When I come upon an article on the web I like, I save it. Not for any particular reas, but I just grab it. I usually don't look through these very much, but this afternoon I ran upon the following article.
RAVE IS DEAD
by Bill Werde
taken from URB Vol. 13, No. 102, pg 60-64
www.urb.com
"How 'long you want to discuss why I feel that way is up to you." Fisher
runs the production company Ultraworld. He has been to jail for throwing raves,
has personally met with officials from the city of Baltimore to gain the right to
continue throwing raves and, in addition to throwing the best raves on the East
Coast throughout the mid-'90s, he threw the first I frequented. These were
spectacles of lasers, acid house, breaks and hundreds, sometimes thousands,
of kids filling warehouse spaces and industrial parks to meet their rave families,
perhaps pop a pill or two and dance their kinetic dances. Fisher has opened a
club, Sonar, in Baltimore, and says he has no plans to throw a rave again.
Some told me in '95 when I started going to parties that rave was dead. These
were people who had been going for a few months or a few years longer than
myself, folks who lamented large flyers and $15, $20, $25 ticket prices. But who
were they to piss on my epiphanies? One day I was a frat boy with the full
cultural baggage of the breed - shamefully tolerant of homophobic jokes and
misogyny, considered dancing a mating ritual never to exceed an energetic
shuffle - and almost as quickly as the next, I was a raver, hopping weekend
busses or joining car caravans to seek out fantastic, relatively secret parties
full of like-minded people who were united in their appreciation of the
experience and the sound. It was the sound of tomorrow, these squelchy,
alien acid lines and pummeling barrages of bass rising through the smoke and
dust. It was the sound of a brighter future, a time and place to come when
people would know the physical and spiritual joys of dancing and there would
be a mass understanding that being excellent to one another was really where
it was at.
Right around the time that my life was being irrevocably altered by the
rave scene's potent combination of ideology and chemicals, prominent
journalist Simon Reynolds was working on an essay entitled "Rave
Culture: Living Dream or Living Death." Eventually published in the '97
anthology The Clubcultures Reader, the piece begins with the
acknowledgement that others are saying, "Rave is dead." Reynolds
convincingly navigates a perceived dichotomy: On one hand, the business
of rave was better than ever, thanks to post-rave sub-genres landing on the
UK pop charts and the mass embrace of the weekender/ Ecstasy lifestyle.
"But as for the rave myth, the ideal of love, peace, unity and positivity" he
wrote, "that's been smelting funny for quite awhile."
According to Reynolds, "Rave culture has never really been about
altering reality, merely exempting yourself from it for a little while."
But this wasn't true for me, and perhaps it wasn't true for you either.
There were ideas at play in the rave scene - not just drugged kids. Here
was the paradigm of the concert flipped on ear: The star wasn't the
DJ - not then, at least - but the crowd, the lighting, the pills, the
physical space of the party itself. You didn't go to a party to stare at
a musician. If you wanted passive entertainment, you went to a rock
show. If you wanted to immerse yourself in entertainment, to take an
active role in your own good time, you went to a rave.
"With E, the full-on raver lifestyle means Literally falling in love
every weekend, then (with the inevitable mid- week crash) having your
heart broken. Millions of kids across Europe are still riding this
emotional roller coaster. Always looking ahead to their next tryst with
E, dying to gush, addicted to love, in love with ... nothing."
"Nothing"? Even as Reynolds was using clinical, academic precision to
spell out the nothingness of rave, it was changing my life, much the way
I suspect it changed Reynolds' a few years earlier. When I called the author
to ask him about the essay, he laughed, "That was written from a point of
crisis of confidence, that thing that people go through after a couple of
years when they start to have doubts that maybe it's not as exciting as
it appears to be, and, even if it is, where is it all
Leading?" And he admitted what I suspected: "When I got into it in '91,
there were loads of people saying it was dead, then too."
Are raves somehow less culturally vital then they were a few years ago,
10 years ago or than they were in 1986 in England? Does the
commodification of a culture - the music being sold on car commercials,
the fashion being sold at every mall in America for awhile (and now not
even cool enough for that), even the pills being pimped at frat houses
and yuppie soirees across the U.S. somehow erode the core experience?
