"What makes a rave a rave?"
Checking my attitude while [international superstar DJ] plays secret set at [redacted]
It’s the last weekend of December. The sun sets mercifully later with each passing day, but the last light is long gone as I get into my car around 6:30 after a hasty dinner of leftovers. Pressing the ignition button produces an anemic cough from the engine, where a full-body sneeze is expected, and I wonder for a second if this is the sound of the diesel Jetta breathing its last. But it turns over readily with a second extended push, settling into a steady, raspier version of its familiar low burble. With that, I crack my first-ever can of Celsius and, against all common sense and prior experience, commence the four-hour drive to the city to go to an exclusive underground rave featuring a secret headliner.
The air is thick with mist over these winding country roads, but no rain falls until I arrive at the interstate. The undulating upstate landscape fades into suburban New Jersey as trees give way to strip malls and traffic begins to congeal on all sides. It’s virtually stop-and-go when I arrive at the foot of the George Washington Bridge.
In an effort to distract from the boredom, my mind swirls around a simple question as I inch through towards the automated toll booths: What makes a rave a rave? It had originally been posed to me earlier that week during Christmas supper by a former neighbor and longtime friend of my wife’s grandparents. At the time, I tried to explain that it wasn’t necessarily the music or the legal status of the event, the intoxicants being consumed, or even the composition of the attendees. It is a function of all these components but is only a rave if the whole experience transcends the sum of its parts. Or something like that.
The party I was heading towards had all the right ingredients, which I confirmed upon my arrival around 1 AM. A short walk along a treeless commercial street through near-freezing rain led to an unmarked door: the entrance to a steamy cocoon of brick walls protecting a warren of plywood room dividers filled with worn-out seating, lit almost exclusively with dimmed red bulbs. Some corners were curtained off, but views between gaps in the cloth suggested that this might be a person’s home during the times when it wasn’t hosting events. I’d been here many times before, though never for this particular party series.
The informational email sent out to ticket holders the prior evening indicated that the party was at capacity with no tickets available at the door without exception. So, I was surprised to see how sparse the dancefloor was. But any perceived lack in the crowd’s size was more than made up for by its energy. Every person in there took full advantage of the negative space to spread out, shake around, grooving with a vulnerability I’ve never encountered in a sanctioned club environment. Those coming out for air looked more like they were leaving a sauna than a dance floor.
The dancers’ energy was matched beat for beat from behind the decks by Lychee and Sobolik, the back-to-back openers and co-hosts of the night. Their psychedelic selections ranged from vintage dubstep to chaotic electro and breakneck jungle, pushing the vintage four-point Klipschorn sound system to its literal limits, as evidenced by the occasional scent of melting plastic wafting from the corners.
I was intentionally among the first of our friends to arrive because most others were prioritizing sleep in anticipation of the headliner’s 4 AM call time. However, despite the massive energy of the crowd, the excellence of the music, and the comfort of the familiar environment, I was unable to settle into the party. Trying some of the communal tea only amplified my alienation by rendering me less able to speak. I felt like a set of noise-canceling headphones, emitting opposing vibrations to the surrounding environment, creating a quiet void to be filled with intrusive thoughts. Why is everyone else here so earnest? Why does that make me cringe? Why did I drive all this way to feel tired and lonely on a couch?
Things improved when more friends started arriving. With each additional familiar face, I felt more relaxed as my energy slowly but steadily began to sync with the surroundings. Then, around 3:30 AM, I went downstairs to put some things away in my coat and came face to face with Objekt hanging up their own jacket.
Am I demanding things to be a certain way, or am I allowing them to just be?
Many of the people who’d been dancing their hardest earlier had gone home by the time Objekt took to the decks, opening with what sounded like a rampage through an 8-bit video game, splintering digital doors and smashing virtual windows into jagged shards at breakneck speed. But it wasn’t long before they settled into a left-field, downtempo, back-of-the-record-box vibe. By the time the first morning light began to peek through the window behind the DJ booth at 6 AM, both Kitchens of Distinction and Sly and the Family Stone had both made extended appearances. Dad’s in the garage with his CD collection. Don’t disturb him.
As the conclusion of the set approached, the dark room brightened gradually as the couple dozen exhausted dancers who remained glided all across the floor, twirling around each other like wisps of smoke emerging from a cluster of birthday candles that had just fulfilled their purpose. The yearning two-note guitar lick from Slowdive’s “kisses (electronic version 3)” faded softly into nothingness as we began a gentle round of applause. The now-risen sun rendered house lights unnecessary.
If someone asked me what I’d been up to that night, I would’ve told them I was at a rave because it was an event that looked and sounded the part. But in my lived experience, we didn’t quite get there. Against my best intentions, I had to admit that something within myself remained closed off to the experience. But it would be several weeks before I’d understand why.
“What’s my attitude?” is a question that some Theravada practitioners are encouraged to ask themselves during meditation. But I’d never fully understood what it meant until it was covered during a recent digital retreat hosted by Alexis Santos and Susa Talan. Santos explained attitude as the relationship between one’s awareness and the experience it is currently aware of. Am I demanding things to be a certain way, or am I allowing them to just be?
That final hour of delirious swaying to distorted guitar licks before sunrise was nowhere close to what I was expecting when I began my 200-mile drive the previous evening. Yet this was what made the trip worthwhile. I can only wonder what other moments I may have enjoyed had I let go of those expectations sooner.