NOT EVERY SONG NEEDS LYRICS! IN DEFENSE OF SH*TTY DANCE MUSIC
My first rave was when I was twenty years old and still coming off the secondhand high of Brat Summer. Whether or not this high was from collective effervescence or poppers fumes is up to you to decide. It was during a fateful Thanksgiving break that my best friend begged me to come with her to the DJ set of a fresh romantic prospect who had an affinity for all things electronic music. The only details of the elusive event were that it was BYOB, had a $10 cover, and that the address we were given didn’t exist as a formal establishment on any map or website.
Kansas City was in the middle of a nasty cold snap, and I was entirely uninformed on what one was to wear to secret dance clubs in rundown warehouses of the industrial district. So, naturally, I settled on a dangerously lowrise black satin maxi skirt. Because I’m phenomenal at planning around dancing, I paired it with a pitiful sheer tank that fought miserably to keep me contained when I exuded any movement above standing still. And after all, it was winter, so I settled for my shoddy thrifted lycra boots to finish off the look. The boot shafts were, of course, stuffed with whatever random alcohol we found in my friend’s basement, which would turn out to be a repulsive collection of two Fireball shooters and a camo-patterned Busch Lite.
Giving a harmless white lie of our whereabouts to our parents, we took off in pursuit of this DJ set of questionable locality, once we had finally determined what was an appropriate amount of glitter for underground nightlife. As our Uber pulled up to the caliginous, unmarked building, I tried to shake off the apprehension that took form as a suffocating weight in my chest. Had you not been able to feel the bass throbbing through the sleazy brick walls from the outside, one could have assumed the building was entirely deserted.
Despite the small, well-adjusted region of my conscious screaming that I was practically begging to have my face pasted on the side of a milk carton if I went in there, I knew two things: I didn’t play about Charli XCX, and that I loved my best friend. I mean, how could I claim that 365 featuring Shygirl was “my song” every time it played if I couldn’t handle an inconspicuous DJ set? That’s essentially partygirl blasphemy. So, figuring this was reason enough, I shimmied off my disquietude and began to march up the creaky staircase in search of the thunderous music.
Up the stairs and tucked away into a grungy, exposed-brick chamber was a gathering like I had never seen before. The dark room was lit only by old tube TVs scattered about, continuously playing camcorder footage of what appeared to have been a recent event – one that could only be deduced by the modern fashion and flash of a cell phone in one clip. Through the haze of a diligent fog machine sat a table with an expansive board covered in hundreds of buttons, switches and wires. The deck was sandwiched in between two speakers taller than me, emitting a volume that entirely saturated the small loft space. Not only could you feel the bass trembling through your stomach, but it felt like you were within the music itself. It was wonderfully disorienting, and I found myself becoming one with the blaring noise as if it were a palpable object I could take claim to.
Aside from rather uncoordinated and giggly trips to the bathroom, My best friend and I didn’t really speak all night. Nobody did. I didn’t even notice when she snuck away for an unbeknownst period of time to greet the elusive DJ we had supposedly come to see perform. Because all you could do in a room like this was dance. Familiar lyrics and quiet breaks for conversation were completely nonexistent in this place.
Growing up, it’s always been a running joke amongst friends and family that I am a terrible dancer. I struggle to remember the words to every song, and you’d have better luck herding cats than getting choreography to stick with me. Dancing does not come naturally to me, and I was in fact informed by my ex-boyfriend that I danced like the character Fregly from Diary of a Wimpy Kid (f*ck you, by the way). Never in my life have I ever been labeled as anything remotely close to being a good dancer.
Not until I discovered electronic music and the culture that surrounds it. When I realized that freedom upon the dance floor is all that is required of being miraculous to watch.
There is a certain poetry to dancing that you are doing a massive disservice to yourself by denying in the name of performance. Before I discovered electronic music, I avoided dancing at all costs even when my body was begging me to give into movement. I thought that if you weren’t “good” and you couldn’t sing along, there wasn’t much of a point aside from it being an activity to attempt to do with friends. But in a space like this, I realized that the entire room moved to the same rhythm, and that everyone was perfectly unique while still being connected to one unifying body.
