Archive for the ‘dance music’ Tag

SILENT RAVE: NEW YORK+   1 comment

me at the silent rave

me at the silent rave

A man in a large costume that resembles a jar of mustard runs past me. As his yellow figure bobs oddly through a throng of sweaty, pubescent ravers, the crowd erupts into a cacophony of cheers. Somewhere, a voice shouts out. “Mustard man! Mustard Man!”. Then, a Japanese guy in a hat expertly designed in the figure of a chicken floats past. He spreads a pair of thin arms wide.
“Who wants to suck my cock?” he shouts. Behind me, a group of guys giggle. I stand in this chaos, snapping photos and floating quietly through the crowd. That’s the most interesting thing about this experience. Around me, hundreds of people are dancing excitedly. Bodies covered in sweat glisten under dimly lit New York street lamps. Tiny emo girls toss their dyed hair back and forth, strange shirtless guys do very homo erotic dances, and guys like the chicken man—there are a few of them around—all prance around, dancing to some quiet, unheard music. This is because they are dancing to their own music.
I’m at my first silent rave.
To see hundreds of people dancing with their telltale ipod headphones in their ears, all grinding to their own beat, is like seeing a music video on TV with the mute button on. But not only am I in this music video, but I’m an active participant, snapping photos, not trying to brush against too many of the girls present (many of them are teenagers). This would probably count as the second rave I’ve been to in the states. Like all raves, there are tons of very attractive women.
To my left, a Heidi Klum look alike wearing headphones straight out of an 80’s movie grooves beside her equally hot Asian friend. In front of me, a tall red head makes me think immediately of Berlin. All around, cute teeny-boppers, people with shaved heads, tatoos and t-shirts that read “I love NY” are all dancing.

Raving, in complete silence.
The silence is broken by screams which have no purpose. In rave music, people normally scream when the bass drops. Like most music, rave incorporates a specific tempo that keeps the crowd going for hours on end, ecstasy, cocaine or no. After a minute or so of the introductory song loop, a bass kick drops. This is where people scream and dance faster. Tonight, people are raving telephathically. The bass kicks in on one person’s headphones, and they broadcast it to everyone else with a scream. This spreads through the crowd like wildfire—people jump, run around and even mosh—and then the silence falls once more.
There is a natural tendency for human beings to feel threatened in the presence of large groups. If you’ve ever attended a large arena where a fight started, you might have “felt” a ripple through the collective consciousness of those present. You sense the anguish of those around you, you are caught in the bubble. For a moment, you and the crowd are one. Tonight is one of those nights.
I slip on my headphones and start playing a few trance tracks from a top 100 album I have. Almost instantly, I am in the bubble. As the sounds of voices, screams and bodies hopping around fades, I am part of the collective. All I hear are the snares, break beats and heavy basses while I look through my own personal windshield. Somewhere, a conga-line starts, and dozens of people begin sprinting in a sweeiping arc around the other ravers. For a second my radar gets tweaked. I get sensation of danger again. The groups of bodies darting through the crowd resemble the scene of a brawl. Bodies moving rapidly, touching, colliding. But the feeling subsides. These people are all here to have fun. They are happy being separate yet close.

A part of me wishes the rave was louder. At least I would have more to say.

Nerdy Models, Touchy Feely and Dinner Parties   2 comments

SUNDAY 11:45 P.M

 

I’m in the middle of a Kitchen in Mount pleasant, and four people are touching my head.

“I love your hair.” My friend says. She is an adorable Serbian, with classic dark European features; almost six feet of height, dark hair and sharp eyes. A few other people are touching my hair as well, including a moody guy named Peter, and a quiet Asian-American named Rebecca. The hair touching exercise came from a height comparison between myself and Peter.

“We are both almost six two right?” he says.

“Well, I have on these sneakers,” I say. “They push me up to about six two and a half, but I’m really six one.”

 

I had been drinking a lot of wine, so I can’t remember why everyone started touching my hair. They said it was cool, and the attention was interesting. I was at a dinner party.

 

During the night, our conversation was interesting. It floated between talking about breaking paradigms of thinking, the discourses of our failing social system, mother-love complexes and being attacked by wild animals.

 

This weekend has been interesting, as many of my weekends have been. I went to a 90’s dance party on Saturday night that had a high ratio of women and gay men. So high in fact, that many of the girls were dancing with themselves, amped up on brownies, mixed drinks and the sound of La Bouche blazing through the airwaves.

 

SATURDAY >:

 

It seems at these parties I always meet a very tall, very attractive woman. Last week, I met a statuesque Serbian girl ( a different Serbian ) who looked like she used to model. She went to American University and habit of punching me as I spoke to her. Tonight, it was a girl form Minnesota who looked straight out of an Italian Vogue catalogue. She was at least 5’10, with dark olive skin, jet black hair and those large eyes that make you think of porcelain dolls, or 1960’s European movies.

