Growing up, I didn’t have homecoming or prom. Instead, there was Doctor P and Cookie Monsta on the 1s and 2s. There were claustrophobic warehouses decked out in UV light murals of Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas, Grand Central (when it was still a thing), and wide-open fields of music festivals drenched in neon lights and Pacman go-go dancers.
The link between all these delightfully bizarre places? Some renewing magic lingering in their dark corridors prompted the release of all fronts and the surrender of the ego, allowing me to get lost in the moment. Within a rave lies the possibility of getting baptized by lasers and bass to leave a new person—ready for whatever comes next.
Whether in Miami, LA, Emmaboda, Tokyo, or San Francisco Bay, raves held a special place in my heart. It was the one place everyone could shed their daily masks, let their freak flag fly high, and truly be in the moment. Gazes met across the dancefloor, friendships were formed, and whimsical memories were commemorated with the trading of seemingly trivial plastic bracelets (AKA Kandi) through a secret handshake shared by those in the know.
While it all seems childish and absurd at a distance, a closer inspection will reveal the healing power bestowed upon these grimy places and their symbolic codes.
Whenever feeling glum or fed up with the daily stressors, I’d pull up a bracelet and remember the vibrant personalities I’d encountered. Though we likely would never see each other again, just remembering that connection in that moment was enough. Recalling the mutual acceptance of each other at our most transparent would shrink any problem, illuminating the absurd self-prescribed importance of the human condition.
What does this have to do with finding the right rave?
Moving to New York, I didn’t know quite what to expect in terms of extracting therapeutic relief from its nightlife scene. While I had visited and partied in the city several times before, it seemed I could never find the right spot.
Maybe I was going to the wrong places. Or was I visiting during off seasons? Unpacking in my new apartment, I thought to myself,
Nothing can stop me now from finding a new rave home, right?
The reality of this vision boiled down to one word, four letters. PLUR. Or perhaps the absence of it.
What’s PLUR?
PLUR is not so much a what; it is more of a how. Standing for Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect, these four letters are the seeds planted in the garden of nightlife to harvest a new philosophy to connect—minus the ego-fueled engine of conventional club culture.
But what happens to a culture based on empathy, acceptance, and random acts of kindness when it finds itself in a city notorious for its temper?
Attempting to answer this question, I went on a quest to search for a new nest of nightlife.
House of Yes
It only felt natural to commence the hunt with House of Yes. Something about the surface of this Williamsburg-based circus meets burner party seemed instantly appealing. The idea is certainly there. Nonstop costume parties, live performances, wild interior design, a you can look, but you can’t touch consent policy offering offenders the door (a concept unheard of in the realm of clubland)—what else could I ask for?
There is the matter of the vibe, however. While the club prides itself on filtering out the bros, somehow, through some hole or crack in the wall, the creepers and sleazeballs slither in and disrupt the dancefloor with heavy breathing and, let’s just say, some softcore cornering.
It is cramped and tight (much like most clubs in New York). However, a somewhat three-dimensional collage of disco balls, no-face mannequins, and colossal animatronic eyeballs steeped in glitter certainly compensate for the establishment’s underwhelming dimensions.
“Everyone’s moving to Berlin. New York is so dead. I mean, this is cute, I guess, but it’s not even real techno,” says Lexi rolling her eyes right before she makes her way to the smoking section.
“The performances are cool, but on the dancefloor, things just fall a tad flat,” chimes in Anne, Lexi’s friend.
Lexi and Anne aren’t wrong. The beat is flat. There is hardly any bass. No wavey vibrations pulse from these speakers. When does the drop begin or end? No one seems to know the answer. Some people bob, others grind. Most frequent is the apathetic choreography of checking their social media feed. Whether scrolling on their phones, trying to get the hound-like bros off their trail, or hitting a JUUL whilst simultaneously disassociating into the void, attendees simply don’t dance.
It seems the staff is having more fun than anyone else as they gather in corners of its smoking section and bars parallel to cliques in high school.
What’s the catch? Perhaps it can be found at the bar where vodka gets splashed with iced chamomile tea and ginger extract. Or maybe, it’s on the stage where live performances breathe life into the house. Aerial strip teases flirt with sword-swallowing neon demons while contortionists crunch and bend to the beat of the 808.
However, like all good things, a night of awe-inspiring bends and eye-boggling tricks turns the carnie carriage back into a frumpy pumpkin at the stroke of midnight. When the dazzle of the show fades, I find myself back on the sticky dance floor; its energy—or lack thereof—has left me fatigued, bored, and ready to flee the scene.
Eris
Then, there were the Goths. Who could forget the Goths! Wherever there is the black parade, there shall be killer beats. Following this formula, I hop on the L to Williamsburg to arrive at Eris. Entering, I’m greeted by a silver-haired, raven-lipped door lady who goes by Diana Skellington. Decked out in lace and hitting a vape, she compliments my shirt: a kaleidoscopic mural of sorts of Rob Zombie’s face. An expansive dance floor greets me. They are blasting a remix of Marilyn Manson’s This Is the New Shit, along with its music video projected on the back wall. Now, maybe this is the spot.
