To date, I have only been to the Valley Dale Ballroom twice. The first of these was for a seafood trade show, when I was running that department for a Kroger store here in town; the second was for a rave, at the pinnacle of that whole era. It isn’t exactly a newsflash to declare that the latter was the far more memorable experience. But beyond that, the extremes represented by these two events demonstrates what a weird and varied history this venue has had, a place so old that the likes of Glenn Miller and other swing era titans used to perform here on a regular basis.
The rave I am somewhat cajoled into attending, in September of 2000, by my coworkers Ryan and Jamie. I had worked with them once previously, then we went our separate ways for a while, only for me to wind up working with both again as of that summer. They were veterans of this scene, but I’d never attended, and neither had Damon, whom I subsequently convinced into joining us. An astute reader may observe that this flyer states the event would be held at the convention center, yet this never happened. It was switched to the Valley Dale Ballroom at the last minute, and according to Ryan, this was a common practice: the city would only approve a rave if they could assign off duty cops to provide security, then would cancel at the eleventh hour, hoping the event itself would evaporate as a result. Promoters were then left scrambling for replacement security, and often an alternate site as well.
This is what he says, anyway, and while difficult if not impossible to confirm, that’s true of almost every aspect about this rave scene. Everything is very sketchy, vague, forever floating just out of sight on the periphery – and this is somewhat by design, as it could not exist otherwise. Granted, prior to attending, my knowledge of raves basically consists of those few scenes from the movie Go, some articles I’ve read, and what Jamie or Ryan have told me about it. Yet nothing much about experiencing it firsthand will alter those initial impressions. Aethestically the surface details are just about spot on from what I had expected, while as lived, the bodily experience itself, it is surprisingly much more tepid than imagined.
To be blunt, much of this hoopla doesn’t pass the smell test. This is already mine and Damon’s expectation heading into this, not as believers or the hoping-to-be-converted but rather as somewhat skeptical observers. You can argue that such a mindset is coloring our impressions, before we’ve even set foot inside the place, but the thing is, we want to believe in the hype. It would be great to imagine that such myths were in fact reality, only within the magical confines of these raves, where tons of hot chicks were so hopped up on ecstasy and what have you that they were pairing up with strangers all over the place. Yet the realists within us recognize that this sure sounds like some overblown horseshit, though there’s only one way to confirm such, and a whole lot of other would be facts about rave culture.
First things first, while unable to verify the reasons behind those venue switch shenanigans, I do know where we purchased our tickets for it: at the World Record store on High Street. So this is already sounding a lot more conventional and not nearly the secret handshake-y, mostly obscured underworld we might have expected. To which I’m sure the hardcore converts will rebut with something along the lines of, “well, yeah, dude, this might have technically been a rave you attended, but it wasn’t a rave rave, brah.” In other words, kicking off the kind of back and forth that, much like everything else concerning these babies, you can never really truly get to the definitive bottom of.
My answer to that would be that Ryan, Jamie, and their cohorts were attending these damn things just about every weekend, and were as stoked about this one as they were any other. Even more excited about it, in fact, considering that these were rarely held in Columbus at the time, and they usually had to drive to some other far flung city. But what about some of the other standard points and counterpoints? Here’s a quick rundown of a couple more prominent ones:
Point #1: You probably picked a lame rave to attend, man
Counterpoint: I’m not so sure about that. This is a huge lineup of performers, headlined by Del the Freakin’ Funky Homosapien. Everybody else we were with save exactly one guy (more on that in a minute) wound up enthusing about what a killer time it was afterwards, and for all I know even he did, too. Again, though it’s possible Damon and I were only seeing what we expected to, and were biased accordingly, our impressions end up a lot more muted.
Point #2: Yeah but, like, there was this one time in Detroit where these two chicks flashed their tits at us. Or this other rave in Chicago where I saw some guy having a threesome in this bathroom stall. Also remember that one time in Atlanta where I made out with that really halfway decent looking drunk girl in the van before the rave even started? So clearly these raves are off the chain, bro!
