JUCY BOOK RAVE

I do not know whether something like a book rave could happen in Iloilo. Honestly, I think it is possible, but part of me wonders whether we have enough interest, support, and willingness to give it a try. Not because there are no readers in Iloilo, and certainly not because people here do not know how to have fun. The question is whether we can imagine reading as an activity that happens outside the classroom, library, bookstore, or quiet corner of our homes. Can we bring books into a place we usually associate with music, dancing, alcohol, socializing, and nightlife? More importantly, can we accept that spending an evening reading can be a legitimate way of socializing, relaxing, and having a good time?

In Japan, a nightclub in Tokyo has attracted attention online for an unusual concept. Instead of dancing on the dance floor, people gather to read books while DJs play relaxing ambient music. Called the JUCY BOOK RAVE, the event invites participants to bring their favorite books, sit or lie down on carpets, and read in a space ordinarily associated with nightlife. Instead of loud conversations and energetic dancing, quiet reading becomes the center of the experience. Attendees can also exchange books and meet fellow readers without having to navigate the social expectations of a traditional night out. According to reports about the event, advance tickets sold out in just three days. This is more than an unusual gimmick for social media. It is also a reminder that our ideas about leisure, community, and culture can take different forms.

What first caught my attention was not simply the novelty of the concept but the question of why an event like this seems necessary before we seriously consider reading as a social experience. We are accustomed to thinking of reading as a private activity. A reader sits in a corner, bends over a page, and seems unwilling to be disturbed by the world. When you read in a public place, people might assume that you are waiting for someone, avoiding conversation, or simply have nothing else to do. When you read in a café, others might think you are working or studying. Rarely do we imagine someone going out at night, getting dressed, traveling across the city, meeting friends, and paying for an event simply because they want to read alongside other people.

There is a contradiction here worth examining. On one hand, we continue to celebrate the importance of reading. We organize book fairs, literary festivals, book launches, reading campaigns, and school programs intended to strengthen our relationship with books. On the other hand, we often confine reading to institutions and situations we consider appropriate for it. Reading seems to require an accompanying examination, discussion, literary analysis, or some other proof that we have learned something. As if reading for the pleasure of a story, the possibility of meeting other readers, or the simple desire to spend time with ourselves were not enough. A book rave is interesting because it removes some of these expectations. Nobody has to explain why they chose the book they are holding. Nobody has to prove how much they have read. Nobody is required to socialize when they do not feel like talking. They can attend, read, listen to music, and go home without having to make every minute of their time productive.

But why a nightclub? Wouldn’t a library, bookstore, or café be enough? I think this is where the concept becomes more interesting. A nightclub is not merely a place where loud music plays and people dance. It is also a social space where people gather to experience their city outside the ordinary routines of work, school, and domestic responsibilities. It has its own culture, aesthetics, rhythms, and ways of building community. By bringing books into this kind of environment, the JUCY BOOK RAVE changes our expectations of a night out. It does not necessarily reject nightlife. Instead, it expands what nightlife can be.

Music is also an important part of the experience. In conventional reading activities, silence is often treated as the primary requirement. Voices must be low, distractions must be minimized, and the environment must be orderly enough to allow concentration. But a book rave explores another possibility. What if sound does not have to disappear completely for a space to become conducive to reading? What if music is not the enemy of concentration but part of the atmosphere? Of course, this does not mean that every reader enjoys ambient music or that this arrangement is appropriate for every kind of book. Some people prefer complete silence. Certain texts require careful study and sustained attention. But there is no reason for us to offer readers only one kind of environment. What matters is having choices.

This brings me to Iloilo. Could we organize a JUCY BOOK RAVE in our city? Could readers gather in a bar, café, art space, gallery, or another venue, bring their books, listen to ambient music, and spend an evening reading? Could we have an event that does not have to end with a lecture, panel discussion, book launch, or formal program? Could reading itself become the main activity, with socializing remaining an option rather than an obligation?

At first glance, there is no reason this would be impossible. Iloilo has readers. It has teachers, students, writers, publishers, artists, librarians, book collectors, and people who continue to buy or borrow books. It has bookstores, cafés, creative spaces, and venues that could host such a gathering. There are also communities that participate in book fairs, literary events, art exhibitions, film screenings, and other cultural activities. What we need is not proof that reading already exists in Iloilo. We need to create a new situation in which people can experience reading in a way that may not yet be familiar to them.