 

I found it funny that she referred to many of the patrons at the part as “white people”. I laughed to myself whenever she said this. “White people eh?” I replied. “I have identity issues.” She told me.

 

During the night, in between drinking a little too much, scarfing down brownies and dodging the advances of a drunk and very gay Latino guy, we salsa danced and talked about her job in IT. I found her fascinating. Probably because she was the hottest nerd I’ve ever met. Take a prototypical model-chick. Put her in an IT job, and you had Kristen.

 

At the party I saw a classmate of mine I hadn’t seen in at least 10 years, who was now married to a tall white guy from the Bahamas. They were an adorable couple. During the night I realized I had been drinking too much because I kept talking about myself being a writer to everyone.

 

Writers hate talking about being a writer. We just like to write and hope people appreciate it.

 

Nothing crazy happened. I met a girl named Virinda who goes to George Mason University who immediately told me that her friends said she dates too many guys. “I’m not a whore she says.”

“I believe you.” I reply.

 

In reality, I didn’t believe anything. I was more than tipsy and there was this cute girl sitting on a couch by herself. Her dating numerous guys was actually a plus. Later in the night I would see her gay friend dancing in what can be described as “nasty” with her.

 

There were a few good moments. I was upstairs waiting on someone to exit the bathroom and I suddenly heard “Marcus! Marcus!” echo from downstairs. A La Bouche song was playing and it was my Jam. I ran into a throng of girls, all screaming as I appeared. That was a good moment.

 

Miss model-nerd left and gave me her card. I found it funny that the address of where she worked was in a place called “Milky Way”. Doesn’t get more hot and nerdy than that. Maybe I’ll see her someday.

 

At some point during the party I start snapping pictures and try to catalogue the chaos. Elli, the cool Greek girl, was celebrating her birthday. My friend Cathryn, who I’ve also not seen in like ten years, was having a blast. I also met a few cool Harvard students with heavy accents. One, I thought was Indian.

“I hear an English accent.” I said.

“Well, I’ve lived in London, but I’m not English.” She replies.

“Oh, are you Indian?” I ask.

“No, I’m from Bangladesh.”

“Ah…”

 

It has been a while since I’ve met someone from Bangladesh. Everyone make sure to remember, Bangladesh is beside India, and they are different people! Say otherwise and you’ll be in trouble :p

 

Her friend was an Aussie who also went to Harvard. I made a lame joke about being an Aborigine which didn’t fly. After I was sufficiently buzzed and found myself doing a particularly intense running man dance, I decided to go home.

 

—- —–

 

SUNDAY 5:30 A.M

 

For a brief moment, I am in a movie. I’m sitting on my bed beside my cute friend, who is playing my guitar. With vodka in my system, I explain at length the mechanics behind learning basic guitar and try to motivate her to do exactly what I’m saying. As she sits there, occasionally sipping on a cup of water (which we later find out has mysterious white particles in the bottom) I realize I don’t want to try anything with her. I’m completely tired and buzzed to the point where all I can focus on is what is presently on my mind. In this case, it is teaching guitar. Its 5 A.M and I do a shoddy rendition of a song I’ve been playing for a while. I walk out into 30 degree weather in slippers and follow my friend to her car. I shoot her a text asking her if she got home safe. Then I fall into dreamland without wondering why I didn’t try to kiss her.

 

8:45 P.M

 

 

This is the day of the dinner party. So everyone at some point was touching my hair, I drank lots of wine and again found myself trying to understand why I’ve been very hesitant about certain things lately.

 

I’m trying to plan a proper Eurotrip, and thankfully, I know a bunch of European women now who all have places to recommend. My tall Serbian-glass-of-water friend says:

“Go to Croatia. It has the most beautiful beaches you have ever see.”

 

(Okay she said “seen”, but I’m just being an ass.”)

 

Another friend, the cool Asian, says I should definitely checkout cheap airfares to fly wherever I need to go. I think its cool. I think I might go to Greece and hang out with Zeus for a bit. I’m tempted to go to Cologne. My friend said the hottest women in history were there. A country chock-full of six foot blonde women with interesting sexual dispositions. Can anyone say “hrrrmmm..”?

 

Alas, the weekend is over. After a semi-chilly bike ride home, I’m back in my room, staring at this very computer screen. My fan is echoing in the background and I’m still wearing a fleece vest and my scarf. I want to sleep, but I feel like writing. Typing pages of prose until nothing makes sense and life itself it some weird kind of aberration. Should writing be effortless? Should women be less hesitant around me? Or should I shave my head? Who knows.

 

I realize tonight that I might be in a phase. A phase where I’m hesitant for subtle subconscious reasons. Or I might just be tense because of my impending foray into the real world. Whatever it is, I’ll deal with it, and hopefully meet some more Serbians with soft lips and tall glasses of wine for me to sip on.

 

Toodles.

 

 

 

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