"It's impossible to predict how this is all gonna go until it takes a clearer shape," said Brendan Gillen, AKA BMG, a Detroit artist who runs the cult techno label Interdimensional Transmissions. I was eating lamb vindaloo with him and his partner in the label, Erika Sherman, AKA Erika, at their favorite Indian spot, in a highway strip mall out in the suburbs. I had put out some feelers in March, trying to figure out who could help me fill in some of the local context, and their names kept coming back, not only as two of the city's key artists—together they perform as Ectomorph—but as history buffs who have witnessed the scene's rise and fall (and rise again). "It's like, we're not at the point where we can watch the trailer for the movie that we're gonna go see this weekend," Gillen reiterated. "We're looking at the storyboards that are gonna change because there's gonna be five editors after this."Gillen and Sherman look back with a mix of fondness and disbelief at the days when they used to party in the abandoned Packard Plant. "When we'd go to raves there in the '90s, we'd be blowing black crap out of our noses for a week afterwards, no exaggeration," Sherman laughed. "They would decorate with these tarps that kept debris from falling directly on your head. Now that I'm older I look back on that and I'm like, ugh." The most famous of these Packard parties were the ones that Richie Hawtin threw in the mid-90s; he was coming up at a time when kids from the suburbs were taking more of an interest in the city's underground scene. Throughout the decade everyone from John Acquaviva to DJ Godfather and Derek Plaslaiko had a chance to play for crowds that could swell to 1,500 ravers, by some reports.When I asked if the Creative Corridor idea had a shot, they didn't give me a straight yes or no. Here's the point they did drive home: the city is changing at such an unbelievable pace that, really, anything is possible. Detroit one day could be drastically different from Detroit a few months later. "There's a whole new crowd now," Sherman told me. "In the last year and a half even, there are a shit ton of people now who wanna go out and dance and have a good time, who don't know and don't care about the history." The influx of new kids, she said, has actually solved one of party scene's biggest issues: where jaded older fans don't come out till 12:30 or 1 AM, these kids are showing up and packing the place out at 11 PM.When they say the city's changing, they don't mean on the typical timeline of urban development. What they're witnessing is a different kind of transformation, which is taking certain parts of the city from zero to 60 at an unprecedented pace. "Last night I went to a restaurant after 10 PM," Gillen said, pausing for emphasis, "and it only got more crowded as we sat there."Sherman chimed in: "Two years ago you couldn't find anything to eat after 9 PM in Detroit. Or rather, the only option was going to a bar and ordering some garbage food.""Now, the closest bar to me that serves food offers vegetables as side items," Gillen added. "When I moved to Detroit, the four food groups were pizza, fried foods, corner store food and fast food." Diet might seem like a strange way of tracking the changes in the city, but it actually offers us a pretty vivid reflection of the larger forces at play. And it has interesting parallels with the city's music scene, which, like its culinary landscape, is becoming not only wider but more varied."Are you asking me, can a club like that be sustained in Detroit?" I was sitting with John Collins in his office at 3000 East Grand Boulevard, an unremarkable three-floor brick building that is, in many ways, the beating heart of the Detroit scene. It houses the record distributor Submerge, which Collins manages, as well as artist studios, a vinyl shop and a small museum dedicated to the history of Detroit techno. It is also the command center for Underground Resistance. Collins, who helps run the Detroit-Berlin Connection, has been a member of UR since the early days, both as a manager and as a musician."I think it can work," Collins said. "Dimitri's a visionary to me. He makes a lot of things happen, and I'm always amazed because the man has these ideas, and then just like that"—he snapped his fingers—"he's on top of everything."In this city, when it comes to techno, there's no better crew to have on your side than UR, and Hegemann's been one of their fiercest European allies for nearly 30 years. With the Tresor label, he's released dozens of career-defining records from multiple generations of Detroit techno giants; he was also the first promoter to invite artists like Mills and Banks to perform in Berlin. His commitment to spreading the gospel opened doors for them in the European market, leading to fruitful, sustainable careers for