Counterpoint: While not exactly an everyday occurrence, these same scenarios play out in normal bars, rock concerts, or for that matter if you happen to have rented a limo for your best friend’s birthday. At Comfest, which is held in a boring ol’ city park, girls are even known to walk around all day long topless in broad daylight. The other half of this equation is the somewhat glaring yet often conveniently overlooked fact that this era is also well known for these same groups of people sitting around their apartments doing ecstasy, special K, and everything else under the sun, en masse. I was a witness to countless nights of this myself. None of them turned into massive orgies or for that matter even huge makeout sessions.
While I don’t doubt that the larger scale of this communal event does to some extent elevate the masses into a more euphoric state, let’s not get carried away here. Let’s label this phenomenon exactly as it is. You came here to do drugs and dance to some music. By and large, the primary entertainments we personally observe are…people doing drugs, and dancing to the music. And there’s no reason to feel ashamed, like you are letting down the entire rave scene – it’s totally okay to just go ahead and admit this.
II.
The day of the event, I drive over after work to pick my pal Jamie up, at which point we head across town to my apartment, to meet up with Damon and chill. En route it begins raining, and as the wipers on my car royally suck, Jamie is alternately cracking up and somewhat worried about this situation. As we are cruising up Morse Road, I attempt assuring him that dealing with these is very similar to the method used for viewing Magic Eye artwork, i.e. you kind of just face the windshield with unfocused eyes, which allows you to somehow see beyond the raindrops, they don’t even register at all. Or something to this effect. Not that he buys my explanation in the slightest, mind you.
Further shenanigans will ensue, just getting everyone together and into the rave in one piece. After the three of us hang out for a spell, we then pile in my car and head up the road to meet this Alex character at the Subway restaurant near the Morse/Stelzer intersection. Alex is a friend of Jamie’s, and while he’s certainly pleasant enough and vaguely amusing and everything, he seems to me the kind of clueless figure who probably wouldn’t have gotten very far in life regardless, but has done himself no favors by already frying his brain with drugs at a very early age.
The purpose of meeting here is subsequently very difficult to discern. Because although Ryan and some of his own invitees will link up with us later at the rave, Jamie and Damon and I are stuck riding over to Alex’s house in Gahanna anyway, in other words we could have maybe skipped a step and just met him there. He and his brother still live at home with their mom, possibly their dad as well. Here, we join forces with yet more people, and some of them are even of the attractive female variety that we’ve heard are supposed to be dripping from the rafters at these types of things. Still, this isn’t quite as exhilarating as one might suppose – though my roommate and I, and for that matter my coworker as well, are all only in our mid 20s, these girls sure do look awfully young. It strikes me that everything about this scene is slightly off kilter, especially once we arrive at the rave itself. It’s considered totally okay these girls maybe take a hit of ecstasy, snort some K and then drop a hit of acid in a dingy ballroom with thousands of other similarly wrecked youths…and yet meanwhile, I do feel like a bit of an inadvertent creeper, simply by hanging out with them in Alex’s spacious, well-lit bedroom in suburban Gahanna, as we hatch battle plans for where we’re taking them after this. Damon and Jamie and I can only hope the women at the rave are somewhat older than this.
Fortunately, we launch into motion before too much lounging around. Although it’s debatable how great this is, as everyone piles into just a couple vehicles and we follow Alex’s lead over to the Valley Dale, where every single future rave participant continues to chill, most of them in the parking lot across the street. This is all because, accidentally or otherwise, a wedding reception has not yet wrapped up in there. Plus we are somewhat early anyway. Therefore this leads to what I have to admit is maybe my fondest memories of this entire shebang: a late fall, early evening drizzle, tons of people mingling in midsized groups, passing bottles of liquor around – as are we – with various jams blasting from a good fifty percent of the cars.
Still, we are either way early, or this reception is dragging on way late. We have so much time to kill that, eyeing the unrelenting rain, my wiper situation, and the prospect of dealing with that at who knows what hour when we leave the place, Damon proposes that he and I drive home now to switch vehicles. Which I am okay with, and seems even maybe prudent on his part, considering that this stretch of Sunbury Road remains somewhat of an untamed wilderness, curvy and forested, and my whole Magic Eye (un)focus theory does admittedly crumble to an amusing degree during a couple of close calls nearly ditching it during this drive home.