However, the existence of readers does not automatically guarantee that a book rave would succeed. Being interested in books is not the same as being willing to pay for an event whose main activity is quiet reading. There is a difference between enjoying books and enjoying a particular cultural experience. Some people prefer to read alone. Others may feel uncomfortable reading in front of strangers. Some would rather spend their money buying a book than paying an entrance fee for a reading event. Others might find the idea exciting but never actually show up when the event takes place. These possibilities must be acknowledged if we are serious about developing a project that could last beyond a single viral moment.

This brings us to the larger question of reading culture in the Philippines. We often explain low reading engagement or limited access to books in terms of a lack of discipline, interest, or appreciation for literature. But shouldn’t we also ask what conditions we make possible for readers? Are there enough places where people can read without having to buy food or drinks? Are there spaces where someone can stay for a few hours without being expected to spend more than they can afford? Can people easily find books in languages they are comfortable reading? Do our programs invite people to read without making them feel that reading is an exclusive activity reserved for the educated, the wealthy, or those with extensive literary knowledge?

Reading is not simply a matter of personal preference. It is also connected to access, time, money, language, space, and opportunity. We cannot expect books to become central to cultural life if access to them remains difficult or if reading spaces are limited to places and hours that do not work for everyone. From this perspective, the JUCY BOOK RAVE can serve as an invitation to reconsider the conditions surrounding reading rather than merely as proof that reading in a nightclub is cool.

Still, one reason I suspect this concept might struggle to find its place in the Philippines is that we often measure the success of an event by attendance, the volume of the music, the number of photographs we can post, the number of people who network, or the number of activities squeezed into a program. This does not mean these measures are inherently wrong. Organizers naturally want their events to be lively and successful, especially when they have spent money on venues, equipment, performers, and promotions. But a book rave requires a different understanding of success. How do we measure an event where people barely speak to one another? What if the most successful part of the evening is two hours spent reading, without a competition, a long speech, or any need to prove that everyone had a good time?

This might seem unusual in a society accustomed to lively gatherings. In our celebrations, socializing often revolves around conversation, food, singing, dancing, and participating in a shared activity. These are part of our culture, and reading does not need to replace them. But perhaps we can expand our understanding of togetherness. Not every community has to be loud. Not every gathering requires active participation at every moment. Sometimes, it is enough to know that another person is sitting beside you, reading too. There is a peculiar kind of solidarity in such a situation: you share the same space, but everyone remains free to enter their own world.

Another possible obstacle is the belief that reading must be serious to be meaningful. When we talk about literature, we often emphasize its educational value, its ability to develop critical thinking, its contribution to language development, and its role in helping us understand society. These are important. But if we always introduce reading through its benefits, we may forget that it can also be a source of pleasure. You do not have to read a novel because it teaches a lesson. You do not have to attend a reading session because it offers a certificate or counts toward professional development. Not every hour spent with a book needs an academic justification.

As someone who has long been involved in literature, publishing, and cultural work, I often think about how frequently we have to explain the importance of projects related to books. We need to present attendance figures, objectives, expected outcomes, and benefits to the community. In many cases, this is necessary to secure support and funding. Yet some experiences cannot easily be measured through reports and statistics. How do we measure the happiness of someone who discovers a book they never expected to love? How do we count the friendships formed through book exchanges? How do we know how many people become interested in reading again simply because they see others doing it in a place they would not normally associate with literature?

Nevertheless, I do not want to romanticize the JUCY BOOK RAVE as though it were the solution to every reading-related problem in the Philippines. One night in a nightclub will not solve the high cost of books, the shortage of public libraries, the limited distribution of books in the regions, or unequal access to reading materials. Nor should it become another exclusive experience for people who can afford expensive entrance fees, drinks, and transportation to a commercial district. If the goal is to make reading more accessible and appealing, we must consider who gets to participate and who might be left out.

