Dubstep - It's Kind of Like This

Last Dance at the Alexandria Hotel - Powerpill - 12/13/1997

I was late to the party for reasons I can't recall but that didn't matter because all of my friends were going to be there and I had three pure e pills (molecules) in my pocket from the previous weekend as I made the familiar drive to downtown Los Angeles from Orange County.  I was blowing through Commerce City when I decided to wash down my first pill via my one liter of Mtn. Dew and took my second one when I finally parked my car after surrendering five bucks to a homeless looking person who said she'd look after my car.  I handed over another five dollars to some kids who gave me three balloons filled with shitty tasting gas but orbited my head and kicked my e into high gear.  

Three or four times here now, I've never been a fan of this venue.  I've heard horror stories of security out of control, ghostly hallucinations as party kids explored "Shining-esque" abandoned corridors, over crowding, shitty ventilation, and stifling heat that made the walls sweat and air thick.  But the DJ line-up and Old School / Classic Techno music was way too good to pass up.

By the time I got to the door I was solidly buzzing and climbing that euphoric MDMA induced ladder higher and higher reaching for the soft, fluffy clouds in my head.  My body craved bass and I began to nod my head and bounce to the vibrations of the music reverberating off the walls while a security guard patted me down for weapons then turned me loose.

Getting from point A to point B at the Alexandria Hotel was always a pain in the ass.  Interlinking corridors that connected different dance rooms became jammed with wide-eyed and sweat soaked party revelers as we were herded by each others momentum.  After doing what felt like epic battle and pausing only to give a hug to a familiar face  I made it to the main dance hall and linked up with my friends at about midnight.

Hugs were exchanged and I danced my ass off for a solid hour to incredible sounds.  They had a jungle and drum n' bass room but I didn't want to exhort the effort to fight through the crowds again to get there.  Besides the old school sounds and vibes were way to good.

It was now pushing two A.M. and I had to take a wicked piss.  That Mtn. Dew wanted out with a vengeance.  Knowing that there would be line the thought of finding a corner to take a leak entered my sedated noggin but better judgment prevailed.  Naturally, the bathroom stunk and looked weird.  Here was an area of the party where the florescent lights accentuated filthy floors, blown pupils and graffiti on walls.  You couldn't escape it.  Soiled paper towels were everywhere and trashcans over flowed with empty water bottles and colorful flyers for future parties.

While my bladder emptied I caught a glimpse of a kid scribbling illegible graffiti words on the wall with thick sharpie pin.  He looked like he was enjoying himself so I asked to borrow his pin and he handed it over.  While I pissed I began to draw a landscape, rolling hills, a bright sun, trees, and pastures.  The MDMA now wildly running it's course through my bloodstream made me feel like Bob fucking Ross.  Keep in mind I don't possess an artistic bone in my body but I was working this landscape and loving it.  It felt so right and was all so mindless and automatic.   

I didn't hear it then but I sure as hell can hear it now.  That bathroom got quiet ... eerily quiet.  Half a second after I stuffed my doped up flaccid baby dick back into my JNCO jeans then BOOM!  I was checked by a security guard against the wall who gave me a little peck of a kiss on the cheek.  It was his sweet way of saying, "I caught you, motherfucker".  Someone behind me lowly muttered, "oh shit". 

I was immediately hand cuffed and frisked for more pins and weapons of which, naturally they found neither.  All I had on me was a half drank water bottle in my back pocket, my wallet in my front, and my last e pill wrapped in cellophane and stuffed down my sock.  We proceeded through the party drawing uneasy stares from from the kids as the merciless crowd parted for us like Moses at the Red Sea then on to a maze of hallways and eventually to an office where I was sat down in front of a massive Samoan guy dressed in all black behind a desk.  I sat there in silence for about fifteen minutes, listening to the security radio squawk while staring blankly at the sharpie pin that was confiscated from me and now sitting in front of the head security guard.  There was a blissful and unexplainable resolve within my core, like in the back of my mind I knew I was fucked but I strangely understood that I would be OK, that I'd come out of this self inflicted moment of retardation in one piece.  Come to think of it I don't think I have ever been so collected while under such extreme pressure.  With that said I both blame the drugs for getting me in trouble and am ever so thankful for the drugs and how I had absolutely zero worry because of them.  Anyway, nobody said a word until they brought in the next poor sap who got caught writing graffiti.

