So you want to go to
rave. Here’s what you do:
First, you go to a
record store and get a rave flyer. This
will tell you what dj’s are spinning, where you can pick up your ticket, how
much pre-sale tickets are, how much tickets are the night of the event –
everything you might want to know before you blow forty bucks on a stupid
party.
Big commercial parties
average twenty to thirty bucks a ticket and have two to five rooms of
dj’s. Smaller underground parties
average two rooms and go for five to fifteen, sometimes twenty. Most raves start at nine or ten p.m. and go
to six or seven in the morning. While
most of the bigger parties tell you where the party is going to be in advance,
underground parties don’t tell you until the night of the event. In order to find out where it is, you have to
go to a map point. Map points can be
anywhere from two minutes to two hours away from the actual location. A map point might be a record store, a coffee
shop, an alley – sometimes it’s just a door.
One time I went to this map point in Downtown and there was this guy in
a black Raiders jacket standing outside this prehistoric apartment
complex. He told me to stick my money in
the mail slot and out came my ticket.
It’s nearing
Drugs. Ecstasy.
Twenty bucks a hit. Each type of
X gets its name from the picture on the pill.
Like if it’s a Superman, it’ll have a little red S. If it’s a Green Triangle, it’ll have a green
triangle. Let’s say you take a
Mitsubishi one month and it’s fifty percent MDMA and fifty percent baking
soda. You might take a Mitsubishi the
next month and this time it’ll be forty percent MDMA and sixty percent
tweek. So if the name of the pill
doesn’t tell you what you’re taking and the symbol on the pill doesn’t tell you
what you’re taking, who’s to know what you’re taking until you actually take
it? You don’t.
If you’ve raved long
enough, it gets to the point where you become completely oblivious towards
drugs. After all, everybody’s mom has a
medicine cabinet. The world is full of hypocrites
and the only way to avoid being one of them is to mind your own business. You just have to let people do their own
thing and hope that nobody gets hurt.
Because at a rave, you’re on your own.
At a rave, you’re free to do whatever you want. The only problem is that most kids aren’t
used to freedom. And so they abuse it
any way they can.
There has always been
an argument over whether raves are about music or drugs, drugs or music. I say neither. Raves are about escape. Going to a place where nobody knows who you
are, what you do, where you came from – a place where you don’t have any
promises to keep, no image to uphold. A
place where you can be a child. The
reason why kids stop going isn’t because the music becomes stale or because the
drugs aren’t working. They stop when
they can’t use raves as a means of escaping reality anymore. For me, it’s the only escape I have other
than drinking. The only difference is
that after I go to a rave, I don’t wake up kissing the toilet.
John takes us to the
front of the line and signals a girl carrying this clipboard. She’s flanked by two security guards in black
t shirts. Next thing you know, we’re
inside.
John lights up a cancer
stick. The temperature rises ninety-six
degrees. Kids in baggy pants and
fluorescent jewelry, t shirts and tank tops, Adidas jackets, purple sunglasses,
red and yellow baseball caps and furry Kangol hats, dancing, swaying, totally
oblivious. Ravers rolling, tripping,
laughing, making out in corners, in smoke, lying on top of cigarette butts and
empty water bottles. Kids sucking on
pacifiers throwing their bodies against the speakers, pounding their fists to
each climactic thud while glitter babies draw abstract patterns with glow
sticks in their hands. I see a pregnant
woman in her early twenties, wearing a long black skirt with her big, round
belly exposed dancing with all her soul.
Kid in the corner with long black dreds beats into a conga drum. Another kid on top of a speaker blows bubbles
out of a yellow plastic wand.
John slips behind the
decks to slap the dj on the back. He
gives John a hug and asks for a cigarette.
John hands him the one he’s smoking after taking a final drag. Then the dj says thanks and tells John he’ll
talk to him later after his set.
There’s a circle on the
floor around the breakers, turning on their heads and doing handstands,
windmills in camouflage cargos and Wu Tang shirts, shell toes with fat laces,
popping, locking, doing back flips. John
and I strut to the middle of the circle, doing the Crip walk. Then we bust the Kid N Play. Just to be stupid. People are clapping and laughing and then the
circle disappears and every one is dancing shoulder to shoulder. We dance for an hour, strobes and laser
lights flashing, sweat dripping off my nose, panting breaths behind me making
the little tiny hairs on my neck tingle.
An older Mexican couple is doing the flamenco. One kid lifts his girlfriend up on his
shoulders and she tells us to dance, go crazy.
It’s okay..
Why aren’t you smiling?
Beside me is a girl in
a white dress sucking on a red Blow Pop.
She’s wearing a white Mary Tyler Moore wig and silver trainers, rocking
back and forth on her heels, sucking her candy.
She’s got blue eyes, glitter on her face and angel wings on her
back. She smiles and pinches my arm.
Why aren’t you smiling?
I am smiling. On the inside.
Are you on anything?
No.
That’s why you’re not smiling. Do you want anything?
No, I’m fine. I’ve got to work tomorrow.
What’s your name?
Justin.
My friends think you’re cute.
… Thanks … I like your wings.
Aren’t they cool?
Yah.
What’s your name?
Amanda.
I offer my hand. She gives me a big hug and a tickle instead.
Justin.
That’s cute!
Thanks.
Why aren’t you dancing?
I was for a little bit. I’m just tired.
What?
The music’s too loud.
Tired!
I’m tired!
Do you want anything?
Where did John go? I thought I saw him two minutes ago.
No. Thanks.
Do you wanna dance?
In a little bit.
Do you wanna make out?
Okay.