The spark

E.T.A began as a reaction to two things: formulaic clubbing and underused space. West London had plenty of character but not enough places taking risks. So we did what people have always done when the official routes feel stale—we made our own lane. A portable dancefloor. A moving circus. If it looked interesting and we could do it safely and respectfully, we tried it.

The spaces

Venues were our secret ingredient. Each party had a new skyline: a workshop stripped back to concrete and steel; a gallery hung with light; a warehouse we’d transform with fabric, projection, and a few carefully placed speakers. The goal wasn’t to shock—it was to surprise. You arrived and the room told you, instantly, “Tonight will not be like last week.”

The sound

Musically we lived where the edges blur: techno with a grin, house with a wobble, electro that didn’t mind getting grubby, breaks when the energy needed a shove. We loved DJs who could read a room and move it—not just play at it. Peak-time should feel like a wave you can ride with your eyes closed; sunrise should feel like a secret shared by a hundred strangers.

The people

The crowd made E.T.A what it was: makers, dancers, friends of friends. Stylish but not stiff. Curious, up for it, and protective of the vibe. Because the parties were spread by word-of-mouth, everyone who walked in felt like a co-conspirator. That intimacy is rare, and we never took it for granted.

Leap years

As the nights grew, we borrowed tools from theatre: better lighting, small set-pieces, playful details that asked you to explore. Sometimes we took the E.T.A spirit to festivals and one-off collaborations. Same DNA, different canvas. The point was always the same—an experience that felt handmade, even when the production got sharper.

My part in it

I wore a few hats—organiser, host, occasional DJ, perpetual fire-putter-out. My job was to hold the vision and the logistics in the same hand: find the room, earn the trust, keep it safe, set a tone, book the right people, then get out of the way and let the night breathe

People often ask what I’m proudest of. It isn’t a single lineup or a location. It’s the culture we guarded: turning up on time, paying artists fairly, respecting neighbours, leaving spaces better than we found them, and never forgetting that the dancefloor is a commons. If you were there, you were part of the thing—not a consumer watching it happen.

What we learned

• Space is an instrument. The room changes the tune. Treat it like part of the set.

• Curation > hype. The right three DJs beat the wrong twenty every time.

• Mystery matters. Not for secrecy’s sake, but to restore a sense of discovery.

• Community is a practice. It shows up in how you communicate, how you welcome, how you say goodnight.

The afterglow

By the 2010s, pieces of E.T.A’s approach had filtered into other projects—pop-ups that felt more intentional, clubs that left space for mischief, festivals that let smaller crews shape corners of their world. Scenes evolve. They should. But the E.T.A nights taught me that small, well-held, and slightly unruly can punch far above its weight.

If you were there…

…thank you. For the lift shares and the late texts; for staying curious; for picking each other up when the bass went sideways; for dressing like the night might remember you. If you weren’t, that’s okay too. The point of E.T.A was never nostalgia. It was permission—to gather, to make, to dance, to experiment.

There will always be new rooms and new reasons. West London still has corners waiting to be lit. If you see a pin drop on a map at the last minute and it looks a bit odd, follow it. Arrive early. Say hello. You might just catch the next wave.

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Got photos, flyers, or memories from an E.T.A night? Drop me a note—I’d love to add a few to this post and give credit where it’s due.