Upon our return, we discover that many of the parking lot contingent are much the worse for drink, on top of whatever else they might have ingested. But at least we are done with the alcohol now. Comparing notes with Ryan, he says that while there are occasional rare raves here and there that do feature a bar, this will not be one of them. In fact, more than anyone else I’ve ever encountered, he seems most knowledgeable about the inner workings of this culture, is by far the most credible overall. This could be because, as he’s often peddling these popular party drugs himself, he is in full business mode and generally not as messed up as most of the others. For example, he relates a clearheaded assessment of another recent event, with a door charge of $20, or else $17 and two cans of food. Claims as well that he personally witnessed two chicks making out in the bathroom, “sucking nipples and all,” which does bolster one’s spirits for hopefully observing if not participating in such tonight.
However, at other times I feel as though he too has bought into the hype. Or am I completely mistaken, running these numbers in my head? Like many of his fellow converts, I am certain that he fully believes what he is telling me – but that doesn’t necessarily make it true. After relating that he recently purchased two turnables and a mixer, because he hopes to get into DJing at these raves himself, he claims that most of them are being paid around $1200 apiece to perform. Maybe so, but I just don’t see how this adds up. The math to me shakes out at somewhere around 2000-3000 kids, plunking down on average maybe $30 apiece. Let’s call it a max of $90K on the most generous possible end of the scale. I would be surprised if the headliner flew out here for less than $5000 cash in his pocket, and the list of perfomers underneath him is a lengthy one. This venue did not come free, and the promoters presumably did not book this as an act of charity themselves, they surely expect a payday as well. Of course, even Ryan admits that the more industrious, uh, pharmaceutical pushers are usually pulling down more than $1200 a night selling this crap, and that learning how to cut up records might not be worth his time, that even he made $740 profit from a couple sheets of acid at the previously mentioned event. While I expect this might be a slight exaggeration, hearing about how much money drug dealers can bring in always makes you feel like punching a wall, as a chump stuck working a normal, boring old job.
Eventually, the wedding reception breaks up, and we are able to enter the building at last. We enter via those side stairs, which in fact bring you into the top floor once inside. And say one thing about the security here, I am impressed by how seriously they are taking their responsibilities – even if some of what I’m seeing strains believability. When questioning how a large percentage of these attendees, who are plainly not yet adults, are able to gain entry, I am told that it’s okay so long as they bring a note from their parents. This strikes me as possibly the funniest thing I will hear all night, yet while it’s debatable what this actually accomplishes, it probably does absolve the venue of their legal responsibility. To an extent, anyway, which is presumably the whole point.
Once things properly get underway, I must admit that the entire evening passes mostly in a blur – and this is coming from someone who’s not on anything. Damon and I are surely about the two most sober individuals here, apart from security, and possibly some of the musicians. Although it’s true that we also begin to suspect that large swaths of the females encountered are also not nearly as messed up as they’re pretending, that they are instead getting a huge kick out of play-acting like your standard stereotypical rave devotee. You can catch glimpes of this mask slippage in their coy little smirks, the way they appear to size us up as if deciding how thickly to slather on the bullshit. But…whatever the case, though we wander this land near and far, though we inspect every known nook and cranny, the vast majority of what we encounter is young people dancing – pretty much everywhere – with the expected sideline throngs in the margins, standing, sitting, or otherwise lounging, attempting to converse above the music. People making out, though, whether guy-girl, girl-girl, or any other combo? Uh, maybe a few? The nudity comes in at zero, however, and we certainly didn’t see any of these white buffalo type encounters of blissed out individuals so overcome by passion that they are openly having sex, while a crowd gathered around them to watch.
Yes, though, apart from those concerns, this does have all the surface trimmings of a rave. The black lighting and the glow sticks, the glow clothing, the glow accessories. Modern dance music, whatever you might term it, be it techno or house or some other newly mutated beast. The latter I find mostly enjoyable, especially in a setting like this, if nothing I would likely listen to for hours on end around the house. Yet even this tends to run together after awhile, to the extent that, save the final act, I remember almost nothing concrete about any of them. And maybe that’s the point, who can say. On a personnel front, we quickly lose track of everyone else, although I do cross paths with Jamie hours later, in a cranny on the lower level, where he’s sprawled out chatting (to be charitable) with a bunch of other people and is clearly totally out of his mind. It was never discussed that I would be responsible for rounding him up at the end of the night, however, and I have no intentions of keeping tabs on him.
