shows. The first thing I noticed was how many people were smiling – at each other. People hugging, people laughing, looking at each other with prolonged eye contact. What on earth is this? I wondered. I also noticed another difference – alcohol. While at grunge and punk shows you were always in danger of getting drenched in someone’s wayward drink, here, people were polite and careful about what they did with their drinks, sometimes only clutching a closed bottle of water. And then, as my eager eyes wandered over the room, I noticed all of the people facing forward, captivated by the person on the stage – the DJ. Even now, as I think back on it, it gives me goosebumps. Taking my time to observe the mores of this new environment, I stood at the periphery for a while, just observing and absorbing. Finally, the beat moved me such that I could wait no longer, and I took my first tentative steps onto the dance floor, sticking at the edges to begin with. But with more confidence – and more smiling faces – I stepped deeper and deeper in to the space, and began to let myself go into the music, losing track of my poor old roommate. In that moment, I experienced something I had never felt before, not in all my nights in concert-going, not in any sphere of my life – it was a transcendent moment of interconnection, of joy, of love, of awe and wonder. Of feeling truly blissful in my body. Deep in that cavernous space, it felt less like a dance party and something more akin to going to church. It makes me think of another iconic track, Faithless’ God is a DJ. I felt a level of connection with myself, a higher dimension of myself, that I never even knew existed. And a different kind of connection with other people. That night changed my life forever. It inspired me so much that years later, I created my own techno track as an homage to that night at The Arches, inspired by the music of their resident DJs, Slam.
Ever since that night, I harbored a secret desire to become a DJ. It seemed like such an intoxicating thing, to be able to craft the perfect set and watch, nay feel, hundreds of people moving together in response to the music you spin. Finally, during the pandemic lockdown, more than 20 years later, I took this as my opportunity to start tinkering around with teaching myself how to DJ. This is, in part, how we ended up running these groups online for students, the foundation of what will now be the trauma-focused groups we run later this year.
My Honours student is taking a deep dive into the research that will inform this intervention – how music and dance impact our mood, our cognitive functions, our sense of ourselves and our connection to others. I am reading alongside her, and there is much to get excited about. But one construct in particular has really been compelling me lately is the concept of collective effervescence. Originally coined by sociologist Émile Durkheim in his 1912/1915 book, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, collective effervescence (CE) describes the process by which individuals in groups synchronize and intensify emotions during participation in collective rituals. This synchrony he deemed essential to collective behavior and how individuals cope with the givens of life. Pizarro and colleagues (2022) recently published an extensive review paper describing some of Durkheim’s original work on CE, and how this has been expanded and built on by subsequent theorists and researchers. They note that Durkheim identified four main outcomes of CE. In brief, these involve (1) the creation of a collective emotional atmosphere, a ‘vibe’, if you will; (2) by participating in this collective atmosphere, people feel belonging and cohesion, with the concrete actions people take within that atmosphere being a key component; (3) by acting together, people enact aspects of the group’s consciousness; and (4) collective gatherings revive a collective part of consciousness that is not readily available in mundane aspects of life. As Pizarro and colleagues (2022) summarize, CE is, in turn, linked to contact with one’s values, a sense of perceived emotional synchrony, and self-transcendent emotions such as awe, gratitude, and love. CE has been observed and studied in a multitude of collective settings, including religious rituals and pilgrimages, music festivals, and political and social movements.
The term CE feels somewhat onomatopoeic to me – I feel elevated, lighter, smiling on the inside every time I think of this term. A bit fizzy and dizzy. I think of what Durkheim described as the outflows of CE and my experiences in the clubs back in the 90’s, even on dancefloors in more recent years. There is an aspect of CE that is transient, ungraspable; we experience it in the moment and a trace, a memory, may linger, but it is at its highest heights in those moments of pure experience. In my mind, I see the image of an assembling and disassembling of the collective. Like when Buddhist monks spend days or longer create a sand mandala, only to sweep it away again, highlighting the impermanent nature of all things. It is the impermanence itself that heightens the potency of the experience.
The folks we will invite to participate in this group are all dealing with something called complex trauma, or complex post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). (If you want to learn more about how this is different from what we usually think of as PTSD, watch my talk here.) What’s distinctive about complex trauma is that it is a condition of broken relationships – meaning, the trauma typically occurs within the context of relationship where some form of abuse, neglect, or other form of maltreatment has happened. It is a cruel irony that one of the biggest factors in helping people heal from trauma is social support and connection – something that feels ungraspable to someone whose experience of other humans has been one of pain and abuse. People can also lose connection to a sense of positive emotions such as joy, hope, and love, left feeling hopeless and helpless. It is my hope, then, that one of the things that we can capitalize on in this intervention is that sense of CE – that people might tap into a dimension of themselves and others that transcends the mundane, and all the daily lived realities of pain and torment, helping them experience joy, hope, meaning, and social connection. Even if just for the moments of being in the group.
