The same conditions that make Christmas appealing are the same that make raves appealing. The lighting is dimmed to a darker hue, blunts are lit like incense in a church, flashing lights gleam exasperating intense pageantry, and people in bright colors sing & dance in a celebration of all things jolly. Perhaps humans discovered this formula for mass appeal long ago; perhaps its origins linger in the days of Neanderthals gathering around a fire, grunting incomprehensible phonics to celebrate the illumination. Whatever the catalyst the end result is crystal clear: RAVES ARE FUCKING FUN!
When Antics took the stage a calm moment existed before the first power chord was struck, and as it reverberated throughout the room and the bass kicked in-so did the frenzy. A caste of pink haired girls, men with cocked hats, pacifier sucking delinquents, and a wandering bachelorette party took to the dance floor. They swirled around each other in organized chaos. Limbs thrown about like meat at a butcher shop. One of my best friends lit up his poi and twirled them around, a makeshift rainbow cascaded across the dark room, while Antics’ stage lights flashed various insignia enhancing the music ten-fold. At one point the DJ lingered at the edge of the stage with a tequila bottle, he poured shots to those that asked, in the fashion of a mama bird regurgitating food into the baby bird’s mouth. I was even lucky enough to receive one of said shots; such intimacy with a fan base should be celebrated (so I thank him for that). The show concluded with a couple of women taking the stage. They danced before our mystified gazes, in what I can only describe as an attempt to steal the spotlight, but their endeavor failed. All attention and gratitude was directed towards Antics.
Two days later my roommates and I are limping around the apartment. Nursing our legs, sore from dancing so much, it’s a pleasant pain, one that feels well earned, and we have Antics to thank for that.