Also, on a highly amusing note, though never again stumbling across Ryan, we do happen to catch a glimpse of Alex, now and again. I take it that, like us, he is making his rounds, much more so than a piece of furniture like Jamie. Yet Alex had consumed so much liquor in the parking lot that he was wasted before even setting foot inside this place, to which he subsequently applied who knows what chemicals. He is so out of it in a goofy, over the top, making a spectacle of himself manner that even his younger brother seems to regard him as an idiot. And so it is that our last sight of Alex – at least indoors – involves security physically removing him from the premises.
I will say this for these raves, though, they are a decidedly peaceful affair. There’s no violence witnessed whatsoever, and while I don’t doubt the news bulletins about kids overdosing and dehydrating themselves to death at these things, that’s probably an overstated occurrence. I’m guessing a Hank Williams, Jr. concert at Polaris produces far more casualties. It is laughable to think that something like this could have ever been held at the Columbus Convention Center, however, which does add a little fuel to what Ryan has said about the city’s intentional rug pulling.
By the time Del the Funky Homosapien comes on, Damon and I have taken to just leaning against the balcony railing, at the back left section of it, facing the stage. We were just talking to some sharp looking, skinny little thing in a Trix cereal tee shirt. When asked what her name was, she offered us that same calculated sizing-up-glance, smiled and said, “Trixie.” She too is attempting to push this whole up for anything vibe, frisky and uninhibited, until you gently prod at the corners and realize it’s all talk, she’s actually down for nothing.
Del is at least someone I am remotely familiar with, although the only song I know of his is the one he did with Dinosaur Jr. on the Judgment Night soundtrack. He’s somebody who enjoyed a decent amount of underground buzz in the early 90s, then faded away to the extent I haven’t heard anything about him since. As far as tonight is concerned, my greatest takeaway is that – as we comment upon in the moment – it sure seems like he is eating up far more minutes talking in between the songs than in performing. So it’s a really weird set, although the guy is certainly talented.
I can’t help wondering exactly what material he played tonight, nonetheless. Nobody has the first clue that he is going to be featured on a massive single about a year from now, called “Clint Eastwood,” on the debut Gorillaz album, and rap upon another track found there, too, all of which helped reignite his career. If anyone has a set list for this evening, thus far it has yet to emerge, but it would be truly mindblowing to learn he was already testing some of that Gorillaz stuff here.
Given this litany of acts, it’s not so surprising that Del doesn’t leave the stage until somewhere around 4am. And as the proceedings appear to be breaking up somewhat, the music presumably finished and attendees staggering out, Damon and I decide to take off too. Reaching the blessed fresh air again, a final surprise awaits us in the form of Alex, crumpled yet awake against the side of the building. As far as anyone can ever determine, he was the sole person tossed from the rave tonight – and of course we are the ones stuck getting him home. Of course we are.
And it goes without saying that this matter is anything but straightforward. Because, though he drove here, he cannot seem to find his keys. Therefore is pleading with us to run him home, so he can get another set. Naturally, he should not have been driving anyway and this is without question a blessing, though it does lead to this last highly entertaining twist. Cobbling together the route back to his home, with our uncertain memories combining with his messed up state, by some miracle, we do manage to arrive at our destination without undue hassle.
All the more miraculous in that Alex does not seem to realize he’s not making much sense elsewhere. He keeps muttering something about finding his keys, though just staggering around the front yard. And even should he find his keys, his car is clearly still over at the Valley Dale lot, which is a point that’s lost on him. I’m trying to be helpful, but Damon’s shooting me a pointed look, mailing home the thought that we need to get back in the truck and jet on out of here.
“I wanted to get the fuck out of there before he realized, oh shit, my car’s not here anyway, and expect us to take him back over there or something,” he explains, after we have torn off into the early morning streets.
And he’s correct, of course. We did our part. Whether Alex passes out in the yard or bangs on the front door until his parents answer or for that matter wanders around the neighborhood is really none of our concern. One gets the impression he has more serious problems looming ahead for him anyway.
Blud I ain readin all that cuh