BLESSED RELEASE

Dancing and death might not seem the most natural pairing to buttoned-up Brits, but honouring those we've lost through music and movement is a beautiful thing, finds Helen Coffey

- By Helen Coffey

Robyn's "Dancing on My Own" is playing, and the irony is not lost on me. I am, indeed, shuffling in time to the music by myself. Scattered around, a handful of people are doing likewise, not quite meeting each other's eyes.

It’s the middle of the day, and none of the elements that would make dancing in Great Britain socially acceptable apply here: we are not a) doing an exercise class, b) half-cut at a festival, or c) half-cut at a wedding. Instead, we are stone-cold sober and in full view of strangers at London's Southbank Centre. And yet there's a bigger, more important mood underpinning what's going on here this afternoon, one that's powerful enough to trump any lingering, surface-level embarrassment.

"Dance as if no one's watching - and know that maybe someone is watching you," advises DJ Linett Kamala from the decks, as a sudden burst of dry ice gives the stage a smoky, ethereal effect. Her comment may sound strange, a little creepy even, to a passerby. But not to those who've come here intentionally to attend today's event.

This is a "grief rave", a unique (and completely free) invitation to anyone and everyone to shake out their day, dance out their pain, and dedicate a song to someone or something they're missing – "from a personal bereavement to a breakup, or a few minutes of releasing some political rage". Some have made their way to this outdoor dancefloor overlooking the Thames by design; others have stumbled upon it by accident. All are equally welcome.