While Punk Rock looked rebellious, and its followers loudly proclaimed themselves rebels, by the time the dust had settled a lot of it had become uptight and boring.
If there was any genuine rebellion left in Punk Rock, it had largely died sometime in the late 80s.
Fizzled out.
Expired.
The punk rebellion was relegated to talking trash at a McDonald’s drive thru or throwing a beer bottle at a car.
Everything after that was dress up.
The heir and successor to the punk rebellion was the first wave rave scene of 1990–92.
In Los Angeles that was pure chaos.
Illegal warehouse parties.
Secret locations.
Free alcohol.
MDMA.
LSD.
DJs illegally sampling songs and movie dialogue like copyright law was merely a suggestion.
You didn’t simply “go to a party.”
You received a phone number.
Then a map point.
Then another map point.
Then another.
Sometimes you would find yourself at Bourgeois Pig on Franklin Avenue to get a map to the rave and then buy a coffee. (Note: The Pig had a room called “The Hobbit Forest Room”. It was a trip all its own)
At some point you realized you were participating in an elaborate urban treasure hunt designed by people who had apparently decided that civilization had become optional.
My first rave was in 1991 and it was the now infamous DOUBLE HIT MICKEY. It was at La Casa on Washington Boulevard.
Free beer, X, and No RULES. (The police raided this party. I casually walked through the running crowd carrying a keg of beer.)
Explanation: The Double Hit Mickey name referenced the blotter acid squares that were double-dipped in LSD and had Mickey Mouse’s face printed on it. If you took one of these hits of acid, you were in for one hell of a ride. Back to our regularly scheduled program.
I went in as a devoted punk rock kid and exited with “This is fucking punk as fuck”. Even Don Bolles of 45 Grave stated on old MARS FM that “The rave scene is more punk than punk rock”.
Don saw it, I saw it, the punks didn’t get it.
Punk had become one genre of music and a strict set of clothing.
But, without a doubt, Double Hit Mickey was the new prophet of rebellion; it lit the way.
In the L.A. rave scene, you might end up at La Casa in downtown, or somewhere high in the San Gabriel Mountains, or as far out as the Mojave Desert. Following cryptic directions while wondering whether you were going to a rave, a cult initiation, or a police sting.
And that was the beauty of it.
Nobody had issued a manifesto.
Nobody had printed membership cards.
Nobody knew who was actually in charge.
You knew you were part of something genuinely rebellious because at any moment:
The police could raid the place.
The music could stop.
The lights could come on.
Everybody could suddenly become extremely interested in hiding their stash.
And nobody was standing around discussing whether their outfit represented the correct ideological interpretation of rebellion.
You just danced.
You disappeared into the night.
You followed the next map point.
You discovered a warehouse or forest full of strangers.
You watched a DJ turn fragments of records, movies, machines, and human stupidity into something completely new.
For a few hours, the entire concept of normal society appeared to have been misplaced.
That was rebellion.
Not pretending to be dangerous.
Actually doing something society hadn’t figured out how to categorize yet.
Punk said, “Fuck the system.”
The Rave scene simply removed the system’s address from the map.
The party was the revolution.
The map was the manifesto.
It broke the law with: illegal parties, no permits, DJs violating copyright law, free beer, MDMA, LSD, Ketamine (special K). it was a huge fuck you to society with a hug, bright clothes, and a lollipop.
And nobody knew where the fuck the next location was.
You can sound off to Mark at mahernan24@yahoo.com.
