I grew up in the Bay Area rave scene. From age 15 (bless my poor parents) until my early twenties I spent most weekends traversing the north bay, east bay, San Francisco, south bay, and beyond as part of the community of artists, musicians, technologists, queers, and weirdos that shared an interest in electronic music and the underground. It was my introduction to design, technology, DIY ethos, philosophy, activism, and so much more. It felt like the future and a return to communal human roots at the same time.
We preferred small, intimate, unpermitted venues. Artist live-work spaces, industrial warehouses, gymnasiums, abandoned offices—places we sometimes literally broke into with bolt cutters. Venues with names like The Creamery, Army Street, Crackhouse, Noodle Factory, Tree House, My Floppy’s Flophouse, New Hack City, The Tenderloft, Overworld, Otherworld, The Compound, and so many I am probably forgetting. Finding a venue was always the hard part because cities cracked down and rents were high, making it impossible to have permitted all-age, all-night parties. These venues were in ghettos and forgotten dark alleys but they were safe places to be for those of us who didn’t feel like we fit in with the mainstream. These places felt special, magical even. We rarely thought about physical safety beyond hiring a security guard to be there for appearances if cops showed up. But in retrospect I’ve often felt incredibly grateful that I survived those years and the often dangerous situations we all put ourselves in.
Once, I was at a party in Oakland, in a sketchy part of town where young white girls weren’t supposed to be. I was 16 and helping with setup and door. I had parked my Ford Escort outside and as the party was warming up I walked outside to grab something from the front door of the car. As I approached my car, another car came careening around the corner and smashed right into the driver side door, totaling it then somehow screeching off. I was seconds away from being in that exact spot and shook to the core. When I shared my story on the SF-Raves email list, everyone in the community rallied to raise money to pay for the car (no insurance for hit and run) and supported me emotionally… something I’ll never forget.
Even though I grew out of that scene long ago I’ll always be a part of that community and I owe so much of who I am to those experiences. Last night, at an event reminiscent of endless parties I attended and including several familiar faces (I knew 2 people, many more connected by only one degree), a fire ripped through the Oakland arts space Ghost Ship. There are still 30 people missing with very little hope they will be found alive. My Facebook feed is filled with sorrow and despair. Even after all these years it hits too close to home.
Looking at the pictures it’s unsurprising the place erupted in flames. It’s a beautiful death trap. I hope this is a wakeup call for all DIY venues, including punk, rock, and rap spaces like many that exist here in Brooklyn, to take precautions and consider people’s safety not as an inconvenience but a matter of basic consideration. And if a venue seems unsafe to you, make sure you know where the exits are and complain to organizers if you can.
Rest in peace you beautiful weirdos :(
theartofmadeline
germansingergirl
2087
jbbartram-illu
turnnoffyourmind
ellievsbear