countless Midwestern musicians. It has earned him a level of respect that's palpable when he's out and about in Detroit (on multiple occasions I saw people stand up and offer him their seat when he walked into the room). It makes him one of the only people who could pull off a project like this, not only because of his big, unorthodox ideas, but because he's made it absolutely clear that he isn't just in this for himself."There are people who invest in Detroit purely for monetary gain," Collins continued. "These foreign investors move in and start buying up property and redeveloping, and they don't care about the people. I'm sure Dimitri wants to make money, but this is about giving back to Detroit."In almost all of the conversations I had while reporting this story, somebody would inevitably bring up Dan Gilbert, the billionaire businessman who owns much of Downtown. He is the CEO of Quicken Loans, one of the largest mortgage companies in the country; he's also the controversial poster child for the revitalization of the Downtown area. Gilbert, who moved his Quicken headquarters to the city in 2010—and has since purchased over 100 buildings downtown—is exactly one of those investors who locals criticize for "not caring about the people." While he may have earned accolades from some of the country's most powerful business people, his critics question his intentions. They say he's only interested in building his tiny bubble of gentrified affluence in the city center, and that this particular tide does not lift all boats.Part of the DBC's agenda, Collins explained, is to figure out how this so-called revitalization can benefit long-time residents—not just tourists or foreign investors. They're particularly interested in how music and art can figure into that project, and in that sense there's a lot to learn from Berlin. "It can be a useful model for us," Collins said, "but at the same time, Berlin's Berlin, and Detroit's Detroit. This is still Michigan, so we're not gonna have clubs open 24 hours right now. But things are beginning to change. I'm very optimistic."Two months after our meeting in Detroit, I emailed Heggeman to ask if he was ready to announce firm dates or details. He was all exclamation points when he got back to me an hour later. "There is some news!" he wrote, linking to an article about the mayor's visit to Submerge in June. "There's also a night ambassador now. Really cool guy!" This night ambassador—an unofficial title—is Adrian Tonon, who is the City of Detroit's "director of customer service," and one of Mayor Duggan's close advisors. When we spoke on the phone one Saturday morning in July, Tonon had recently returned from a weekend with Hegemann in Berlin. He and Banks spoke on a panel at Tresor's smaller upstairs space, Globus, then stuck around for an Underground Resistance party in the main room downstairs. It was the kind of dream lineup you barely even see in Detroit, except when Movement week rolls around, of course: Blake Baxter, DJ Skurge, Mike Huckaby, Scott Grooves and, at the top of the bill, a live set from Mike Banks and UR mainstay Mark Flash.I asked Tonon if I should refer to him as the "night mayor" (as some cities have done with those in charge of cultural affairs) and he laughed affably. "Here in Detroit there's only one mayor," he told me. But his responsibilities—to mediate between the city's music community and its administration—resemble those of his counterparts in places like London or Amsterdam, where they've created official positions to address these concerns. "Our goal here is streamlining services and getting out of the way of creatives so they can do their thing," he explained. "Like when you want to have a festival or a block party, we want to ensure that you're not fighting city bureaucracy—that the city works for you. Ideally we can hold your hand through things and really expedite the process, like a concierge service." Tonon, a lifelong music fan and former restaurateur, has taken on Detroit's nighttime economy as his new pet project, creating a direct line between the dance music community and the mayor.He's the one who arranged a face-to-face meeting with Mayor Duggan and the elder statesmen of Detroit house and techno. That was the other piece of news that Hegemann wanted to tell me about—that the mayor showed up at Submerge in June for a meeting with Theo Parrish, Mike Banks and Omar-S, three of dance music's living titans. With a small audience gathered in the museum's main room, Banks made a case for loosening the red tape that keeps the city's nighttime economy from stretching out. UR manager Cornelius Harris spoke, too. "Electronic music is a $6.5 billion industry globally," he said. "It was created here. The question is, of course, how much of this money goes into the city? And the answer is very little."