Or is passing that judgment just another version jaded burnouts telling
Reynolds he had missed boat by '91? I joined the NYC-Raves Internet
mailing list, asked for a response from anyone who had go to their first
party in the past six months or so had what they would call a "spiritual,"
"enlightening" or "life-changing" experience. As the day went on, I was
surprised by the complete lack of traffic received only a couple of mocking
replies and deafening silence. One post, from the list's moderator was
particularly snarky: "I think you're about years too late." The irony of
Reynolds' observation is that today, it seems he got it backwards. The
ideal of rave - peace, love, unity and respect to simple DIY to others –
live on in truly underground events and new rave converts and even in
other parties, such as Burning Man. But the business spoke to more than
30 key players from the scene - DJs, promoters, agents, record shop
owner label managers and publicists from around the country - and this
much is clear: The business of rave is crashing like a post-binge tweaker.
The rave and club scenes have long held a narcissistic sort of pride in
straddling the line between mainstream and underground, happy to sell
street cred to any and every willing consumer. But when it comes to
organizing as an industry, "electronica" is in the dark ages. Mainstream
music has SoundScan to chart album sales and Pollstar to detail the
success of concerts and tours - services that raves and clubs do not utilize,
certainly not with 12-inches and one-offs. According to a source close to the
major vinyl outlets in the U.S., sales were down about a quarter in 2001
from their 2000 peak. This year, sales will finish down about a third from
that 2000 mark. This is a greater decline than the slowing of he music industry
at large, which is down about 20 percent over the same period. Across the pond,
Record Industry, by far Europe's largest presser of vinyl, has seen orders
drop by 20 percent this ear from last.
Two of the biggest and best clubs - New York's Twilo and Washington,
D.C.'s Buzz - have closed and at press time, Spundae in Los Angeles
had just suffered a huge raid, leaving its future in some doubt. Attendance
at big nightclubs is down across the board in the U.S. and the UK. According
to international nightlife research group Mintel, nightclub and discotheque
admissions in the UK grew steadily throughout the '90s til '98, when it took
its first downturn, dropping steadily each year since. Two of the UK's larger
clubs, Cream and Ministry, have closed, and a third, Gatecrasher, has gone
from a weekly event to a monthly. Ministry's self-titled magazine - at one
point the top-selling title in British clubland - has folded. Once blue-chip record
labels have closed their doors or been relegated to the margins. In 2001,
Ministry of Sound coughed up a substantial sum to sign electro up-and-comers
Fischerspooner; now the label has released their stateside employees (making
them all sign confidentiality agreements) and auctioned off Fischerspooner to
a major label. Strictly Rhythm - once one of the most respected labels in the
game - closed its doors this year as well. Steve Lau is president of Kinetic
Records, the label that released trance "superstar DJ" Sasha's under-performing
artist album, Airdrawndagger, earlier this year. Kinetic recently laid off all but
a bare-bones staff. "It's a number of factors," says Lau of the dance music
industry's decline. "There's the economy, of course. And I think the market
was completely over- saturated with DJ mix compilations. Add to that I think
fans of electronic music are more technologically savvy, more likely to download
music, than fans of other music. Also, on some level, I think everyone realizes
that he or she could be a DJ. Part of the mystery behind the whole thing evaporated."
At the core of all of these industry developments is a feeder system of
enthusiastic new customers that is grinding to a halt. Raves are not
happening with the same frequency they once did, not by a long shot.
"The rave scene is probably a quarter of what it was this time two years
ago," says Scott Henry, the promoter of now-closed D.C. club Buzz and a
mainstay in the Baltimore-D.C. scene. "I judge that on calls my agent gets
about bookings - not just me, but DJs across the line." Natalie Perez, a
booking agent at PAM (a DJ management company that includes Paul van Dyk
and DJ Icey on its roster) concurs, "Between now and this time last year, two
years ago, we're having to be more aggressive in our tactics. We lower prices
when needed. We've had to approach promoters more than we have in the past.
The danger is that fewer raves becomes its own prophecy. "You used to be
able to go to like, Charlotte, NC, and there would be two raves on the same
night," says Henry. "Now you're lucky if you can find one in the Southeast.
