I wasn’t what you’d call a raver. Growing up, my friends and I spent our Friday nights in London at Effra Social or The Hawley Arms, listening to Jimi Hendrix, Arcade Fire and The Strokes; head-banging and playing air guitars while debating over the true meaning of the word “punk”. I dreamt of sticky pints of lager. Alex Turner’s accent in “Mardy Bum”. One day seeing Lana Del Rey perform “The Greatest” live. I found lyrics and guitar solos cathartic. I liked gigs and Hungry Heart nights. I didn’t like the sound of sweaty underground discos, or heady caverns where glow-in-the-dark goggles bounced to repetitive thumping sounds.
Back then, raving seemed like something “cool” people did. People with rainbow-coloured hair clad in holographic unitards and shield sunglasses. People who devoured psychedelic drugs in ominous basements and perforated their eardrums while still looking sexy and bopping to EDM. People who were light and easy-going, who melted into pleasure and hedonism without feeling the need to over-analyse everything. People who were not like me.
