THE RIGHT TO RAVE

Techno Music Lovers Are Fighting Back Against Law Enforcement Policies
That Threaten To Destroy Dallas' Rave Scene

Sean Anderson wanted to throw an intense, all-night rave featuring the
pulsating electronic dance rhythms of techno music--plus his favorite
DJs and friends. So last March, the 21-year-old promoter and turntable
jockey rented the Forest, an old movie theater near Fair Park that
regularly holds concerts ranging from rap to jazz. With laconic flair,
he dubbed his event "Truth 2.01," sequel to a successful party held a
year earlier. Everything seemed ready for a celebration of hundreds,
if not a thousand or more. Anderson put together colorful fliers
announcing the party, and word went out through the subterranean
word-of-mouth and e-mail network that amazingly connects thousands of
techno music enthusiasts. He checked with the theater to make sure its
permits were in order. He organized his vinyl collection for his own
set of "progressive house," featuring works by John Digweed, Julias
Papp, Peace Division and other personal favorites.

But Anderson's party was nearly ruined when the venue owner pulled out
at the last minute. While details are fuzzy, the cancellation came
after a visit by 10 to 12 Dallas police vice officers concerned about
possible drug use. "The situation wasn't nice; they came in force,"
recalls Forest manager Oscar Warren, who nevertheless emphasizes his
support of police. They warned Warren that permits weren't enough.
Citing inadequate security, Warren canceled the event with only a
day's notice.

Anderson was furious. He hurriedly rescheduled the party at an
Arlington venue. Turnout was down because of confusion over the
last-minute change. And in the end, Anderson found himself $3,000 in
the hole.

For electronic music lovers in Dallas and all over the country,
Anderson's bad experience represents more than a botched show. A rash
of similar incidents, say techno artists and civil libertarians,
reflects a nationwide trend that jeopardizes the First Amendment
rights of techno fans. Law authorities' paranoia about the drugs often
associated with raves has ripped into techno culture, the musical
genre itself and the musicians who practice it. "Our culture is under
attack," says Sean Jenkins, a volunteer with a Houston rave safety
group.

To hear techno fans tell it, the police and media have declared war on
a form of cultural expression simply because some of its enthusiasts
use drugs. Anti-rave hysteria, they say, has led to questionable
strategies by law enforcement and prosecutors, who in seeking to curb
supposedly drug-infested raves have dusted off an old law intended to
shutter crack cocaine dens. "They're going after people who provide
music rather than people who provide drugs," says Graham Boyd, an
American Civil Liberties Union drug policy expert. "The goal," he
charges, "is to eliminate raves. To me, that's like trying to
eliminate jazz or reggae."

Health officials warn that as raves grow more popular, emergency-room
visits and deaths linked to so-called "club drugs" MDMA (ecstasy),
Rohypnol, GHB and Ketamine, while still comparatively small in number,
have increased. But some defenders think techno's sheer unfamiliarity
compared to, say, rock or reggae music, more established genres for
which concerts often feature open drug use, is what really draws heat
from today's baby-boomer authority figures. "Any other deal, they
don't have to be drug-free," says DJ Merritt, who hosts EdgeClub 102,
a Saturday-night electronic music show on 102.1 KDGE-FM. (Unlike small
amounts of marijuana, however, possession of most "club drugs" is a
felony crime.)

Anderson admits some rave attendees take drugs. But focusing on them,
he says, misses a larger point: A wave of sensational anti-rave news
coverage--think undercover TV newsmagazine reports on raves--combined
with increasing police scrutiny, is squelching a new music form that
seeks mainstream legitimacy. "We're not drug dealers," he fumes. "You
don't have to be on drugs to enjoy these parties."

What's more, Anderson argues that stepped-up police and media scrutiny
disregards reform efforts within the rave scene. The term "rave" once
denoted blowout parties held illegally in warehouses lacking fire and
safety standards. But a new breed of techno promoters is strictly
business. They lease licensed clubs, hire security to keep drugs out
and work with authorities. "We're willing to do whatever it takes,"
Anderson says.

Despite those efforts, techno is on the defensive and may have to
retreat underground. Recent law enforcement actions nationwide show
that raves are still seen as a social menace. To the horror of First
Amendment advocates, the federal Drug Enforcement Administration is
experimenting with a 1986 statute designed to eliminate crack
houses--this time, to shut down techno venues. After a six-month
struggle in New Orleans, three theater managers recently pleaded
guilty to violating the crack-house law, which forbids making a
building available for drug use and trafficking. A similar case
targets popular Club La Vela of Panama City Beach, Florida, which for
several years hosted MTV Spring Break.

Similarly, Anderson and others sense a growing anti-rave environment
in Dallas. Promoters want to organize large gatherings, lure national
and international artists and possibly earn a living through such
events. But they feel stymied since many large venues, such as the
Smirnoff Music Centre, won't accept them because of concerns about
late-night noise and techno's poor image, while other venues have been
shut down.

Civil libertarians have taken notice. Techno artists have formed a
national legal defense fund, while the ACLU is helping club owners
fight the DEA's crack-house law strategy. They argue that drugs should
be fought independently of raves; targeting them chills freedom of
association and artistic expression. "We're basically punishing people
because the community doesn't like them," says Will Harrell, director
of the ACLU's Texas branch. "There's no proof that drug use [at raves]
is higher in excess of any other party or bar."

In Texas, a coterie of activists is championing what it says is a
legitimate civil rights cause. To combat restrictive laws and
regulations, Dallas promoters have formed a group called Metrotribe.
Likewise, a statewide organization called Texas Raves Awareness Group
is hoping to buff up techno's image. "There's been so much negative
press lately," says Aaron Fowler, an Austin fan and founding member of
Texas Raves. "We want to promote other positive aspects of the scene."

For instance, enthusiasts point out that fights are rare at raves and
that the music doesn't glamorize sex or violence, while the communal
and noncommercialized nature of raves makes them a good place to meet
friends. At the same time, promoters want to convince the public they
aren't responsible for what happens off their turf. "I don't want to
create a drug atmosphere," says Anderson. "But it's not my obligation
to tell people what to do."

It's Friday night, June 1, at the Home Bar, a small watering hole
tucked into a warehouse zone between Central Expressway and Greenville
Avenue. Synesthesia Productions, a small promotion company, has hired
out the bar for the night to showcase a dozen DJs. To get the word
out, promoter Geoff Alleger distributed professional-looking fliers on
shiny paper with an earth of swirled blues and greens floating in a
hazy purple-red atmosphere. He dubbed the party "This Island Earth."

Synesthesia doesn't have an exclusive lock on Saturdays at the bar.
There's a party nearly every weekend held by rotating groups of techno
promoters, who share the same fans. Among these promoters, several of
whom are twentysomethings with day jobs in graphic design, scheduling
events on the same night is a violation of an unwritten code.
Organizers try to avoid splintering the dance scene.

By 10 p.m., a crowd is building. There's light traffic at the bar for
drinks, and bouncers at the door collect cover charges and search
patrons for drugs and weapons. Near the bar are Sean Anderson and his
friend Dave Brown, who goes by the moniker DJ Ahman. They are next up
on a small stage to spin records as a duo.

Despite their lack of stage presence--many DJs have the charisma of
short-order cooks--the partners play a hypnotic set of layered beats
and bass lines. They filter a mix of sound effects, such as striking
clocks, horn samples and electronic whirs, all while increasing the
music's intensity.

From ceiling projectors come green outlines of stars, circles and
triangles, while bubbles and mist periodically emanate from machines
near the stage, where solo dancers congregate. A skinny girl with red
lights attached to her hands weaves them in and out, while others
dance like robotic Deadheads. One rave constituency that often
attracts criticism isn't present tonight: the so-called "candy kids,"
who are often blamed for increased drug use in the scene. Because of a
17-and-up age requirement, these younger fans known for oddball
fashions such as fluffy Elmo and Cookie Monster backpacks and
pacifiers attached to beaded necklaces are in short supply.

Techno, a dance genre born in post-riot Detroit, got its first taste
of mainstream attention in the mid-'90s when crossover acts such as
Moby, the Chemical Brothers and Everything but the Girl found success.
Unlike America's last mass-audience dance form, disco, it lacks the
glitz and campy excess.

While ravegoers like the Home Bar, the club only holds about 200
patrons. Fans bemoan the lack of larger venues, especially since they
lost a warehouse club south of downtown called Decibel. That space,
shut down a year ago, didn't comply with fire codes, and the owner
refused to make upgrades. Bronco Bowl, a multiroomed rock concert
facility, hosts some large events, but fans say the demand still goes
unmet. "Trouble occurs when you try to find venues that hold more than
3,000 or 4,000 people," says Damon Williams, editor in chief of
Feedback, a glossy Austin magazine that covers the Southwest's techno
scene.

