If you want to understand Montreal's dance scene, start with Ferias

"I guess I'll try to keep it as simple as possible," Guthrie Drake starts when asked what Ferias is. "I would say the easy answer is that we're a party, or we're a couple of DJs, or we're promoters or whatever, but I really kind of steer away from that."

What he settles on is community: A community that gathers around music, but has spread beyond those gatherings into something as diffuse as the sprawling, almost clandestine range of venues they'll set up shows in. It's a community based in feeling, in a mindset and awareness that persists after the records stop spinning.

It's a fair statement, as to know what Ferias is is to know what Ferias isn't.

Finding what was missing

When Guthrie Drake and Alina Byrne moved to Montreal from Vermont in late 2018, they found a city that was electric with nightlife, but it wasn't the kind they were looking for. The scene leaned heavy, dark, firmly planted in techno territory.

"We felt that if we wanted to go out and hear the music that we really want to hear on a normal night out, we have to go and set up our own," Guthrie says. They were searching for something lighter, more soulful, eclectic in a way that resisted easy categorization. An almost unpredictable range including but not entirely limited to house music, sure, but also bassy stuff, funk and soul, lots of acid, Afro-Latin rhythms, dub and reggae, and plenty of big diva vocal classics.

Being outsiders helped. They had fresh eyes for what Montreal was missing, and the humility that comes from not knowing anyone.

The first public Ferias happened on April 11, 2019, at Blizzarts—now Barbossa—on St-Laurent. Just Guthrie and his friend Sam playing records once a month, learning what it meant to promote a night, make a flyer, convince people to show up. Adri, the venue manager, gave them a trial run on a Thursday. They called in favors, got maybe 40 friends to brave nasty spring weather. It worked well enough that she offered them a monthly slot.

For a year, that was Ferias: two DJs, one monthly night, figuring it out as they went.

The turning point

Then the pandemic hit: Two years of living rooms and live streams. Record collections expanding, relationships shifting, the founding structure of Ferias evolving in ways that would only become clear later. Alina started messing around during lockdown, teaching herself while Guthrie was at work. "I started messing around on the turntables in our living room, trying to beatmatch his records," she recalls. "It was an entertaining and technical activity rather than passively listening to music."

When venues reopened, Guthrie and Alina emerged with bigger ambitions. They continued their club residencies—Barbossa, Le Système, Datcha, and the then-newly opened vinyl-only Sans Soleil that would become a kind of spiritual home—but they wanted more.

"There's a list of a hundred something DJs that we've never seen play in Montreal that are always playing in New York," Guthrie explains. The goal shifted from just DJing their own nights to presenting sounds the city hadn't heard, bringing in artists who'd never experienced Montreal.

The turning point came in 2023 at Multi Culti, a private studio space downtown/extra-sized living room with a serious sound system. They called the series Space Jams. Alina had always gravitated toward organizing, having turned her parents' basement into a dance and hookah lounge where friends would "sleep over" and play music all night during high school. But this was building something public from scratch.

"Our first DIY Ferias event was in 2023 at the Multi Culti garage, and maybe 30 people showed up?" she remembers. "Now, at our bigger events, we're getting 600+ people on the dance floor, which still feels pretty crazy to me."

Those Space Jams were in many ways where they learned to throw real parties as opposed to showing up to DJ at an established venue. This was an event built from scratch and all it entailed: Selling tickets, managing sound, creating atmosphere, handling all the logistics that go into making a night work—and crucially, booking their first out-of-town artists.

Guthrie's day job gave him a direct line. As a label manager for Turbo Recordings in Montreal and Razor-N-Tape in New York, he was embedded in the scenes he wanted to connect to Montreal. "I was pretty lucky to have a kind of tangible connection to the New York scene through some work I was doing," he says. That connection opened doors, made it clear what was happening elsewhere that wasn't happening here.

The first bookings: Public Service from New York, then Musclecars, then Soul Clap. "Almost everyone we booked, it was the first time they'd been to Montreal and certainly the first time they played in Montreal," Guthrie notes. Many were established artists who'd played legendary rooms worldwide. But they kept saying the Ferias parties felt different.

