In early '90s Melbourne it was difficult to find electronic dance music on the radio or at the record store.

But almost every weekend, somewhere in the city, a dancefloor would be filled with ravers wearing brightly-coloured home-made costumes.

"If you wanted to hear this music — you know, techno music, acid house, house music — you could only really hear it in a club, at a party or at a rave," says Paul Fleckney, author of Techno Shuffle: Rave Culture and the Melbourne Underground.

These events were put on by English expats and local DJs, supported by rave devotees who looked after the lights, décor and chill-out zones.

One of these devotees, according to Fleckney, was WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange.

A 'cyberdelic' experience

Until the mid-90s, says Fleckney, "it was very unusual for anyone to have internet at home".

"It was this new and exciting thing," Fleckney says.

Melbourne's rave scene was influenced by techno-futurism, or 'cyberdelica'. ( Supplied: Melbourne Publishing, photo by Hydi John )

Some rave and club night promoters played on this excitement by offering internet access at their events.

Computer terminals with text-based chat software allowed ravers to have conversations with people on the other side of the world — though what these global netizens thought of their conversations with Melbourne's 3am techno crowd is anyone's guess.

While sitting at a desktop computer may seem incongruous with a night out dancing, rave culture's embrace of technology can be traced back to the Detroit techno scene of the '80s — a scene Melbourne was very much influenced by.

"The techno scene here in Melbourne has always had a strong futurist element to it," Fleckney says.

"A term that was being used long before 'cyberspace' became common [was] this idea of 'cyberdelic', this fusion of technology and psychedelia.

"That was something that I think was very exciting, and so the internet just added another dimension to this kind of sensory overload that you already got at a rave.

"You've got lights, you've got sound, you've video visuals and then now we've got this global interface with the world."

'Isn't it funny what happened to Prof?'

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Fleckney says Psychic Harmony, a club night held at Dream nightclub in Carlton (now called Illusion), was one example of an event that used the internet as an attraction.

The night was run by a group including Ian 'Ollie' Olsen, a well-known punk-era musician who worked as music director on the film Dogs In Space before becoming attracted to electronic dance music in the late 1980s.

Fleckney says among those "setting up the terminals, laying the cables and configuring the code" for the night's internet kiosk was a young man known only as Prof.

"At the time nobody knew his real name," Fleckney says.

Many years later, Olsen was talking to a friend, who remarked: "Isn't it funny what happened to Prof, man?"

"Ollie was like 'what do you mean?' — he had no idea what he was talking about," Fleckney says.

"His friend was like, 'well, that's Julian Assange'.

"Prof was actually one of Julian Assange's many aliases.

"Nobody knew who he was and a lot of people, I think, were very surprised later when they found out."

Peace Love Unity Respect

Ollie Olsen (L) went on to become one of the leading figures of Australian trance music. ( Supplied: Melbourne Publishing, photo by Emma Boudry )

Assange is not the only well-known name to have danced to electronic music in Melbourne.

In the '80s and '90s, Razor nightclub hosted Michael Hutchence, Kylie Minogue, Bono, Kate Ceberano and Lemmy from Motorhead, among others.

But Razor's velvet-rope and strict door policy was part of what early '90s rave was railing against, Fleckney says.

He says that, from its roots in disco as a haven for black gay people in the 1970s, electronic dance music has a long history of "being this alternative scene that caters for those beyond the mainstream".

Fleckney says rave abided by a code of PLUR: Peace Love Unity and Respect — a "reimagining of that hippy vibe of the '60s, but with an electronic dance music backbeat".

The main attractions were music and dancing — closely followed by drugs, particularly ecstasy and LSD.

"There was this sense that anything goes, anyone would be accepted at a rave," Fleckney says.

"There was no dress code, there were no bouncers turning people away because they didn't have the right shoes on."

'Double-edged sword'

The scene had a dark side. By the mid-'90s, many of the people supplying drugs to the local dealers were also involved in the Melbourne gangland wars, made famous by TV show Underbelly.

And while rave was a welcoming environment, it certainly wasn't always a healthy one.

"As time progressed it became this ... refuge for people from disadvantaged backgrounds, people who were having a hard time at home, or a hard time at school, or having difficulties in their lives, mental health problems," Fleckney says.

"[Rave] became this kind of safe place, which was a double-edged sword because for some of these people, you know, being in an environment where a lot of drugs were being taken, it was not necessarily the best place for them."

But for those who were lucky enough to have had safe upbringings, rave provided a way to regress to childhood.

"You'd put a dummy in your mouth, you'd put on some little kids' backpack, a lot of the songs ... would even have sampled children's lyrics.

"You could go to a rave and you could relive that place that was warm, safe and nourishing before you got thrust out into the wide world and found out what a scary place it could be."

Fleckney says it was this feeling of being "home" that kept ravers coming back into the next millennium.

"It was not just about the music and the dance and the drugs, but there was this sense of community, a sense of belonging that they were lacking in other parts of the lives."