In fact, it would be ironic if an event intended to make reading more accessible became an expensive lifestyle experience. It is easy to turn books into aesthetic objects: place them under beautiful lighting, decorate the venue, select titles that look good in photographs, and play music that suits a carefully curated atmosphere. There is nothing wrong with good design. Aesthetics matter in shaping an experience. But we should ask what remains when the event ends and there are no more photographs to post. Did people discover new books? Did books change hands? Did readers find a community? Did new relationships develop among publishers, bookstores, librarians, artists, and readers? Or did books become mere props in an evening designed to look attractive on social media?

For me, this is where the difference lies between a meaningful cultural experiment and a passing trend. Not every event needs to be profound. Nor does every gathering need an ambitious social purpose to be worthwhile. But if we make reading the center of an event, we should give genuine value to the books themselves and to the people who create, publish, sell, translate, and read them. If there is an entrance fee, are the DJs, artists, and organizers being paid fairly? If publishers and bookstores bring books, how will they benefit? If readers lend or exchange their books, how will their property be respected? If the event uses music, how will we support musicians and comply with the necessary permissions? Being an alternative cultural event does not exempt us from practical and ethical questions.

If we were to try this in Iloilo, I would not begin with a large nightclub or an event that requires substantial spending. I would rather imagine a small gathering that could start in a café, art space, gallery, bookstore, or community venue. We do not have to reproduce exactly what happened in Tokyo. We can take the central idea and give it a form rooted in our own community. Imagine an evening of reading where each participant brings a book. Ambient music plays softly in the background. There are carpets, cushions, and comfortable chairs. No compulsory discussion, no report to submit, and no test after reading. There is a designated period for quiet reading, followed by an opportunity to exchange books or talk with those who want to meet other readers.

The event could also develop a stronger local identity. Why not make space for books in Hiligaynon, Kinaray-a, Aklanon, Capiznon, Filipino, and other Philippine languages? Why not bring a poetry collection, a book of short stories, a graphic novel, comics, zines, or picture books? Why not allow readers to choose a text they have wanted to read for a long time but have never found the time for? We could also set up a book exchange table where participants trade books without being required to buy new ones. If local publishers and independent booksellers want to participate, they could bring their titles and introduce them to readers who might never have encountered their publications otherwise.

For a city with its own literary traditions and languages that remain part of everyday life, this kind of gathering could become more than an imported concept. It could demonstrate that reading does not have to revolve exclusively around English-language books or titles commonly found in large bookstores. Stories written in our own languages can also be part of pleasure, creativity, and social interaction. Regional books do not need to be treated as solemn cultural artifacts to deserve recognition. They can be carried, read, exchanged, discussed, and loved during an evening of music and reading, just like any other book.

The event could also welcome people who do not usually read literature. We should not assume that every participant must love thick novels or poetry collections. Some people are more interested in comics, manga, illustrated books, essays, travel writing, memoirs, or books connected to their professions and personal interests. What matters is creating room for different kinds of readers. If we want reading to be inclusive, we should not make a particular literary taste an entrance requirement. Someone who reads comics is not a lesser reader than someone who reads a classic novel. A person who is just beginning to read should not feel unwelcome simply because they are unfamiliar with the names of celebrated writers.

And why should it happen at night? Because some people only have free time after work or classes. Others cannot attend programs held in the morning or afternoon. Some are looking for an alternative to conventional nightlife, but that does not mean they want to stay home or avoid other people. Students might want to read after class, workers might want to unwind somewhere outside their homes, and others might simply be looking for a place where they can belong to a community without having to become the center of attention. In this context, a book rave offers an alternative way of spending the evening: not only as a time for consumption, drinking, and entertainment, but also as an opportunity for reflection, reading, and connection.

Of course, practical considerations matter. Not every venue is suitable for quiet reading. Lighting, ventilation, food and drink arrangements, accessibility, safety, and the event schedule must all be considered. Music should remain at a level that does not interfere with concentration. Organizers should be transparent about entrance fees, minimum purchases, and what participants receive in exchange for their payment. There should be enough room for people to sit comfortably. If the event takes place in a nightclub, the organizers must consider how to make the venue welcoming for people who may not be familiar with that environment. The novelty of the concept should never come at the expense of participants’ comfort and safety.