"The first time we started to realize that we were throwing unique and warm and special events, that side of response actually came from the artists that were playing our events," Guthrie says. "You can tell when someone's just being friendly and being thankful, and you can tell when they're genuinely moved or impressed or shifted by an experience. And it did feel like a few artists that we have immense respect for were really telling us that we were building a special thing here."

They responding to the dance floor energy, sure, and the sound, but it was also the city itself, the way Guthrie and Alina showed them Montreal, the appreciation they extended, and the care in every detail.

Range over genre

"I think it is kind of easy to pigeonhole us—well, maybe not pigeonhole us, but it's easy to kind of describe us as, like, a disco party or a house party, and I understand setting up those guardrails or whatever when you're talking about something. But I wouldn't say it's that simple," Guthrie says when asked what kind of music Ferias plays.

Range—the ability to connect dots across eras, geographies, speeds—matters more than genre. A set might move from '70s soul to '90s Chicago house to contemporary Afro-infused productions, all held together by feel rather than category. "Above all else, that's what really stood out to people and that's what keeps people coming back... there's an unpredictable nature to the music that gets played at our parties," Guthrie explains.

The philosophy extends to their booking strategy. They look for DJs who can present multiple styles, who take risks, who understand that a great night is about building something cohesive from disparate parts. "The thing that stands out to us is being able to present many different styles of music at different speeds and made in different eras and appealing to different people, to be able to present all of that stuff in one kind of cohesive night," he adds.

Sans Soleil taught them something crucial about this approach: The constraint of records creates a certain scope. You're limited to what's been pressed, which often means older music, but that limitation births freedom. "A lot of records that get played there, people wouldn't necessarily think of as dance records until you hear them there," Guthrie observes. "And until you hear them in full and you hear all the layers of them—and also when they're played in the context of whoever is DJing that night—a lot of records become dance records."

Transformation, context, and trust. The same principles that power a good DJ set power good community building.

Alina provides another layer, a different angle—the visual and atmospheric details that support the musical experience. She notices what other women in the scene are building, the intentionality they bring. "I notice and admire events and spaces curated by other women," she says, citing organizers like Evita and Sarah behind Le Sunday Service, who do "a gorgeous job with the aesthetic and visual identity of their parties, from their beautiful handmade flyers, thoughtfully crafted drink menu, natural art installs, even down to the small trinkets that adorn the stairwells and bathrooms."

There's Fanny Jane from Parquette, "one of the most incredible designers," combining experimental lighting and installations with playful hangout areas. The T.I.T.S. collective with their "bold, raw, and intimate branding, merchandise, and decor." These details matter as much as the music selection.

"Amazing music is obviously essential to a great party, but creative design and intentional details are another aspect that I think a lot of people appreciate and come back to events for," Alina explains.

For Alina, a transcendent party needs three elements working in harmony:

• "Incredible artists who know how to lock in with a crowd, not just by playing tracks but by their storytelling both with music and their stage presence."
• "A dance-floor community who now trusts Ferias and can let themselves get lost in the experience, rather than be on their phones or in conversation."
• "Our team of regulars, the staff and volunteers who are caring and capable, and own their part so we can focus on ours."

The moments when all three are aligned perfectly are aplenty: Marcellus Pittman and Ash Lauryn at SAT. Maurice Fulton and Kris Guilty having both rooms grooving at sunrise, during their first true full-scale party at a DIY Montreal venue. Theo Parrish's complete set at Phi Centre. Love Injection at the Zamalek kitchen. The Public Service nights at Multi Culti over the years. Their own DJ sets at Facets, Flip, and those Sunday sessions at Sans Soleil that felt like they'd unlocked something.

"After one of those parties, Guthrie and I will be buzzing for days," she says. "It's the best feeling in the world, and why we keep doing it."

Ask Guthrie about his guiding principle for building Ferias and he'll give you something simple: gratitude.

“The best advice I can give is you have to be thankful for those opportunities and let people know that you're thankful of them," he says. “The bar staff, the door people, the security, the bookers, and most importantly… the dancers. Let them know the scale of your thanks and really understand, first and foremost, how lucky we are to be doing this and how lucky you may be to be doing this right now. Make people feel that... that's what it's all about."