The way I’m talking about CE here – obviously it has a mostly positive tone to it. However, it doesn’t necessarily have to be positive. In this regard, CE reminds me about something else that plays a central role in my world as a neuroscientist – neuroplasticity. I remember for a few years there it seemed like neuroplasticity became a really trendy topic, a fancy sounding catch-all that people could use to sell their product or ideas. Basically, my product or idea is going to make your brain bigger, and that’s a good thing. I’ll be real, some of it made me roll my eyes so hard I thought I would have a hernia. In her TED talk, neuroscientist Molly Crockett speaks eloquently about “neuro-bunk” and how scientific words can be co-opted in service of things for which they have little substantive connection.
The thing is, neuroplasticity is a neutral force or phenomenon. It broadly refers to how the brain changes in response to experiences – in fact, I like the term “experience-dependent plasticity” a bit better. This might mean more connections between different brain areas, or an increase in the density of neurons in an area, or increase in grey matter density, etc., following specific experiences, intentional or coincidental. Aside from structural changes, it can also mean changes in function, such as increased brain activity in certain areas in response to a task. Even activities such as dance or playing music. But the important point is, when it comes to the brain, more is not always “better”. For example, animal models showing synaptic plasticity in the basal ganglia provide a framework to understand the increased motor activity in tic disorders like Tourette’s syndrome. Conversely, when older adults are engaged in certain cognitive tasks, they show increased brain activation in parts of the frontal lobe compared to younger individuals, which is usually interpreted to mean that they are having to work that much harder than younger adults while completing that same task.
Like neuroplasticity, CE, too, seems to be to be inherently neutral. On its face, the idea of coming into connection with groups can seem to be a positive thing. Many of us want to feel more connected to one another, especially these days, in this era of increasingly fractionated society. But, like anything else, groups can be harnessed in a negative or destructive way. How easy it is for group conformity to take hold, in everything from workplace environments to religious or political organizations all the way up to totalitarian fascist and communist societies. In my mind, I flash on images of films showing mass formations of people marching in unison, singing together, led by a charismatic and imposing leader, people whipped up into a frenzy of self-transcendent emotion for some “greater good”. Marching and chanting – rhythmic movement and music – are not so dissimilar from the concrete behaviors one might engage in at a rave or music festival. They create an intensity of emotion and a sense of coherence and bonding.
I find myself wondering, where are the inflection points between scenes from totalitarian societies, and the picture I painted of my first night at The Arches? One inflection point seems to be the time-scale involved. The Pizarro et al. paper I cited previously talks about how some of the effects of CE are relatively short term. However, in the wrong hands, these short-term effects provide a window of opportunity through which we could be more easily manipulable to the effects of propaganda or ideas we wouldn’t normally entertain. Steve Hassan is a well-known cult psychology expert whose “BITE” model is instructive here. He discusses how cults or high demand groups all share common mechanisms of behavior control, information control, thought control, and emotion control. “Thought control” can be induced through any practices that involve thought-stopping such as meditation, chanting, singing, drumming, etc. Under “emotion control”, an unscrupulous leader can induce intensely positive states through these same thought control practices, leaving people open and vulnerable to manipulation. “Love bombing” is the classic example of this, which can also be seen in narcissistic abuse. People are particularly vulnerable when they’ve been under states of biological deprivation, like sleep deprivation or lack of access to food and water.
Another inflection point may be the need for some kind of guiding ethic to be applied to CE, given that by itself, it is a neutral force. Many ravers, fuelled with the joy of the moment, adhere to the ethic of “PLUR” – peace, love, unity, respect. But we also know that a tightly-knit in-group can mean more negative attitudes towards a perceived out-group, a sense of othering that is characteristic of any high demand group. A sense of us vs. them. How much is that part of our current society - a sense of “our” people and “those” people.
There is so much more to be said on the topic of large-group psychology and, for transparency’s sake, I’m not a social psychologist so I don’t want to swerve too far out of my lane here. I bring these points up, though, because I have worked with and known personally survivors of cults of a variety of strains, and many of them develop complex trauma as a result, which is a main focus of my research and clinical work. It is a cautionary tale that, like so many things, what can be a healthy human impulse – the desire to attach, to connect to others, to feel positive emotions – can be hijacked for malevolent ends. I also see these types of mass movements springing up all over the place now, especially since the pandemic, and especially now we spend so much time online in our own media echo-chambers. Certain influencer “communities” or “fandoms” can become so tightly knit that they resemble mini-cults. Like with anything in life, there can always be too much of a good thing.
Myself, I have an ambivalent relationship to groups. I think because I am aware of the equipotentiality of good and not-so-good in groups, I’m never quite settled on how I feel about them. It reminds me, as a trauma therapist and researcher, to bring the utmost care and safeguards to this program I am creating. To be aware of my words, how people can be more impressionable at their moments of greatest openness. When CE is used for malevolent ends, people may be encouraged to believe that the powerful ‘other’ is the arbiter of one’s emotions, particularly positive emotions or even a sense of salvation. Instead, I want people in this group to cultivate a deep sense of self-empowerment, that they are their own ‘source’, and that they can begin to listen to and trust their own intuition. That, within a group, they can experience independence and interdependence, not co-dependence. And that they always have access to choice and voice.
I’m curious to know: have you ever experienced CE? What was the context? How do you see CE being used for less-than-productive ends in current society?