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This is a confession. If you’re not already sitting, do so now.
This one’s a doozey.
I went to a rave. No, not
DARKRAVE. It was a regular rave.
Ok, now
that you’ve recovered from either a laughing fit or minor coronary, allow
me to continue. You’re probably wondering why I would admit to such an
atrocity. Well, I thought my experience made great fodder for my column this
month.
It all started on a cold Saturday night at
Savage. I’m there with a group of my
friends dressed in a spectacular
Minx Clothing original—a sleek black PVC
halter-top and mini skirt. At Savage I feel at home, talking, laughing and
indulging in a few beverages with my gothy pals.
But there was one
exception. A co-worker and dear friend of mine joined me at Savage that night.
Let’s call him Preppy. That night, he mounted the Savage staircase for the
first time, decked out in a button-down Lacoste shirt and blue jeans. But he
never felt out of place. He was comfortable and was completely at ease with my
other friends. The cool sounds of Underworld and Depeche Mode satiated his
musical tastes. No one gave him a critical glance. I was pleased to see that my
Preppy blended happily into my dark world.
The hours passed in a
blissful haze. Suddenly it was 3am and we were being ushered out of Savage.
From all my friends, Preppy was the last one there. And neither one of us was
ready to stop the festivities. With an unexplained burst of adrenaline, I
grabbed my coat and said “Take me to a party!”
I decided it
might be fun for Preppy to take me into his world for a change, seeing as how
he had become so accepting of mine. The only stipulation I had was that we had
to steer clear of Richmond Street.
We climbed into his car and zoomed
out of the dark depths of Queen Street and into…… Chinatown. I was
confused. Preppy parked the car and hopped out. I followed, wondering what I
got myself into. We reached a block of dark storefronts. He grabbed my hand and
led me up a staircase, through a door and into a hallway. It’s very dark
(which is good) and the bass is pounding (not so good).
Suddenly a door
swung open and we’re in a huge space. We passed two beefy security guards
and entered a hot, sprawling room filled with a sea of bodies. Preppy and I
grabbed two chairs and plunked ourselves down. I was completely disoriented and
overwhelmed. I realized Preppy had brought me to a rave.
I took in my
surroundings in this strange land. A spectrum of lights flashed vividly to the
beat of the music. The sound pounded heavily out of the speakers at an
obnoxious level, through the air, invading my brain unceremoniously. It was
loud, incessant and I didn’t know if the song was beginning or ending. The
repetition went from monotonous to annoying very quickly. I was the only one
who was bothered, however, as a mass of people bounced energetically on the
dance floor working their glow sticks and their asses.
As I watched, I
found myself becoming mesmerized. The music was the same constant beat, and the
people danced and jumped almost in unison, as though a spell had been cast upon
them. It was cult-like and almost numbing. It was freaking me out. It was one
giant wave of sameness. Nothing stood out.
Nothing, that is, except for
me. As I stared at everyone else, I realized that there were several pairs of
eyes on me. Suddenly I became very self-conscious. I looked down at
myself—spider web tights, black high heels, shiny, skin-tight PVC.
Everyone else was much more casual. The majority wearing jeans, the girls in
slinky day-glo tops, the boys in tight tank tops or clingy t-shirts. I was the
literal and figurative black sheep.
Preppy took my hand and led me
through the maze of people. More eyes followed me, some quizzically, others
with a look of horror. I was not dressed appropriately for this party. Preppy
handed me a cold bottle of water. I was beginning to melt in the body heat and
squirm under the critical stares.
As I drank and surveyed the crowd, I
found myself appreciating how amazing the gothic subculture is. Suddenly, I
didn’t care about the attitude or looks I got from the patrons at this
rave. I just wondered how they could be so positively bland. The music droned
on (I’m willing to bet my much-loved choker collection on the fact that it
was the same song that played for the two hours I was there.) Everyone danced
the same and looked the same. The people became a blur, the only obvious
differentiation being between the sexes. The lack of personal style and the
inability (or unwillingness) to step outside the box was perplexing. I was in a
land of pod people, yet to them I was the alien. And I was damn proud. I lost
the self-consciousness and replaced it with hardcore gothic pride until the
moment we left.
My head hit the pillow at 6am. The music was still
spinning in my mind, as were the images of the party I had just left. I
didn’t have a bad time at the rave. In fact, it was a learning experience.
Ten years had passed since I was at my last rave and I forgot what the scene
was like. And that morning, my eyes were opened to a world that I am
desperately grateful to have left behind.
Thank you, dear readers, and
to all those who inhabit our wonderful, dark scene. Gothicism is one of the
last bastions of beauty and individuality in clubland. And after this
experience, I can safely say that if I ever set foot in a rave again, it will
only be DARKRAVE.
posted February 12th 2005 |
Darq Angel has been living in
Toronto for 15 years. An avid reader, writer, club-goer, and music lover, she
has been a lurker in Toronto's gothic scene, floating around quietly, casting
her dark shadow over various clubs and events in the city. 