Rave Culture in Minneapolis

 

Flashes of green and purple outline the slacken faces in the crowd. They bob their heads off-rhythm and stare into the distance. Blue light cracks across the stage as a man taps my shoulder and gargles, “You know honey, it’s okay to smile”. It’s in this moment that I feel as though this decision was a mistake.

The idea of going to a rave had been bounced around in our friend group for a couple weeks. To us, raves were an essential bucket list item. They seemed revelous. A night filled with exhilarating music and entrancing lights. When given the opportunity to finally check that box, we jumped.

The night before the event, we ventured to the Mall of America to pick out our outfits. This was the most exciting part and ramped up the anticipation for the event. Surrounded by neons and metallics, with only 40 minutes to decide, I picked out a combination of fishnets, holistic tulle, and silver. 

The quintessential rave item is kandi. These beaded bracelets come in every color and design and symbolize the rave culture, PLURR (peace, love, unity, respect, and responsibility). After hearing about my rave intentions, one of my close friends made me five beautiful kandi bracelets to complete my dream. 

Kandi trading comes with meaning. It commemorates a connection made with someone at a rave. Going into the Skyway Theater in downtown Minneapolis, this was my idea of what a rave would be: a place filled with loud music and a special atmosphere of unity.

The reality was very much not what I had idealized. Walking onto the floor was a deafening experience, literally. The first five minutes were the most euphoric of my life — then took an exponential nose-dive. 

After breaking trance from the electric music, I realized how boring it was. The DJ playing had an evident god complex taller than the skyscraper surrounding us, yet somehow only knew how to blast the base. After subsequently blowing out our eardrums, the only relief was when the main performer, Mitis, came on stage. The room was still too small to find reprieve from the loudness. Even standing in the back felt like my brain was being hijacked by the beat.

When I started to look around, I uneasily began to notice the ratio of men to women. Throngs of men stood in the back silently observing while much fewer girls danced seemingly disembodied. A feeling of fear began to tighten my chest as I realized how outnumbered we were.

I was approached numerous times by older men asking me incoherent questions. When I didn’t respond, they’d drift over to the next group of girls and start the cycle over. They treated us like fruit in a grocery store, eyeing us over, trying to feel our ripeness. I’d never felt my gender and age as such vulnerabilities before. 

After an hour, all four of us jammed ourselves in a dilapidated 4×3 bathroom stall and made an exit plan. We were far too sober for the chaos around us and the rave was not at all the movie-moment we desired. We needed to binge Insomnia Cookies and sleep.

While I’m not warded off of raves completely, I don’t think I’ll be attending another one in the Twin Cities. The rave life in Minneapolis is nothing like the traditional EDM festivals like Mysteryland and Tomorrowland. There are a lot fewer people, with the attendees being mostly in their 30s. No one wore kandi, which was the most disappointing part, and there wasn’t any unity in the experience. 

Above anything else, it made me realize my place in the world that I live in. It seems unjust that I had to fear so much for my safety in a crowd of 500 people simply because of my gender. The lack of security provided increased the anxiety-inducing factors. The fashion, the getting ready process, and the people made the night wonderful, but I could have done without the rave.