We were going to change the world by getting everyone to take ecstasy, let down their hair, discard the masks they’d always worn and join us in a field in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, and dance until the sun came up. Once we’d caught our breath from just how stunning the countryside was in the golden summer morning glow – as though seeing such wonder for the first time – we would look at each other and realise we were the most beautiful thing there. Then we’d carry on dancing.

I still find that dream a soothing escape from the nightmare of our current reality. I like to imagine that, had more of us been involved in the early days of rave culture, we might have been able to shape a better world – because it made us better versions of ourselves.

We had finally found our tribe and no one cared what you wore, earned, owned, or where you came from

I was born during the legendary Summer of Love of 1967 and always wished I’d been old enough to experience it. I also missed out on the punks, mods and new romantics of the late 70s and early 80s, but at least found their echoes in London’s vibrant club scene when I moved there in 1986. By this point though, it was less about ideals and more about dress code. What was fit for mainstream, yuppie-filled venues such as Stringfellows, Tramp or the Hippodrome – pouting, posing, and being judged on your bank balance – would be a fashion faux-pas at the more subversive Taboo. Socio-economic and class tribalism ruled.

The big shift happened with the arrival of two clubs that started acid house in the UK: Shoom in 1987, then Spectrum in 1988. The latter, my first foray into that world, was on Monday nights at Heaven, a gay club for the rest of the week.

The only rule of attire was comfort: baggy jeans, dungarees and loose T-shirts instead of the usual designer shoulder pads and painful footwear. I still have the bright green tie-dye T-shirt I wore that first night, as a memento. And what a night it was.

We queued for four hours. Taking E was timed with getting closer to the entrance so you wouldn’t waste any of its effects before the music hit. The venue – a labyrinth of tunnels, dance floors and bars beneath a seventeenth-century passageway – was full of people milling around, beaming with a joy I’d never seen before. What stood out in contrast to other clubs was that they smiled at you instead of giving you attitude. It was strange, but it all made sense once the E kicked in.

First a warm feeling washed over you, like you were being gently held, followed by tingles and goosebumps in sync with the music. On this occasion, it was to Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream” speech echoing hauntingly over the beats. Then came the big rush. While it made colours and lights more vivid, it wasn’t a hallucinogenic trip. Rather, it was a highly sensory, love-filled one. No wonder there was so much hugging going on. For the first time in my life, I felt connected with others on a much deeper level; I was seeing past my usual preconceptions. What made the experience so transformative and compelling was experiencing it en masse.

But because it involved taking a pill, I’ve been met with doubt when talking about this over the years. I always respond with: “When was the last time you were with thousands of people who felt love and peace at the same time as you?” Induced or not, those feelings stay with you. And once you’ve seen the world in a transformative new light, you can’t unsee that. Nor would you want to.

Every week we’d count the days until we could go back to Spectrum. We had finally found our tribe and no one cared what anyone wore, earned, owned, or where they came from. The big revelation was that we had far more in common with each other than society, education or upbringing had led us to believe. We were sure the world would be a better place if only more of us could live by that principle. We didn’t have a political agenda, we just wanted to live and let live – and dance.

This breaking down of barriers was reflected in the variety of Spectrum-goers, which included all backgrounds, sexualities, races and ages – a highly unusual mix on the clubbing scene in those days. We knew we were in the middle of a new revolution. Everyone said we were picking up the baton of the Sixties, so it was no surprise when 1988 was dubbed the second summer of love.

Every week we’d meet new people, some of whom are still friends. Strangers would hug you and say “safe, mate”, the insider expression of the day. This was shorthand for “I love being here and I’m glad you are too. Isn’t this amazing?” It also stated how we felt in that space together: safe.

Of countless memorable encounters, I particularly remember a conversation with an ex-skinhead who showed me a racist tattoo he’d had covered over with flowers. He poured his heart out about how much he regretted his past hatreds, which would once have included someone like me. We were both twenty but our backgrounds were universes apart. There’s not a chance in hell we’d have met under any other circumstances, let alone get along. I still wonder how many were spared his violence because of how clubbing had changed him.

The rave scene soon migrated beyond the confines of nightclubs. If it wasn’t at a warehouse with a broken roof off the beaten track in Hackney Wick, it was in the open air beyond the M25. For the latter, the journey would often start with a flyer. There was a number you’d call at a given time from a phone box on the way, to hear a prerecorded message with the next set of directions. Before long you’d be on the motorway alongside other cars full of people wearing smiley T-shirts, bandanas and sunglasses (even though it was night time), and the house anthem Can You Feel It blaring from their stereos. You’d finally know you were headed in the right direction.

In 1989 I went to the biggest rave I’d ever been to, called Sunrise, in a field in Buckinghamshire. It was pitch black when fifteen of my friends and I got there. We followed the crowd until we could see a massive stage and flashing lights, like a lighthouse in the distance.

After the usual ritual of surveying the area for a sense of where we were, we pitched up in a spot that we made our base. At least two of us had to stay there at any point so we wouldn’t lose each other – a sensible strategy in a crowd of 17,000. The rest of the night was like all the others: sugary drinks for energy and water instead of alcohol (because “it kills the buzz, matey”), meeting new people, and just dancing for hours. And no hint of trouble, which is nothing short of miraculous for that amount of people.

The rising sun at dawn was the star of the show. A hypnotic instrumental track came on and, as the rays broke, everyone stopped dancing and started clapping simultaneously for several minutes to welcome in the day. It was a surreal and engrossing moment, further elevated by realising just how remote this spot was: no houses or other people apart from us for miles, just stunning countryside.

With The Sun and ITV fanning the flames of moral panic around acid house, Tory MP Graham Bright introduced The Entertainments (Increased Penalties) Act 1990, which outlawed “gatherings on land in the open air with music that includes sounds wholly or predominantly characterised by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats at a volume likely to cause serious distress to the inhabitants of the locality”. RIP The Rave. This wasn’t the first time nor the last that politicians would interfere with youth culture.

Just as the Sixties counter-culture revolution ended and its ideals and energy were channelled into other outlets, so it was for acid house: it changed music, the dance scene, festival culture and the attitudes of those involved forever. It helped a generation find a community, brought us closer to our fellow human beings and gave us hope for the future. As the spider told Charlotte in Charlotte’s Web, “Heaven knows anyone’s life could stand a little of that.” Perhaps more so now than ever.

Khaled Bazzi is creative director at Perspective