This kid was in his early twenties and clearly jittery and nervous over the ordeal.  He was running his mouth at a thousand words per minute and creating a lot of bad noise until the head security guard finally told him to shut the fuck up.  The dialog went something like this ...

Head security guard - "we're going to remove your cuffs and you better tell me now if any of you are armed because I am."

At this moment I was staring down the barrel of a .45 pointed directly at my face.  I didn't flinch, move a muscle, or say a word.  The gun then is pointed at the other guys head and he shy'd away from it like it was a blazing torch as our cuffs are removed.

Head security guard - "we know the janitor that cleans up all the graffiti you guys leave behind after every one of these parties.  It cost a lot of money and time for him.  Empty your pockets on the desk and give me your IDs." 

I complied and emptied the contents of my wallet.  Thirty-five dollars and ten cents.  I set my ID next the three bills and the dime.  The dude next to me said he didn't have anything in his pockets and doesn't have an ID and says he just got out of prison and is on parole.  I glanced to my right and can see that he was fumbling with a very large wad of cash (obvious slinging money was obvious), as if he was about to give it up but decided to stuff it back in his pocket.  I felt a slight twinge of anger over this as I was getting robbed.

Head Security Guard - "I'm trying to decide which one of you are going to jail tonight."  The kid to my right in the other hot seat starts to wildly plead his case again blabbering about parole and prison while I continue to exercise my right to remain silent.  Security tells him to shut the fuck up again.  The Samoan security guard picks up my dime and smiles.

He looks me dead in my blown pupils, "Call it".  Tails I immediately reply.  The coin flips about three feet in the air and is then caught.  He holds onto it for what seems like an eternity.  Now peaking on the pure roll there was no longer any sound whatsoever and all attention was focused on this massive Samoan fist clenching the dime.  Me and the other caught kid inched a little closer, a little closer.  The other three security guards behind us moved in towards the desk.  There was only this moment as all time is frozen in anticipation.  His hand finally opens, very slowly ...

"Tails it is.  Please safely escort Mr. Licari to the parking lot.  Mr. Licari please stop drawing on our walls and drive safely on your way back to Anaheim."  He then turns his attention to the loser of the coin toss, "And you're going to jail" he says nonchalantly.  I am then whisked off my chair and led out as the kid who just got hosed erupts in savage protest.  The door closes behind me and the sounds of skirmish and flogging in the office blare like live drums as the poor bastard is re-cuffed and subdued.         

I'm led to the door and turned loose by the security guard who initially apprehended me.  He tells me to drive safe and heads back into the party.  I take a deep breath of the crisp December air still not quite aware of what had just transpired as I wobbly make my way to the parking lot.  When I get to the parking lot the kids who sold my the balloons on my way in know about everything that happened.  This blows my mind and I suddenly feel like a strange celebrity.  They give me free balloons and five bucks for gas after hearing how I got robbed.  This many years later I'd love to thank those guys again. 

It was about 3AM and the drive home was solemn, no music, just my window open and the sounds of the freeway at 80 miles per hour.  Flying through Commerce City and rattled over the tribulation I took my third e pill for the evening, safely made it home and spent the rest of of my roll melting into my bath, then melting into my couch under the safety of cozy blankets and ambient music while vowing never to step foot into the Alexandria Hotel again.        
 
                       




   






 

An Accute Craving for CHEEZE This Cold February Morning

It's really unexplainable.  Sometimes I wake up and absolutely have to have it.  Cheezecore.  I wasn't really into when I was partying a lot and it has become an acquired taste.  As I have mentally matured my tastes in rave music seems to have regressed in some ways, but I'm ok with it and have embraced it.  In all honesty, no other genre of music from the glory days do such a fitting job of taking me back and with that said I will always have a soft spot that it is piloted by a majestic unicorn for the stompy beats and euphoric melodies.  Below are some absolute timeless favorites.