It would also be wise to begin with a pilot event. We could limit the number of participants, keep the program simple, and collect feedback afterward. The first event does not need to sell out to be considered successful. It is more important to find out whether people genuinely enjoyed the experience, whether the venue was suitable, whether the duration was appropriate, and whether participants would want to return. We could collaborate with bookstores, independent publishers, art communities, universities, and organizations interested in reading. Such partnerships would not only help with costs and promotion but could also build stronger relationships among different sectors of the book community.

A small turnout at the first event should not automatically be treated as a failure. New forms of cultural activity take time to become familiar and understood. Some people might question the concept. Others might ask why they should pay to read somewhere when they can read for free at home. These are reasonable questions. The answer does not have to be a forceful attempt to persuade everyone. Instead, we can explain that participants are not simply paying for time to read. The experience may also include the space, music, opportunity to meet fellow readers, and feeling of belonging to a community with shared interests. But if the experience does not justify the cost, we must also be willing to acknowledge that and redesign the event.

Ultimately, perhaps the most important question is not whether a JUCY BOOK RAVE can happen in Iloilo or elsewhere in the Philippines. The question is whether we are willing to experiment with different ways of approaching reading. Can we move beyond the idea that books belong only in schools, offices, libraries, or quiet rooms? Can we make reading part of everyday cultural life, alongside watching films, listening to music, visiting galleries, or meeting friends? Can we imagine a city where some places do not merely sell books but also offer opportunities to experience them in different ways?

I do not know whether a book rave in Iloilo would succeed. I do not know whether enough people would be willing to attend or whether a venue would be interested in trying the concept. But uncertainty is not a sufficient reason to dismiss the idea immediately. If we always wait for proof that an idea will succeed before attempting it, we will never discover many possibilities. New cultural practices do not always begin with certainty. Sometimes they begin with a question, a small gathering, and a few people willing to try a different way of being together.

There is one thing I would like to avoid when thinking about this concept: the assumption that an event must go viral to have value. Social media certainly helps new ideas gain attention. But the purpose of a book rave should not end with photographs of people reading on the floor of a nightclub. What matters more is whether participants discover a new book, meet another reader, go home inspired to read again, or encourage a venue to make more room for cultural activities. If a small gathering encourages a few people to read more often, generates additional income for an independent bookstore, or introduces books in less widely represented languages to new audiences, that is already worthwhile, even if the event never becomes a national trend.

A book rave may not be for everyone, and not every cultural event needs to be. Some people would rather dance. Others prefer to read at home or visit a library. All of these are legitimate ways to spend one’s time. What matters is that we do not treat someone who chooses reading over dancing as strange or ridiculous, nor dismiss a group of people who imagine a different kind of enjoyment in a nightclub. Reading and nightlife do not have to compete. We do not have to choose between literature and music, or between silence and social interaction. They can coexist in an experience that gives both a new meaning.

So, if someone asks me whether we could organize a JUCY BOOK RAVE in Iloilo, my answer is yes, we can try. I am not claiming it will certainly succeed. Nor am I suggesting that this is what our reading culture has been missing all along. But it could be a worthwhile experiment, an opportunity to discover what happens when we bring books into spaces we do not usually associate with literature. We can start small, find partners, invite different kinds of readers, and give the concept a local identity. It does not have to be an exact copy of the event in Japan. What matters more is discovering what form it could take in our own community.

Perhaps what we need is not only more books but also more opportunities for books to become part of people’s lives. Perhaps we need spaces that do not ask how much we have read, which classics we know, or how well we can explain a text. Perhaps all we need is a place where we can arrive, choose a book, sit down, listen to music, and read alongside other people.

And if one evening in Iloilo arrives when more people are sitting on the dance floor than dancing on it, I would not immediately consider that strange. Perhaps that is precisely the point. Not every night spent without dancing is a night without enjoyment. Sometimes, the best rave is an evening spent holding a book, listening to music playing softly in the background, and having enough space for ourselves and for other people.

So, would I go to a JUCY BOOK RAVE in Iloilo? Yes. And I would probably bring a book written in Hiligaynon.

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Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at the University of the Philippines Visayas. He teaches in the Division of Professional Education and at UP High School in Iloilo. He currently serves as faculty-in-charge of the UP Visayas Language Program Office and as secretary of the National Committee on Literary Arts of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA). His poetry has been recognized by the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature.