Reflections From the Rave

Dancing, Catharsis, Fashion

Toronto is a city where the nightlife is as dull and uninspiring as its concrete buildings. Clubs here are a pathetic wasteland of chronically online influencers and douchey crypto-bros dying to mansplain FTX. The music is usually some horrible, undanceable concoction of the Chainsmokers x Pop Smoke. And, by the end of the night, the joint reeks of Dior sauvage, mango vape, and horny male desperation with subtle notes of roofies. 

Where is the glamour and sparkle as promised by old Resident Advisor forums? Are nocturnal shenanigans and endless celebration just myths from the past? 

It is from this dreary context which the rave collective Peprally was born. The event was founded by power duo Karim Olen Ash and ChippyxNonstop, two queer people of colour who wanted to carve a euphoric sanctuary for those who don't fit into hegemonic society. One look at their social media suggests that they have indeed succeeded. Despite the name, the event is anything but peppy or collegiate. Their Araki-esque videos feature people dancing to industrial techno in various liminal spaces, from post-apocalyptic warehouses to dingy tunnels to graffitied underpasses. Scantily clad girls with tongue piercings and gays in latex populate their tags. A Mugler moodboard was once pinned in their highlights. If anything, it looks like a celebration for those who aren’t welcome at the pep rallies. 

As former high-school outcasts who belonged more with the marching band than cheerleaders, Milena and I were obviously intrigued. We’ve been to other great raves before but nothing to this scale. So, we snagged ourselves two painfully expensive tickets to test whether the event lived up to the hype or not. 

The transformed space

Too drunk to perform coolness, too impatient to socialize, Milena and I immediately made our way to the DJ booth. The first few sets played a mix of girly hardcore and techno: Liquid chords perfused with airy cherubim vocals whispering sexual profanities, all overlaid on top of a staccato beat. Eartheater adjacent music but lacking her unique, avant-garde charm; a corporatized Arca; bimbofied Bjork. Danceable but truly brainless, libidinal music which I lovingly dub ‘vocal fry anthems for esoteric L.A bitches.’

Headliner Karim Ole Nash’s set was a more refined concoction of ballroom-inspired industrial techno — an odd but sonically delightful pairing. To a post-apocalyptic bass, samples of Kevin Prodigy’s lispy ‘Yas,’ ‘Kunt,’ and ‘Pussy’ chants echoed through the warehouse, inspiring Milena and I to bust out our vogue moves. Did we serve? With eight shots of soju in our systems, we definitely did not: but it was certainly fun to act out our Inxi fantasies. 

However, the musical highlight of the night had to be Eris Drew. Threading together an eclectic bag of trance, uk garage, and old school jungle with loads of joyous breakbeats, her mix was incredibly impactful. In between tracks, Drew also had a proclivity for scratching the turnstile and inserting well-timed pauses, signatures I interpreted as moments of Brechtian reflexivity.

The shock of seeing large crowds of people ebbing and flowing, twisting and turning, shuffling and scuffling, never goes away. Part of living under Toronto’s corporate capitalism is becoming accustomed to rigidity and discipline. Everything in this city is perfectly structured, from our towering rectangular buildings to the sharply tapered blazers to the hierarchical office politics. Movement and flow are coldly stripped from the cultural (and physical) architecture creating, as Fredric Jameson describes, a miserably carceral experience.

When I am alongside 200 other half-naked people, sashaying in kinetic unison, it feels like the perpendicular walls that contain our world have collapsed. Here I dance, contorting and morphing my body in irregular movements, to the sounds of off-kilter beats. Here I experience all the fun, ‘unproductive’ debauchery lost in today’s neo-liberal world. Here I purge my mind of the perils of modern existence — academic anxieties, regrets over a failed situationship, existential dread about the future.

Raw energy and chaos circulate on the dancefloor, an anarchic sight which would never be allowed in our orderly reality.

Runway

Perhaps the best part about PepRally was the fashion. As outlined by an instagram story with a picture of a half-naked Kate Moss, the night’s theme was ‘translucent.’ Think mesh, PVC, and fishnets. 

This is what I wore btw. 

Raves have always been an outlet for people to authentically present themselves. Darkness cloaks and protects from the horrors of being perceived, so it is impossible to be scrutinized for your sartorial choices.

The nature of nightlife is also asocial and ephemeral; most people don’t know each other and don’t bother talking unless, of course, it’s to fuck (which usually happens wordlessly too). Raves are therefore environments where one can be seen and unseen, to don a bold look yet also enjoy the anonymity of being one among many models of the night. It is a rare opportunity to maximize egocentric expression in a public space. 

As a massive fan of FRUITS Magazine, I’ve always wanted to document the cool outfits I saw at raves. It’s a tremendously fun way to memorialize these euphoric gatherings and start a little zeitgeist capsule. Well that night I had just enough soju to momentarily forget my crippling social anxiety and take the first plunge. I scoured the crowd to find eccentric characters for a photo. Here are the highlights: 

I adore the contrast between this duo; the person on the left is glowing in a modern, Siren ensemble while the other is oozing with ChocoMimi charm — especially with the decora clips! An adorable Kuromi and My Melody moment.

This was less of an outfit picture and more of a detail appreciation. Obviously, the hair steals the spotlight, but I also enjoy the silver accents which nicely complement their makeup and styling. If X-men’s Storm and Sid Vicious had a baby, I’m sure they’d look like this. 

I’m intrigued by the Arkansas Bull baby tee and I have many questions regarding the skirt — like where can I get one. Despite the absurdity of the pieces, the look as a whole is styled with much care and intention; the red top matches the plaid print on the skirt, hints of black are dispersed, and the silver accents on the bag cohere with the earrings.

Mother!

Another cute (subdued) Decora look. I like the multicoloured clips and the dainty ribbons attached to the ends of her braids. It adds a playful, innocent touch to the whole look, which is juxtaposed with the brutalist background. This person brings a pop of saccharine sweetness to the grimy rave.  

Final thoughts

Although the event was generally a fine experience, it wasn’t necessarily exceptional. Pep Rally started as a gathering for the girls and the gays to form a community and have genuine fun. It's supposed to be a safe alternative to the lame King Street scene; yet, at moments, I was getting flashbacks of being stuck in Club 44. I was rudely pushed and elbowed more times than I can count by douchey straight guys. Everywhere I looked, people were also scrolling on their phones or posing sultrily for a photo which they’d retake over and over again — ah the Sisyphean quest for the perfect Instagram post.

Such sights remind me of Beyonce and Lady Gaga’s 2010 hit single Telephone, which begs a caller to leave them alone so that they can properly party: “Stop callin', stop callin'/ I don't wanna think anymore/ I left my head and my heart on the dance floor.” It’s a song emblematic of what rave culture used to be, an escape from the busy, hyper-connectivity of modern life. Thirteen years later, the pressures we so desperately wanted to leave behind have somehow taken over our liberatory spaces.