Likely due to the horrific cold, there were only about twenty people present for the event dispersed throughout the oversized space. One could assume that everyone flocked to the set within their own established friendgroups, but it became indistinguishable once you were on the dance floor. I had always been a bit more reserved when navigating large group settings, and yet everyone was able to disarm me in an instant with the freedom that wafted off of them.
Movement was all that mattered. Limbs flailed and bodies thrashed. Hair was shook all about as light from the lasers and strobe lights caught onto the strands within the smoggy room. Shoulders bumped and foldable hand fans flapped gushes of reviving cool air into the pockets of sweating bodies. Everyone here danced just like me! Everyone was Fregly! All that existed was the thrum of the bass and the tantalizing repetition of borderline robotic noises. Acquaintances established from only three seconds of eye contact and a smile beckoned me to join them as we all silently tromped around one another. For the first time, I didn’t have a single care of what I was outwardly appearing to others as I soaked up the noises blasting from the speakers and my vision pulsed in and out amongst the flashing lights.
The next day, I was beside myself as I flocked to my sister and mother to tell them of this spiritual experience. Of course minor details were withheld, such as the menacingly covert location and the offering of “Special K” in a Ziploc baggy that I politely declined. But technicalities aside, I needed to spread word of this music like it was gospel!
This was the first time that I was informed that I liked music that “sounds like sh*t.”
What I felt were the most stimulating sounds I had ever heard apparently presented to others as to that of banging pots and pans together. In an instant, I lost aux privileges, and my sanity came into question as to how I could tolerate such racket.
For reasons that belong only to my best friend and me, this event and all of such moving forward would become known to us as a “lesbian rave.” What started as an inside joke quickly became its own distinct noun, cemented within our vocabularies. The second one of us saw an ambiguous Instagram story from one of the three DJs we kept tabs on following our induction, our plans were set in stone. If we were both in town and had $10 to spend, there was no doubt in our minds that we were going to a lesbian rave. No matter the weather, we mastered how to brave every single condition Mother Nature could concoct. I’ve now learned the bounds of how much one can shiver and sweat while still maintaining life. Locations being withheld until an hour before the event became a normal occurrence, and I’ve become so desensitized to people casually smoking indoors that sometimes I feel like I’ve gotten an authentic taste of pre-Y2K life. Scouring out a techno rave or house set immediately became my favorite form of nightlife, forever ruining me for anything less.
Just as I navigate the fervent community that comes with going dancing, I’ve also learned the important unspoken rules of who you bring to these events. Locations stay hidden for a reason and, forgive me for sounding pretentious, not everyone gets it. In other words, you don’t bring people who don’t like “sh*tty” music and real weirdos.
Yes, some people do not wear a lick of deodorant to these events, despite the room predictably being a breezy 80-something degrees every time. And yes, some people will do drugs out in the open and go as far as to offer you (a complete stranger) some of their stash. And yes, people will move their bodies in ways that you didn’t know a human could physically contort. But the very first thing that I picked up on was that just as quickly as I didn’t want people to judge my bodily reactions to the music, it was of utmost importance that I was free of judgement towards theirs. What makes our sh*tty music and overwhelming dancefloors so meaningful is how we’re able to momentarily emancipate ourselves from the real world. Knowing you can enter a room and guarantee none of its inhabitants are there to judge or record you is an indescribable feeling.
A pioneer of electronic music in the mainstream and resident queen of the dance floor, Madonna has once again reinforced the importance of the dance community with the recent roll out of her CONFESSIONS II album. This work is an ode to movement and authenticity, existing as a perfect continuation of the legendary Confessions on a Dance Floor. Upon my very first listen the night it was released, the opening verse of “One Step Away” immediately grasped my attention and finally put my feelings towards the genre into words. I could insert the lyrics here directly, however, I implore you to listen to the song and the entire album… so I won’t! Discover the story of this “ritualistic space” for yourself!
Unfortunately, entering “the scene” is often dependent on circumstance and people. Finding the right companions to attend can lead to a short list, and finding the ideal event is a labor of love in which they can be few and far between. In the meantime, I encourage you to learn the history of the community! Learn of its midwestern roots and European reengineering! Learn how to love SoundCloud! Keep your ears perked and your inhibitions disarmed, and you too will find yourself discovering these discrete communities so long as you lead with respect. Be proud of your sh*tty music taste and grasp the flourishing soul that exists within dance music!
