I mourn the days where I knew how to rave, but I didn’t yet know the ravers. When I didn’t know the address before it was released. When I couldn’t tell the difference between a kick drum and a snare. When I had no clue I was talking to the headliner and asked if they wanted to make out. Then I ate from the tree of knowledge and knew my shame.
It’s like becoming an adult all over again - the loss of innocence, the formation of habits, the burden of awareness. Take, for example, those unfortunate hookups and forgettable fucks that weren’t worth the effort. It used to be they were just strangers, disconnected from my past or future. But then they were regular ravers, people I would inevitably face each night at the club. A few turned sour and resentful, even aggressive. There were nights I chose to stay home because I couldn’t summon the fortitude to navigate that unavoidable friction. With time the conflict fades into benign distance, but the risk is made clear with future connections. Is one night of fun worth a dozen nights tainted with strife?
The bar for trust has been raised much higher. Doubly so because many of these strangers are in fact friends-of-friends, exes-of-exes, complicated comrades. Others somehow already know me - through my words or my movement or whispers that never reach my ears. Ravers love their gossip. There is so much knowledge I wish I didn’t have, surly secrets and dark drama that gradually seep in through a rising tide of hearsay about people I’ve never met. Unsettling rumors about the proprietors and promoters of my favorite events accumulate. The artists and dancers surrounding me were once alien characters whose existence in my world was neatly confined to the dance floor. Now I know their humanity and hypocrisy, the harm they’ve caused even as they spin their records extolling ideals of love and harmony. The dissonance is a relentless background noise at every party.
Sometimes that background noise is literal: years of dancing in front of hi-fi club systems has turned me into that most self-sabotaging of critics: an audiophile. I recognize the hiss of a monitor that wasn’t properly isolated, I hear the chaotic echo of untreated concrete, I feel the overdriven crunch of a redlining DJ. Magical tracks that once sent me to the moon are now overplayed and derivative. Tiny imperfections in sound and space vie for my attention amidst otherwise blissful party conditions.
These observations pile up with every hour spent in our handful of venues. See you at Bossa tomorrow. Nowadays on Friday? Basement on Saturday. Here we are again at the awkward little photo studio, the last bastion of intimate DIY raves in Brooklyn. After a hundred nights, Stockholm syndrome sets in and we convince ourselves that all the little quirks are endearing, actually. That sloped floor gives the space such character, don’t you think? The broken lights are part of the aesthetic. I can’t wait to hear that cranky speech at the door again. In these familiar spaces with familiar faces, the path of least resistance takes me to reliable and safe routines.
If only there was a way to step onto another plane where I could adopt alternative perspectives, to turn off my brain and return to my body. But gone are the days of the effortless magic of those first rolls. The neural pathways to euphoria are now well-traveled. All the substances have been sampled, the optimal quantity and timing has been determined through rigorous repetition. Exciting mysteries of biochemical experimentation have become practical, even unromantic tools in my standard rave kit. The many lessons of harm reduction echo in my mind as I consider the generous offer of a pill in the palm of this acquaintance’s hand. A decade ago I couldn’t have imagined I would so often choose sobriety, but here we are.
All this nostalgia conveniently ignores the mountains of anxiety and doubt I felt in those early days. To think — I used to worry about what these strangers in the club thought about me and my dancing. It’s easy to forget how hungry I was for acceptance and inclusion. Now I’m on the inside, but with the bountiful joys of community comes the weight of responsibility. I want to set a good example. I want to be a reliable and trustworthy friend. My momentary desires are less important than safeguarding these relationships.
It’s harder to let go when there’s something worth holding on to.
I’ve been recording readings of these essays with backing tracks, if that’s more your style. My voice is extra gravely right now.
Next issue…
It might be time for my longest (nightlife) essay yet. It takes a lot of words to tackle something this complicated!
Or maybe not! Who knows. Last time I said I was doing a piece on promoter culture and obviously I didn’t end up doing that. But it’s fun to tease.
Thanks for reading.