I head downstairs for some browsing around. Delightfully surprised, I find myself on a microscopic dancefloor sliced by shifting lasers. First green, then purple, now blue. BPMs thump at lightspeed as though they’d consumed a feast of sugary treats. The DJ signals at me, tugs on his shirt, signals a chef’s kiss, and drops an EBM remix to Rob Zombie’s Dragula.
Jumping around, the crowd pulls increasingly tighter, with latex corsets and goggles closing in on me. The energy gets raised to the power of the dark dance anthem as attendees start busting out some industrial dance moves. Everyone is wearing platforms, self-included. A wave of synths rushes over me and vibrates off the walls leaving a thick aura of bass rolling off the basement’s walls.
Tangled in a knot of fishnet, O-rings, and studs, I shimmy out and excuse myself to get a drink at the bar. It would be an understatement to call its drink selection a throwback, as prohibition-era cocktails flood its one-page menu.
I ask the bartender what’s her recommendation. She replies, “The Vesper’s always a knockout.”
Then a Vesper it is.
Much to my surprise, her definition of knockout veers more on the literal side, where I can hear a procession of gin and Lilet Blanc pound against my eardrums and rush in a feverish blush from my temples to my cheeks as I down the sucker.
Suddenly, crowds swarm up onto the main floor. Time to go upstairs.
What’s all the commotion?
“It’s midnight burlesque,” exclaims a platinum-haired latex-clad regular named Sophie. “Now, this is the highlight,” she says with firm conviction.
Perhaps not.
A sluggish and rather sclerotic burlesque show fused with Styrofoam-stale stand-up comedy leaves many—self included—underwhelmed and heading outside for fresh air. Most spark Marlboro Red 100s and compare the obscurity of bands and DJs on their playlists. Others engage in the ritualistic secret-spilling and trauma bond often found in the silence of smoking areas. The remainder signals the vibe is dead, and it is time to split. I take my cue and disembark from its dark corridors and onto the trash-lined maze of Williamsburg after hours.
The Mirage
Following a 40-minute coat-check line and a rather complicated cashless wristband refilling process, I enter the Mirage.
It’s hot; it’s heavy—even a little musky.
Bodies crunch to fatty wubs filling the airwaves of this steamy warehouse. Strobes pound, fists pump. It’s as if the inescapable boom of its sound system carries your shoes for you—almost as if some all-seeing spirit of the 808 possesses the bodies on the dancefloor, pulling and pushing limbs with the slap of a synth and the kick of the snare.
The room fills up like a sardine can. Sandwiched between pastel fur shrugs, rhinestone pasties, and synthetic neon braids, I find myself thinking, all right, this feels a little closer to home. Cat ears peek above the crowd. A brunette in pigtails starts raging with a pixel whip, filling the air with incandescent sparks of neon pink, purple, and flickers of green.
A noteworthy feature of the Mirage is its energy. Attendees bob, shuffle, and head-bang to the beats spewing from its speakers. With a state-of-the-art production system that blares flames, lasers, and kaleidoscopic graphics blasted on large LED panels, a killer view is at arm’s reach—whether riding the rail or posted up in the back.
Several securities start herding us like cattle. That can only mean one thing. The night has come to an end. I struggle to lift my creeper off the sticky, gum-like floor. With a tug on the thigh and a fierce kick, I emerge from the quicksand of the dancefloor and join the rest of the herd. As I hobble for the exit, the staff continues to shout at attendees that the event is over—as if that wasn’t obvious enough. Some ignore it, others reciprocate their screams, while a select few keep dancing long after the music has ended.
As the name suggests, the Mirage is simply just that. While the space is expansive and the lineup boasts buzzworthy DJs, sloppy management can leave attendees waiting in long lines just to have the event canceled 10 minutes after doors are scheduled to open. Speaking from personal experience, it’s happened to me three times, and it’s not a pretty picture when there are hundreds of salty ravers knee-deep into the pre-game, all dressed up and with nowhere to go.
If I feel adventurous and want to roll the dice, the Mirage could make for a vibrant nocturnal adventure underneath its candy-colored lights. Or it could result in a suspenseful game of Yelp scouring in its parking lot in search of a last-minuter alternative.
While each is unique in the crowd that draws them and the energy emanating from their dance floors, I couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment. Why couldn’t I find what I was so eagerly seeking? Could it be that the scene I had known and loved growing up contradicted the very DNA of the city?
It seems I was asking the wrong questions all along.
Maybe a language of PLUR is spoken through the labyrinthine alleyways connecting New York’s steamy raves; perhaps it is spoken in the dialect of the city’s punchy attitude and affinity for tough love.
Unlike the scene’s marshmallow-ey texture elsewhere, I realized Gotham’s raves might have a bit more crunch. Much like its distinction in texture, there is its scope of flavors each sub-scene marinates in. Whether it’s the smokey palette of Eris and its macabre melodies or the spicy faux-burner vibes simmering at House of Yes, there’s a mutual love for pulsing beats and the thrill of the night. As my outer layer begins to crip in sync with the city’s cynical spin on the scene, the mantra remains to be free, spread love, and, overall, just have fun.