There's nothing like a rave to teach a few life lessons
Cover photo by Jennifer Catherine Photography
This weekend was educational.
I learned that I make a lousy caregiver. I learned that Iowa is often larger than I realize. I learned that strokes are awful. And most importantly, I learned that I might be getting a little too old to rave.
Fresh out of college, I supported myself for a time by promoting all-night dance parties that were all the rave in the early Nineties. If you or your child spent much of that decade in baggy clothes with baggy eyes, that was probably my doing. Sorry 'bout that. Actually, no, I'm not sorry. There was nothing as electric as finding an unsuspecting empty building and then testing its structural integrity by filling it with teenagers and bass bins. At more than 100 raves around the Midwest, the promotions group I co-founded brought love through sonic chaos.
I look back at those days fondly, and I apologize for nothing. Nowhere else could you find a more disparate group of kids coming together without judgement, bullying, fighting or drama -- all for the shared love of pulsing dance beats shoved into one's earholes at a ridiculously unhealthy volume. Back in those days, promoters treated one another with respect, and we did our best to maintain a great relationship with all the nearby party planners. So when the guys who used to throw raves up in Cedar Falls announced a reunion party, complete with one of all my all-time favorite DJs (Chicago's "Mystic Bill"), I had to be there...