It's a rejection of the idea that success is deserved or guaranteed.

"If you can do that in the many different ways that it can be done, I think you'll find that people want to support you in that journey if it really means that much to you."

A $10,000 question

July 2025 was supposed to be a milestone: Ferias had booked their biggest event yet at a venue they'd used twice before, a space in Outremont where they'd been building momentum. Tickets sold, artists booked, team assembled. Alina was handling logistics, Guthrie was confirming artist travel. Everything moving forward. Then the call came.

The SPVM wasn't issuing any more permits for the venue. Neighbourhood complaints about noise had piled up—not necessarily from Ferias events specifically, but from the cumulative impact of multiple loud parties in a residential area. The police were shutting it down, and they gave almost no notice.

"We needed to scramble to place all of these things (someplace else) that could work, or cancel the thing entirely," Guthrie recalls.

The financial stakes were real. In the world of DIY promotion, everything gets paid upfront: artists, venue rental, sound system, design work. "If everything goes right and the event goes well, you cover those costs coming out the other side. But if anything goes wrong in that long process of checking boxes—obviously the venue being viable is the most major of those boxes—then you can really put yourself in a financial pickle throwing these kinds of events."

They managed to salvage it—rescheduled one main artist, scaled down the event, found another venue. But the close call revealed something important about the myth of Ferias as a established brand. "This is Alina and I just throwing parties as best we can, funding everything by working our day jobs,” Guthrie says plainly. "This isn't a big successful business. This is still very much a labour of love. And if things go wrong a few times in a row, we just won't be able to continue doing it financially."

Then, as if to compound the stress, the city announced new nightlife policy changes. On paper, the initiative seemed positive—clearer guidelines for venues and police on acceptable noise levels, an attempt to support Montreal's cultural scene. But buried in the proposal was a $10,000 fine for first-time noise complaint offenses.

Guthrie did the math and realized the policy would effectively kill the DIY scene. He wrote a detailed breakdown of how this would impact Ferias and similar events, making the consequences concrete for people who might not understand the economics of underground parties.

The response was immediate. Thousands of people submitted feedback to the government. The Plateau heard them. The policy was being revisited, the fine structure reconsidered.

It was a rare victory, but also a reminder of the underlying tension. Alina sees it clearly: Montreal lacks the fundamental infrastructure to support the scene it wants to have.

"Montreal is a city that loves to go out, at any time of day or night, and we have some incredible large-scale cultural events," she observes. "But on a smaller, grassroots level, it's extremely difficult to find spaces that are both affordable and accessible. And then there's the politics around DIY venues, navigating neighbours' complaints, local regulations, and noise restrictions—it can be a huge barrier to growth, especially for younger or emerging organizers and promoters."

If she could change one thing about Montreal's scene, it would be this:

"Easier access to event spaces of various sizes, so people can start throwing parties earlier, build community, grow within the scene, and have a real chance at making it sustainable."

The venue shortage means Ferias is constantly searching, constantly adapting. That space in Outremont felt like home, a place they could return to several times a year. Now it's off the table. They've been lucky to find alternatives like Parquette, but there's no guarantee spots like those will remain viable.

And even when they find good spaces, variety matters. "Using new spaces is part of the excitement for people," he notes. "Even if you find a consistent space that works great for you, at a certain point it's going to be worth doing an event in a new space because it just brings a whole new perspective to a party."

It's the DIY paradox: you need consistency to build community, but novelty to keep it alive. You need affordable spaces to take risks, but those spaces are increasingly scarce. You need to plan months ahead, but nothing is guaranteed until the night actually happens.

"Every city in the world right now is struggling to have enough creative spaces for stuff like this," Guthrie acknowledges. "Montreal is not immune to that at all. And so it does take a lot of creativity and open-mindedness to keep things moving."

Taking temperatures

Ask Guthrie about the current state of Montreal's underground dance scene and his optimism might surprise you. Despite the venue struggles, the financial precariousness, the regulatory uncertainties, he sees genuine health.

"Long story short, it does feel like a very exciting and, by many metrics, healthy time to be involved in Montreal music," he says. "The community of people that are throwing events across the board—it's never, at least in my time in Montreal, been more open and more community driven and more cohesive."

