Slop tans, fresh beginnings and “noses painted peppered sunlight”, summertime is over kids, and soon so will be the trance parties. So, here’s to the beats, the sweets and all you freaks… ’till next season kids.
Psy-trance parties are time for Sunny Shenanigans and messy celebrations; electronic rendezvous in the hills and under the stars. Sublime reminding you ‘what you got’, spliff and the window rolled down so your arm can ride the current and your skin can feel alive.
There exists an uncanny camaraderie at the trance parties. A family feeling shared between a subculture that carries on their 9-5 existence in elusive anonymity, only to rekindle a few months later in a hellish storm of electronic joy. They’re an intrepid group, relentless in their carnivalesque voyage. Time dissolves in to colourful speckles, which you end up taking in two. But it’s not even about the drugs, or the booze. Hooking up, or going large. Although, that’s swell and it’s all part of it. It’s about the music. Period. There is no room for pretensions or coherency. Fuck expectations and your second-guessing.
As dawn breaks and sunnies come on, the energy changes, refuelling and transforming the crowd. You wash the dust off your face with a bottle of water, and then down the rest. You say hello to the mountains, the DJ and your new friends; all strangely familiar now in the natural light. Nostalgia comes in glitchy waves, amplified by the DJ and the theatrical crowd. Frequencies of breaks, electro, psy-trance, dub step and all that jazz carry you through the hours from Friday to Sunday. Vortex, Earthdance, Alien Safari, Groovy Troopers, Origin, The Village… they’re all a short, explosive whirlwind of smiles, sounds and good times.
You leave feeling slightly bewildered and hesitant to drive back to normality. Not sure where or what that is, and if you even have the petrol to get there. It reminds me of the last scene in The Beach, where Di Caprio discovers the unexpected electronic-present in his mailbox. You have Mail. The photo that captured it all. They all knew words couldn’t do it justice. When you experience the same, you look around the room of strangers, smiling like you have a little secret. Knowing you were a part of something they were not.
Or maybe they were, you can’t really remember? The details aren’t important.
words: sarah claire picton, photos: Scott Rennie