You don't have to look hard to find that some people at the Home Bar
are on illicit substances. A tall, dazed-looking kid with a gray knit
cap momentarily stops dancing, then exclaims to a friend resting on a
sofa, "I'm rolling. I'm on ecs-ama-tasy." But Herb Berkeley, a
30-year-old DJ from Houston, denies the music revolves around drug
use, even if some people are using. Raves are about "the music and
caring about other people," he says, referring to techno's universal
slogan of PLUR (peace, love, unity and respect).

Patrolling the bar with a large black flashlight is Shannon McKinnon,
Home Bar's main owner. His bar books corporate events and other large
get-togethers, but he says frequent techno shows also attract
responsible partiers. "I'd have to disagree with the notion that raves
are drug-infested dens," he says. "I think it's just because they're
here for the music and to have a good time." Promoters of raves, he
says, often ask him: "Do you have plenty of security? We don't want
drugs at our event." Some fliers put out by promoters explicitly warn
patrons not to bring drugs. "That's pretty commendable," he says.
"It's very much different than what the police and families think."

On the other hand, McKinnon blames some clubs for giving techno a poor
reputation by failing to curb excesses. Case in point: Robert and
Brian Brunet, managers of the State Palace Theater in New Orleans, and
rave promoter Donnie "Disco" Estopinal. Their legendary raves
attracted legions of pacifier-sucking fans from across the South, but
their drug activity drew harsh scrutiny from the DEA.

To put a stop to the flow of illegal drugs at the events, the DEA did
more than bust dealers. It put the State Palace's owners and promoter
on trial. The agency's aggressive efforts may define the techno scene
for years.

The DEA's landmark "crack-house" case centers not on dilapidated
rowhouses where slumlords allow addicts to congregate and get high,
but on a historic theater at the edge of New Orleans' French Quarter.
The State Palace Theater, once a neighborhood cinema, became an
all-purpose event hall in 1992, hosting rock acts such as the Dave
Matthews Band. But federal law authorities also say the space morphed
into a dispensary for ecstasy and other illegal drugs.

It began in 1995 when a young man named Donnie Estopinal, an
accounting major from Louisiana State University-turned-rave promoter,
insisted he could lure thousands to the State Palace. Robert and Brian
Brunet, brothers and managers of the family-owned theater, were
skeptical he could pull it off, but they gave him a chance

Word quickly spread, and soon crowds of more than 4,000--a diverse mix
of teens, college students and young revelers--were packing the
all-night celebrations. The Brunets liked the crowds because they
didn't trash the place or create mosh pits. But techno's rapid rise in
New Orleans came at a cost: the 1998 death of 17-year-old Jillian
Kirkland at the State Palace because of a severe overdose, and dozens
of lesser overdose victims shuttled to emergency rooms, averaging two
a night during raves, according to the DEA.

Eager to clamp down on New Orleans' burgeoning ecstasy trade, the DEA
eschewed the little-fish drug dealers in favor of a big fish--the
State Palace. "Operation Rave Review" debuted in January 2000.

During eight visits, a fresh-faced undercover agent scored 45 hits of
ecstasy and other pills. He also witnessed dancers with goofy
accessories the DEA considers drug paraphernalia, such as
pupil-dilating glow sticks, oversized pacifiers (used by some to stop
the jaw grinding caused by ecstasy) and medical masks daubed with
Vicks VapoRub (which supposedly enhances the ecstasy high).

In making its case, the DEA vilified State Palace raves, belittling
the notion that they could possibly have any artistic or cultural
merit. "In my time as a prosecutor this is one of the most
unconscionable drug violations I have seen," said Eddie Jordan, U.S.
Attorney for New Orleans, who has since stepped down from that post.
"They used these raves to exploit young people by designing them for
pervasive drug abuse."

The end result: In January 2001, the Brunets and Estopinal were
indicted under the crack-house statute. None was charged with selling
drugs. Rather, the government said they were guilty because they knew
their facility was a drug-trade conduit. Facing 20-year sentences and
fines of up to $500,000, the trio immediately sought a deal. But the
ACLU and techno artists nationwide urged them to fight on
Constitutional grounds: freedom of speech--musical speech, that
is--and freedom of association.

The Brunets and Estopinal fought back with some success, but on June
13 relented in the face of mounting legal fees. The Brunet family's
company pleaded guilty to lesser charges in a deal that merely bars
the State Palace from hosting parties where ecstasy paraphernalia--the
medical masks, the pacifiers--is sold or present. Likewise, "chill
rooms," the extra-air-conditioned rooms set up to prevent the
overheating caused by a combination of frenetic dancing and ecstasy,
are out.

The DEA insists the changes will help prevent overdoses. As proof, it
points to fewer emergency-room visits for club-drug overdoses since
the suspension of mass raves (Estopinal now holds raves at smaller
venues). But others deride the DEA for banning items with no direct
connection to drug use. "Those things are not paraphernalia," the
ACLU's Boyd says. "The pacifier is no more paraphernalia than a
tie-dyed shirt."

In the wake of the State Palace case, the DEA launched another
crack-house prosecution, this time at the mammoth dance palace Club La
Vela in Panama City Beach, Florida, which was used three times in the
late '90s for MTV Spring Break as well as other trendy events. With
the second prosecution under way, as well as crackdowns by local
authorities, defenders fear they're seeing the beginning of open
season on the rave scene.

Boyd sees that police crackdowns in one locale will intimidate venue
owners elsewhere. "All you need is a handful of prosecutions," he
says, "then the threats do the job alone." Still, Boyd thinks techno
promoters will eventually win the fight. Already, they have launched
the Electronic Music Defense and Education Fund to fight
crack-house-style prosecutions. Susan Mainzer, a spokeswoman for
EMDEF, thinks law enforcers blame raves for the type of ecstasy use
that is seen in several segments of society, including college
students and professionals.

And despite the increasing numbers, ecstasy overdoses are still rare.
From 1994 to 1999, emergency-room visits for ecstasy overdoses rose
from 250 to 2,850 nationwide. According to the U.S.-funded Drug Abuse
Warning Network, however, these constitute only a fraction of the
554,932 hospital visits for drug-related accidents. "The rave
community is an easy target," she says. "They dress funny."

A week after the Home Bar shindig, in a remote and unlikely
location--a patch of Ellis County farmland--a monster all-night rave
is about to take place. To escape the intense sun, revelers take
shelter in tents or under gnarled oak trees to wait for dusk, while a
few sweat-drenched fans dance to pounding rhythms emanating from
several stages. Thousands arrive from all over Texas to pay $35 a
ticket as cars carrying four or five partygoers choke country roads to
get to the Beaumont Ranch, a 1,200-acre property that typically hosts
weddings and corporate events.

For weeks, Internet chat rooms have been buzzing about the Texas Zen
Festival, a techno celebration thrown by promoters who have organized
more than 100 parties nationwide. Fans were dismayed after reading
online reports that a Johnson County judge had issued a restraining
order to stop the rave. Authorities feared a lack of Port-a-Potties,
medical help and crowd control. No problem: With only a day's notice,
Beaumont Ranch operators nimbly moved the party from Johnson County to
their contiguous Ellis County property. Savvy kids shot new directions
to one another by e-mail. (The fears of Johnson County officials never
materialized.)

The atmosphere at Zen makes for a sea change from the Home Bar party.
Zen is all-ages, so the "candy kids" are here in droves. With them are
the much-criticized pacifiers, medical masks and other goofy gear
these teens have popularized. Some techno-scene veterans claim that
negative media coverage actually increased the number of candy kids,
often mocked as "E-tards," by luring drug-hungry malcontents to raves.
Back in the day, drug users were at least discreet.

Seeing well-muscled young men and fully developed young women sucking
on pacifiers is a bizarre sight. Elsewhere, such contraband is sold as
merchandise even though it's supposedly banned at the door. One vendor
called "glitterkids.com" sells pacifiers on beaded necklaces and
T-shirts emblazoned with the letter "E," for ecstasy.

While most kids aren't dressed unusually, outlandish outfits get the
most attention. Young boys and girls alike sport fluffy white angel
wings, shaggy backpacks bearing the likenesses of Sesame Street
characters, and arms covered in beaded bracelets. A center stage
blasts hip-hop, while smaller stages feature more obscure techno
styles favored by the most ardent fans.

Surveying the scene near a booth for Blastro.com, an Austin-based
Internet site that streams live techno concerts, DJ and music
journalist Merrick Brown is skeptical of the all-ages set. A music
editor for Feedback magazine who runs the small record label Tektite,
Brown thinks authorities should be concerned with the behavior of some
techno fans, especially newer ones. "The only reason they're here is
for the drugs," says Brown, who will travel to Munich, Germany, in
July to play two shows. "Most of us aren't into that."

Still, techno's PLUR ethos dominates, despite some unruly elements.
"People are happy, nonviolent," says Jax Foster, a fan who dances in
techno videos. Unlike at regular clubs, where "five guys are trying to
impregnate me on the dance floor, I can walk around like this," Foster
says while pointing to her blue bikini top. "No one's like, 'Hey,
baby.' It's a more comfortable environment."

