Steve’s reference to The Time Machine also reminded me of the almost sinister
edge to psy-trance’s science-fictional imaginary, an edge most visible in the
thankfully fading images and lore of the Grey aliens. Such images should curb any
easy attempt to sacralize the dance floor as either a utopian site or an essentially archaic
one. This is a music, a consciousness, ghosted by futurity which for contemporary
(post-)humans has become a great abyss, however full of marvels. In other ways, this
consciousness is a testament to the seriousness of the scene’s psychedelia, because
serious psychedelia plumbs many spaces far outside conventional markers of the
spiritual. If more mainstream clubbers are willing to sacralize the Teletubby bliss of
MDMA, then psy-trance dancers tip their hats to the cosmic reptiles that snicker
eternally from the inky depths of psilocybin or DMT. Shamanspace is no walk in the
park.
But Steve’s technological paranoia also reflects the trickiness of freak transmission,
with its anti-authoritarian and free-form biases. Instead of formalized rites of
passage, it relies on happenstance, personal contacts, the vagaries of underground
media, and pure synchronicity A defining element of this antitraditional tradition is
the emphasis on the individual’s personal experience with various techniques of
ecstasy, from meditation to drugs to unconventional sex. Decoupled from the
cultural constraints that characterize most traditions, ecstatic technologies carry a
powerful Promethean—dare we say Faustian?—ambivalence, and provide few
safety nets.
In rave culture, these techniques also include the technologies and technologists
(DJs, musician-programmers, blinky lights) that collectively engineer the dance.
Submitting one’s altered consciousness to such powerful electronic assemblages is
nontrivial, because technology’s great question—the question of control—is always
left open. As with psychoactive substances themselves, our spiritual relation to
technologies often takes on the character of a pact, an uncertain alliance. Bohemians
have long recognized that such pacts imply a certain diabolism. In its very sonic
logic, psy-trance suggests that the West’s colossal pact with electronic and digital
technology is driving us towards a radically post-human future. The fundamental
paradox of this music is that in its path towards the ancient trance and a life beyond
Babylon it must march straight through the manic machines of the datapocalypse.
Enough of this. As the first hints of sunlight streaked the night sky, it was time to
return to the dance. Dawn, I discovered that day, was Goa’s sweetest moment, both
antithesis and reward for the night’s long darkness. The bpms slowed, and the
bracing attacks gave way to a smoother, more euphoric vibe. According to Goa’s
more self-consciously shamanic DJs, the change of pace had a ritual function: after
“destroying the ego” with hardcore sounds, “morning music” fills the void with
light.
As the dawn rays floated through the dusty clearing, a crazy quilt of beautiful
people slowly emerged from the gloom: Australians, Italians, Indians; Africans in
designer sweatshirts, Japanese in kimonos, Israelis in polka-dot overalls. A crowd of
old-time Goan hippies ringed the clearing, gray-haired and beaded creatures who
dragged themselves out of bed just to taste this moment. Eyes met, and flush bodies
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