Out of sight, out of mind? I don't know. When raves are few and far between,
there is less to rally behind." Sociology says we can think about subcultures
cyclically. "Kids take the cultural products that are out there and they tweak
them, misuse them," says David Grazian, a sociology professor at the University
of Pennsylvania who specializes in the study of pop culture and its subcultures.
"The easiest example to teach is how kids would rip holes in their jeans in the
1980s in order to create a new subculture style. Then what happens? Jean
manufacturers look at what kids are doing and they start mass marketing
jeans that already have holes in them. As the cycle moves on, clearly it's
companies that are winning. They are constantly able to make more profits by
hunting down the cool."
I called Capitol Records, the major label that turned Dirty Vegas' "Days Go By"
into a hit by placing the song in a Mitsubishi car commercial. They were happy to
talk to me because they're busy trying to repeat the formula: At press time,
Mitsubishi was launching a new tine of cars with 60 second TV spots, featuring
the dreamy electronica of the song "Breathe" by another Capitol act,
Telepopmusik. Tel6popmusik's debut album, Genetic World, saw an immediate
spike in sales, up 30 percent the first week, up another 76 percent the next. As
Tripp DuBois from Capitol's marketing department explained, Telepopmusik's
positioning was the result of the careful cultivation of cool.
"We micro-marketed the record," says DuBois. "With Tetepopmusik, we did CD
samplers and stickers. Our street teams worked the raves. It's that base we
built and developed that allows us to get to the next step of exposure from
Mitsubishi. When we go to these advertising agencies, the band has to mean
something. They have to say something.
If it's the right thing, the new hip thing, then [these agencies] want
to be part of the action as well. It's our job to get to that base so we
can transition to the broader marker."
As DuBois spoke, I was daydreaming about how foreign raves seemed to me
when I first went. There was no techno on commercials. There was no one
handing out marketing materials, as best as I can recall, unless you count flyers
for other parties. "We really nailed the game plan," says DuBois. "Mitsubishi
kicked in and now we're transitioning. We're going to Modern Rock on Nov. 19
and Top 40 on Jan. 21. We're shooting a video and wilt ship another 50,000
units." The big picture is that it seems rave - regardless of (or in addition to) a
sagging economy and a crackdown by authorities - was in the process of
down-cycling, subculturally, on its own. As techno DJ Richie Hawtin says,
recalling his early days in the scene, "There was a sense of belonging to a group
of people who had found common interests and united to do something a little
different, rather than a group of people who had been marketed to." Or as U.S.
rave originator Frankie Bones succinctly puts it, "I don't think 14- or
15-year-olds today think rave is the cool thing to do anymore." One look at the
regional rave e-mail lists - once the lifeblood of information for a burgeoning
grassroots scene - bears out this point. Traffic in all the major regions grew
steadily through the end of 2000, then began a freefall. Sometime around early
2001, MW-raves, Mountain-raves, NYC-raves and SF-raves all took a dive. In
many instances, traffic steadily fell to pre-'96 numbers; in July, MW-raves had
its lowest volume since October 1993. In other words, people were rapidly losing
interest in raves at the same time that the Feds were making their first big bust
with "Disco" Donnie Estopinal in New Orleans. As much as the Feds might like to
congratulate themselves, they didn't kill the scene. We managed that on our
own.
Folks are quick to point fingers now. Nowhere is the animosity more present
than in the relationship between promoters and superstar DJs. "The agents and
the big-name DJs refused to give the promoters of the one-off events any
breathing room on their fees," says Fisher, "to the point where the big promoters
couldn't make money. Over the last three years I subsidized Paul van Dyk to
play in D.C. while I sweat my ass off and lost money. I subsidized Boy George
while I worked my ass off and lost money. The dance music scene refused to
respect individual markets for what they were. I don't give a shit if you can draw
40,000 people in LA. In Baltimore and D.C., you can't. Promoters and some
big-name DJs had no respect for that. They'd tell you, 'Well, I'd rather not play."'