Community is key. Where once there might have been competition or territorialism, now there's collaboration. Promoters helping each other, sharing resources, operating with aligned goals. It's volunteers at the door, people helping with the bar, setting up lights, doing graphic design—a whole ecosystem of creatives who understand they're building something together.

But health doesn't mean ease. Running venues remains brutally difficult, especially as drinking habits shift and people go out less frequently. "People are probably going out less on average and certainly drinking less on the nights they do go out," Guthrie notes. "And that's the reality that venues all around the world are kind of coming to grips with now."

Montreal's advantages remain significant, though. Compared to New York or Toronto, the city offers the rare ability to actually try building a vision without immediately catastrophic financial risk.

"Montreal is still a place that you can take a stab at something and try to do something special," Guthrie says.

"Whereas the realities of other cities like New York or Toronto or Vancouver... you might need to take a more serious risk if you're trying to open a venue."

What Montreal lacks however, from Guthrie's perspective, is external perspective. The scene's tightness—one of its great strengths—can also create insularity. When everyone knows each other, when the same crews book the same venues in rotation, it's easy to get stuck in patterns.

The reasons are various: wrong parties, wrong clubs, limited budgets. But the result is the same—certain sounds and scenes remain disconnected from Montreal.

This is part of what Ferias has tried to address: creating the conditions for those missing connections to happen, building the parties that give out-of-town artists a reason to make the trip.

Still, he's realistic about the challenges. Montreal's underground has something special—a vibe that's been lost in bigger cities where the economics have pushed DIY culture to the margins. "These aren't happening so much in New York and Toronto at the moment," Guthrie says of the kind of warehouse parties and intimate DIY events that still thrive here. "And Montreal still has a pretty heavy underground leaning. And, you know, there's a special vibe that can only be created in the underground and it can't happen in established venues."

That vibe—and the determination of the people fighting to preserve it—gives him hope. "Montreal still has it. And it's a huge hassle to keep it alive, but I think there's a lot of us in the city right now that know the importance of it and that are good at creating it and are helping each other do so."

Hitting the levels of community and feeling

"There's always this round of applause and the lights will come up and whoever's playing the music will obviously have their moments," Guthrie describes. "But it's always the 30 minutes to an hour after a party, when everyone's kind of milling about and starting to clean, that you start talking to people who were there and experiencing it from the side of the dance floor."

Those conversations with regulars who've become trusted friends, with people whose taste and perspective they respect—that's where they learn if they've achieved what they set out to do. "Time and time again, those trusted people are saying that we're hitting the levels of community and of feeling that we want to create in every party," Guthrie says.

If that feedback ever stopped resonating, if people stopped telling them that Ferias matters to their experience of living in Montreal, they'd probably stop. But the feedback keeps coming. People tell them directly that Ferias has helped them find their place in Montreal's nightlife, that they feel safe and comfortable and surrounded by like-minded people in a way they hadn't before.

"To people's credit, they're very forward and open about giving us that response, that direct feedback. And we definitely take that to heart and don't take it lightly," Guthrie says.

It keeps the tank full: "That keeps us on the path of hustling and problem solving and trying to bring that to as many people as we can."

Seven years since that first Thursday at Blizzarts with 40 friends braving nasty weather. Seven years of learning, evolving, expanding from monthly residencies to 600-person warehouse parties. From playing other people's records in living rooms to bringing Detroit legends to DIY stages in Montreal. From two DJs figuring it out to a community of dancers, volunteers, designers, staff, and regulars who've made Ferias part of how they experience the city.

The venues keep changing. The challenges keep coming. The search for viable spaces never ends.

But at its core? Commitments: Range over genre, gratitude over expectation, community over commerce. To showing artists what makes Montreal special and showing Montrealers sounds they haven't heard. To building something that matters enough to fight for, even when—especially when—nothing is guaranteed.

The next party is already being planned. The next venue being scouted. The next challenge waiting around the corner. Because some things are worth the hustle, worth the risk, worth the sleepless nights and financial uncertainty. Some things—like a dance floor where strangers become community, where music transforms in context, where people find what they didn't even know they were looking for—are worth building from scratch, over and over, for as long as the city will let them.