Sean Anderson is also present. The gaunt, goateed activist, who
studies biochemistry at the University of Texas at Dallas when not
organizing raves, is busy handing out Texas Raves Awareness Group
pamphlets, voter registration applications and ACLU cards that advise
what to do if stopped by police. "The only way we are going to be
allowed to continue is to learn to be responsible and represent
ourselves to the law and community as respectable individuals," the
pamphlet reads.

While not explicitly anti-drug, Anderson's group seeks to drive
unwelcome elements from the scene by refocusing on music through
education. "Many kids don't know who the DJs are," Anderson says. A
few booths over, however, a separate group takes a different approach
to the drug issue--detached tolerance. Volunteers from the Houston
Harm Reduction Project, an affiliate of Oakland-based DanceSafe, are
busy handing out drug-safety and safe-sex literature. The Austin Dance
Alliance, a similar group vying for DanceSafe affiliation, is also
present. So far, there's no DanceSafe affiliate in Dallas.

At their table, a steady procession of teens flips through large
binders that feature pictures of ecstasy pills and lab-test data on
pill safety. DanceSafe's philosophy is pragmatic to some, reckless to
others. Despite anti-drug efforts, the group believes many teens will
take them regardless. So why not provide safety information to prevent
death or injury by overdose?

But even DanceSafe advocates chafe at the concept that raves are
synonymous with drugs. Sean Jenkins of Houston rejects the label "club
drugs," a phrase popularized by government health officials. Why fight
a label? Jenkins says raves get stigmatized for drugs found in many
other places. "It's a stereotype," adds fellow volunteer Cathy Ford of
Austin.

About 10,000 kids ended up attending Zen Fest, making it one of Texas'
biggest-ever techno events. It broke up at the yawn-inducing hour of 6
a.m. While Zen appeared well-managed and orderly, some fans'
insistence on wearing medical masks and pacifiers--the equivalent of
openly wielding a bong at a Phish concert--vexes reformers looking for
mainstream acceptance.

With the negative perceptions entrenched, it'll be a long road for
activists who want to elevate the rave. Anderson even complains of
"techno profiling." He recalls an incident in which a highway
patrolman pulled him over and, without success, searched his vehicle
for drugs, even drug-testing a package of mints, after spotting a
crate of records in the backseat and surmising he might be associated
with "the rave scene."

But there are signs of progress. While others plan events in cramped,
remote or illegal locations, one major promoter is successfully
integrating techno into the heart of Dallas' music scene. All-purpose
promoter, DJ and graphic artist Jeremy Word is breaking new ground by
regularly staging large techno events at the Bronco Bowl entertainment
complex in Oak Cliff, which has a late-hours permit.

Word, 23, who goes by the moniker "Kid Icarus" when he spins records,
fits the type of the club kid: tall, skinny and consistently upbeat.
The dyed-blond impresario heads Prototype Industries, the 2-year-old
company that organizes the Bronco Bowl raves. On his payroll is a
"street team" of 15 friends; they lure big crowds by blanketing the
area with fliers. The latest show is set for June 30. DJs from New
York, London, Los Angeles (who often command up to $20,000 a show) are
booked, as are many Texas disc-spinners.

Like others in the techno scene, Word is extremely cautious about
talking to a reporter. He asks for a list of questions up-front.
Later, he brings his attorney to the interview and even sets a camera
on the table to tape the proceedings. Lawyer Steve Chapman explains
Word's hesitance: "In the jungle of politics, they are a wounded
animal, and no one will come to their defense."

Word actually invites the DEA and other law enforcement agencies to
his shows. But he felt burned when DEA video footage shot at his event
showed up in a WFAA-Channel 8 report on drug abuse. The report
detailed high overdose rates locally for GHB, a liquid depressant that
causes euphoria but can also result in comas.

Word felt scarred as a businessman, since he wasn't accused of any
crime and works hard to run a tight venue. "My mom was watching, and I
was like, do you see what I'm talking about?" he says.

Word says he wants to do more than promote big parties with top DJs.
His goal is idealistic, perhaps unreachable: He wants raves to be seen
as a valuable part of the community. To that end, he's inviting Rock
the Vote, the Dallas County Community College District and military
recruiters to set up booths at future shows. As more people from
different walks of life tune in, Word hopes techno will follow other
music forms and lose its status as cultural bogeyman.

"I see it getting better," he says. "We're going through what jazz and
rock went through."