I enter the cavernous warehouse and quickly discover that it must be extremely well insulated. Just outside the door, it was silent. Two steps in and I can feel the bass of the beat pulsing against my chest. It feels like an arrhythmia.
The room stutters. The strobe lights are flashing like hyperactive polaroids. A thousand people bounce along to the percussive chant of a repeated phrase that invokes visions of Jonestown and Waco more so than Studio 54 or the Wave. Everyone smiles or laughs, leaving tracers with various glow-in-the-dark sticks and orbs, as they twist and crawl in place.
Scattered about the crowd, on pedestals of various heights, are near-naked women and men leading the dance and every so often getting a little closer to naked.
My first question is, “Who the fuck are these people?” And, of course, my second question is, “Who the fuck am I?”