“… it can be confusing for someone who used to play liquid as dancefloor music—now there’s ‘liquid’ and ‘dancefloor’ as if they’re two separate things.”
Once upon a time—around the golden era of post-2010 drum and bass and before 2015—a young producers stood before a cracked version of FL Studio, sketching dreams in 174 BPM. And the world Sidney SN itself stepped into was still whole. Liquid drum and bass was a different feeling, a different philosophy, and, most of all, a sound that could move a dancefloor without sacrificing emotional depth. Artists like Netsky, Maduk, or BCee were considered dancefloor-ready without ever shedding their melodic skin. For this young artist, that was the blueprint.
Sidney SN finds himself at the intersection of this history. Born from the era where liquid was both emotional and physical, he now walks a world where that balance has fractured. Or we need a new subgenre, like dancefloor liquid DnB, because now there is a lot of dancefloor drum and bass that isn’t melodic, soul and liquid, unlike dancefloor liquid drum and bass around the era of post-2010 and before 2015—era modern liquid arrived.
But fast forward to the fractured now: a scene where “liquid” and “dancefloor” are spoken of as separate territories. A subtle schism has taken place. The industry, once driven by soul and story, has carved out hard-hitting, festival-optimized anthems under the “dancefloor” banner, often stripped of the nuances that once defined liquid. Meanwhile, what remains labeled “liquid” is often pushed into the background—reserved for late-night streams, headphones, or niche gatherings.
For an artist who grew up seeing the two as inseparable, this divide can be disorienting. Imagine producing a track at 174 BPM, soaked in harmony and uplifting chords, only to be told it’s “not dancefloor enough.” Or flipping the tempo down to 87.5 BPM to experiment with halftime liquid grooves, and being met with confusion: “Is this drum and bass?”
Even tempo has become part of the identity crisis. The same rhythm that used to unify—the heartbeat of 174 BPM—has become a battleground. Artists stretch between 86 and 87.5 BPM to express new moods, only to find themselves lost in algorithms and DJ expectations. What was once natural now feels strategic.
The artist looks around and wonders: Where did the dancefloors go that could cry and dance at the same time? Where are the days where liquid wasn’t background music but the main act—where introspection and euphoria danced side by side?