Forgot about this essay I wrote almost three years ago. It’s a study in slightly bad writing and disillusionment.

Let’s face the truth: at its worst, the beloved rave scene is nothing more than a bunch of kids on drugs dancing along crooked paths of self discovery/delusion in huge rotting warehouses. Then there’s some guy who thinks he’s a musician because he can spin two records at the same time, playing beats that are not always good, but are always loud. Promoters skulk around the edges of the room counting their money, and I leave feeling like I’ve wasted my time and energy, embarrassed by my own adopted family.