Mornings like this set the precedent for the rest of the day.  It is a slam dunk that I will spend countless hours on youtube, discogs and various torrent sites gathering as much of this music as possible like a crack fiend digging through filthy shag carpeting for that last little sliver of rock. 

 




 And I shall leave you with this ...

Pills Make You Ugly

While we will feel like the epitome of Adonis while blisteringly jacked on pills nothing can be further from the truth.  If pills made us feel like we look while on them there would be zero demand for the product.  Below is a short compilation of people feeling the effectasy of ecstasy. 

Really Good Dancer. 

Even the "Chads" look fuctup

WELL NICE MEETING YOU GOTTA GO!  O.o

Nothing fucked me up harder then having the lights turned on at a party.  All of the mystique and intrigue would vanish like a fart in the wind.  The visuals loose their luster and you are jolted with a shot of panic that the warehouse might jam be a bust.  Suddenly that beautiful piece of ass you have been dancing with and massaging all night, have connected with on a completely unworldly level and might actually love for unexplainable reasons looks like a wedding cake left in a thunderstorm.  The horror ... 

HHHUUUURRRRR

"Your mother sucks cocks in Hell, Karras, you faithless slime."

WANT A MASSAGE?  A LIGHT SHOW?  SOME VICS? GOTTA MENTHOL?

The Shit Hits The Gravitron At Electronica 1997

Here's a party I desperately tried to forget as the years flew by until I was reminded of it by a group of fellow 90's ravers.  A night so rotten from point A to Z that I swore off parties for a few months after exclaiming that the scene I had adored had become a place of despair and certain doom.  Regardless of superstitions and the like I guess it was just my turn to have a night filled with regret in all forms, to have luck kick me in the teeth, say goodbye to a friend, and wish for sobriety like I had never wished for anything before.  

Something for your Troubles? 

So the night started off normal enough, another weekend, another party, the difference being I had never been to this venue before.  For those who don't know Scandia is a low end amusement park in Ontario, CA with an arcade, batting cages, gravitron, mini golf, and bumper cars.  http://www.scandiafun.com/ontario/   When I learned of this location I got excited for there were much more things to trip on, especially for a guy who happened to be toting a whole vial of liquid in his pocket.  Perhaps I'd pump coins into the softball pitch and enjoy the endless streaks of tracers not wanting to bat the ball but admire their excellence in flight, spiritually connect with Sinistar or Ms. Pac-Man, or look for and find god on the 12th hole of mini-golf.  The sky was the limit and I had the means in my pocket to reach up for and pluck out every single star should I desire.

Foreboding Helicopters Were Foreboding

So we get there after another underwhelming drive through the 91 Freeway then a short stint on the 15 towards Las Vegas.  Arrive early, exit freeway, park car, exit car only this time we're not worried about the fucker getting broken into ... again.  We are greeted by a friend of ours from the scene who I will call, Mr. B, for obvious reasons.  A short background on Mr. B, he has been supplying the LA underground scene with very good MDMA for a long time.  He is also a thug and built like a yoked, rabid Rottweiler.  Him and his brutish cronies have been known to viciously stomp people who peddle bonk pills at parties and are also notorious for bashing and robbing those who have moved in on parties where he is earning his living making him both a sinner and a saint.  He was always fair, polite, courteous, and cordial to my friends and I and I never had any fear of him whatsoever.

Getting back to the night, Mr B is obviously nervous which in turn makes me uneasy.  Some meaningless small talk is made as we look up in strange unison and notice three helicopters above us circling and hovering like buzzards above a carcass taking it's last breath.  I figure this party is already busted but no such luck.  Our group makes off towards the newly forming line to get in while Mr. B walks very fast in the other direction.  Then he runs, but not far.  He is tackled by what look like fifteen feds, DEA we suspect, shackled and instantly vanned.  That was the last we saw of him and the abduction is all we talk about while on the line.  Distraught over our fallen solder I vote to cut our losses and return to the safety of our domicile but am outvoted, tickets punched, party entered.  The ghetto birds disappeared.

