You can't talk about house music without talking about Chicago. And you can't talk about Chicago house without talking about the communities that created it.
House music was born in Black and gay communities on the South and West sides of Chicago in the early 1980s. It came out of clubs like the Warehouse — where Frankie Knuckles played — and the Music Box, where Ron Hardy held court. These weren't mainstream spaces. They were sanctuaries. Places where people who were marginalized everywhere else could come together, be themselves, and lose themselves in the music.
More Than a Genre
What came out of those rooms wasn't just a new genre. It was a new way of thinking about music, community, and freedom. The four-on-the-floor kick drum. The Roland TR-808 and TR-909. The pitched-up disco vocals. The raw, immediate energy of tracks that were made to move bodies — all of this emerged from a specific cultural moment, created by specific people, in a specific place.
That history means a lot to me. I've always tried to approach this music with respect, humility, and a sense of responsibility. I don't see myself as someone borrowing from a culture. I see myself as someone contributing to a lineage that has given me so much.
The Chosen Few and Continuing Legacy
More recently, time spent in Chicago at the Chosen Few Picnic and other events has deepened that sense of connection even further. Being in the city where it all started, hanging out with originators and pioneers from the early days, and hearing DJs who were truly foundational to the music — it's been extremely inspiring.
The Chosen Few DJs — Wayne Williams, Jesse Saunders, Terry Hunter, Alan King, Mike Dunn — these are living links to the origin of this culture. When you hear them play, you're not just hearing a DJ set. You're hearing history in real time.
Carrying It Forward
I think anyone who plays house music has a responsibility to know where it comes from. Not as an academic exercise, but as a matter of respect. When you understand the struggle, the joy, the liberation that this music represents, it changes how you play it. It changes what you choose to play. It changes everything.
This music saved lives. It built communities. It gave people a home when the rest of the world didn't want them. The least we can do is honour that legacy every time we step behind the decks.