But if you talk to the agents, it's the promoters who are greedy. "One of two
people gets the money," says Gerry Gerrard, the agent of luminaries including
Paul Oakenfold, the Prodigy and the Chemical Brothers. "The promoter or the
DJ. My job is to make sure the DJ gets his fair share." "It sucks what's
happening right now," says Kurt Eckes, from Milwaukee's DropBass Network, the
promoters behind the Midwest's Further festivals. "But it's also sweet revenge. I
can still do underground events and keep my ball rolling. But at least all these
DJs counting on these $10,000 nights aren't getting them anymore."
So here we are, the bitter, the jaded, the disappointed: the rave scene.
Some people were and are true to the scene, to the music. Others just wanted
to profit, and many, probably, sought the best of both worlds. "I've been doing
this for years now," said Scott Richmond, one of the owners of Satellite Records,
one of the top vinyl outlets in New York, during a heated conversation about
money corrupting the art that was the rave scene. "Don't I have a right to make
a living!?" And it's true, we all have the right to make a living. But that right was
never guaranteed from the rave scene. Rave, at its origins, was just a couple of
turntables, some good records and people who wanted to dance. The rave scene
today is Shel Silverstein's Giving Tree. It gave its music, its fashion, its coolness.
Now who wilt sit with its lonely stump of a DIY ethic when there is no more
money to make? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Some 12,13 years ago, a Bush
was in office, our economy was tanking, and the drums of war with Iraq were
the perfect backdrop for rave to flourish. Today, history has eerily repeated
itself. It won't be rave that benefits from all that energy of dissent, though,
but rather whatever is next. Subcultures never die; they just fade into the
cultural detritus from which new art forms grow. The hippies didn't last forever,
neither did disco or punk. Yet key elements from these subcultures came
together and fostered techno-drenched outlaw parties. One of the few e-mail
lists I found with increasing membership was Digital Hell, a mailing list for
desktop maestros.
"The dance floors may be thinning," says Wally Winfrey. list moderator. "But the
bedrooms are full of activity. I reckon we'll see the fruition of that in the next
few years." There are mixed emotions at the wake. Some embrace denial,
pointing to the one-offs that, white dwindling, will lumber on for a time; there is
still money to be made, after all. Others offer up the occasional breakout chart
hits, the Mobys, the Dirty Vegases, as if that has anything to do with rave. The
very word itself has become an unsanitary term, four letters that embody
everything that was corporate and drug-addled and exploited about a musical
and cultural movement. I'm talking to Sasson Perry of Bay Area-based
Coolworld promotions, who has thrown a series of parties that have drawn in
excess of 15,000 people. And every time I ask him about raves, he stops the
conversation and, politely but firmly, explains to me that he promotes "dance
music festivals." Henry recalls that when Fox News did an "expose" on his club -
sneaking in some cameras and splashing drug use on the evening news - "they
just kept using that word over and over again, enunciating it each time. Do you
know what a rave is? This is a rave. Your kids might be going to raves." So let
us spare the false spin of positivity and go out like we came in, with dignity. The
two great house DJs Mark Farina and Derrick Carter were roommates in Chicago
in the late '80s and early '90s, throwing parties before they were called raves,
before anyone knew how they were suppose to dress or what PLUR meant. "We
were playing underground, Detroit, Chicago track-y minimal s to maybe 200
people," says Farina. "You were do a party to provide better music, do a better
venue than the next guy. It was competitive like that a opposed to 'I'm gonna do
bank on this party."' "You could rent someone's loft for the night for tike, $300,"
remembers Carter. "if you knew someone, maybe a cat's a little low on their re
One-hundred-fifty dollars, $200 for the sound system, cover the kegs and
everyone gets 50 bucks lunch money or whatever.
'Cause shit! I got al records sitting in my house. I don't eat properly
I Look stupid cause I can't afford good clothes, I got these hot- ass
records. Shit! These records gonna get heard. I'm gonna have a party
and play good records and laugh and see people we like it'll be cool. That
was all right. It was enough.' It was enough. Savor your memories as we a
moment of silence for rave, a glowstick poured for our homies onto the cold
concrete of a de warehouse floor. Perhaps it will be enough a some other way,
in some time to be. And the dance will begin anew.