As soon as I get in make straight for a bathroom, break out vial, and feel 4 to 6 drops of high octane brain juice hit my tongue in effort to forget the horrors of a half hour prior.  I'm so rattled by the experience that I decide not to sell any of the brain juice as had been planned because, after all, people do get pinched.  I sample different rooms here and there displaying different forms of dance music but I wasn't feeling it, or anything else for that matter.

The arcades beckoned and I spent many hours behind them shutting off my surroundings as the colors became vibrant and the characters I was controlling gained multifaceted dimensions of incomprehensible and unrecognizable proportions.  I lost more of my coordination and concentration coming up with complex mental paradoxes between the arcade that was consuming my mind and the rest of the known universe that was consuming everything else.  The arcades had gained so much luster that they had completely lost their luster.  Moving on ...

It Lied To Me and Said It Would Be Fun

After bouncing about here and there, checking out this and that, for reasons unbeknownst to me to this day the Gravitron made perfect sense.  What could possibly go wrong?  Sit on a wall, room spins, slide up wall, look at colors.  Seems easy enough.  That and I had come to the realization that I had been watching the machine do it's thing for the last forty five minutes.  People go in, machine spins, people come out.   

So thirty of us party kids pile on in and take our places.  It starts.  Some bastard pipes in some greasy 80's hair metal music.  The room is stifled with the smell of vics vaporub as the monster gains momentum, our asses now lifted from the floor.  Standing upright the sensation of control in any aspect are totally fucking gone.  Heels off the floor, higher and higher.  The machine is now screaming fast as "She's My Cherry Pie" blares like the sirens of the oncoming demon horde of the apocalypse.  Waves of nausea come and go as we are now collectively between the ceiling and the walls.  A girl directly across from me catches my attention.  Her hands are covering her mouth and she is ghostly white.  She releases her hands from her mouth like doves fleeing the Vatican and detonates.  I stare in both horror and astonishment as a massive glob of vomit suspends in midair then splatters against the wall roughly four seats away from her.  Pure horror as kids scramble like crack house cockroaches to get away from the wretch which is now moving and spreading like a gelatinous beast of incredible intelligence.  Kids screaming as panic sets in and the relentless machine not giving an inch or showing any mercy.  A dude a few seats from me turns to his right and completely cakes the poor girl sitting next to him lathing her head in bile from the concession stand.  She screams like a gut-shot rabbit.  With my senses maxed out the smell of puke quickly overcomes the cabin.  More screams, fear, despair.  The music is cut, lights come on and the Gravitron slows utterly satisfied with it's destructive course.  People bum rush the doors and exit as if they were on fire.  Someone else pukes next to the ride, one last offering to a vengeful god as park employees laugh at the carnage.    

Yeah, no shit.  

 And that was it.  Night officially fucked like a virgin on prom night.  I stagger to the nearest picnic bench and put my head in my arms, still spinning and spinning, wanting to puke but knowing in the back of my twisted mind that it is never going to happen.  The voice of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson repeating over and over, "buy the ticket, take the ride".  Some people come to check on me and the only words I can mutter are sick, gravitron, and spinning.  They get the idea and leave me to my self inflected suffering.  Someone else brings me a Sprite and I gingerly nurse it for the remainder of the night while wishing I was sober, showered, and in my warm cozy bed.  I don't even remember the ride home.                         

                       

You can keep your fake and shitty drugs.

GET OFF MY LAWN.  Here's another problem with the modern EDM scene.  Shitty and shittier drugs.  Something I will be touching on more and more as this blog progresses.   

http://www.scotsman.com/news/health/girl-17-dies-after-taking-mortal-kombat-pill-1-3291645

When we got crap rolls and/or e pills our lives weren't threatened.  Either the batch was weak and we peaked an hour into the high and had to eat a whole bunch more or the pill contained a bunch of DXM (Dextromethorphan) and made us feel gritty and dirty for a few listless hours.  That was it.  If it had a little speed in it that was wonderful because we danced like champions all fucking night and the energy was infinate opposed to the parties where the e batches contained heroin where you had to slalom through countless cuddle-puddles of floored and fuct party goers with ugly drooping faces. 

We'd like to dance but we cannot feel our legs.

Those of the 90's who were hospitalized got the expensive ride because they didn't properly hydrate and overheated so I blame them, not the drugs.

It's a shame, really and as a proud parent I'd be completely crushed if I lost my child to something so stupid. 

Get educated. 

http://dancesafe.org/

 

I'm not a Trance fan ... really ...

But every now and then I hear a jam that absolutely zens me out and takes me back.  Trance has become an acquired taste, like fine home made wine I let sit and ferment till the time is totally perfect.  The older I get the more I enjoy it.  I am and always have been a techno elitist bastard and I cannot fathom busting a move to this stuff on the dance floor but to just sit and listen to utterly relaxing.  Enjoy. 

Kids These Days

PARTY HARD!!!

Brain 13 - Acid Machines (Cutoff Mix)

So from time to time I will be posting music from that era that have stuck.  Here is the first Acid Techno banger of many many more to come!


Eat Paper and FUCK SHIT UP. 

Please Don't Walk In My Puke.

I have to say, three out of four people who tell you that they go/went to raves for the music and not the incredible high from drugs are absolutely full of shit and probably higher the George W Bush at a college fraternity reunion.

But this isn't about crumby coked-out politicians.  No, no, no.  It's just a flash of a memory that led to a chain of other memories that are now spewing out of my head like explosive diarrhea and what ultimately pushed me over the edge to create this blog and finally record these memoirs if I may.  It's something I have sincerely been excited about for years but haven't been able to piece together the PLUR blur that totally consumed me from 1995 to 2003.  Sustenance of heavily psychedelic nature played a major part of my party hearty days.  Like all things I started gingerly and worked my tolerance to heroic levels and by 1997 I was a living chemistry set.  To my credit I stayed away from drugs such as meth, coke, and heroin for fear of my addictive personality liking them a bit too much though I'm sure the e-pills I ate like fucking tic tacs were cut with all three of the above mentioned and so much more.

So my night would start around 7PM picking up friends at various locations throughout Orange County or Los Angeles.  From there map point in DTLA or Hollywood then the drive back through Orange County through the always miserable 91Fwy to San Bernardino and beyond.  By the time I got the the location it felt like ants were colonizing in my skull from the 6 to 8 ephedrine "Mini-Thins" I/we had consumed.  Find parking spot and pray car doesn't get broken into.  Break out 40's of Ol English malt liquor and with speed and determination power-slam them on the walk from the parking lot to the line.  On line, eat one of many pills, optional acid or shrooms on the side.

X hours later be on third or forth pill completely wrecked and without fail some cute girl you want to bang the shit out of with your limp shriveled doped up cock would hand you a clove cigarette.  Half way through the thing the nausea hits like the thunderous hammer of the gods to the balls.  You take a knee like a wounded soldier while all your friends surround you, protectively "circling the wagon" cursing yourself for accepting that clove from that piece of ass.  Same scenarios, same cloves, different week.  The wretch is violent and barley comes with warning.  Your friends are supportive and you are so high there is zero embarrassment.
  
Then your done and you feel better.  No longer handicapped by insane levels of sedation.  Everything smooths out, now over the crest of the wave and finally you have spent enough of the night in utter ineffective communique with nothing and everything to find your home on the dance floor and move till the sun comes up.

On your way there you look back of that puddle of bile you left behind, that little piece of you, its uncanny symbolism.  Some people write graffiti to leave a mark, dogs piss on stuff, I'd puke a puddle.  Then I'd cringe as I watched you walk through chunks completely oblivious.  But that's ok.  I'm sure I walked through enough of your puke too.  At least that is what my JNCOs and shell-toed Adidas told me in the morning.