Return to the rave

I have been raving in some form or another since about a week after I moved to London in 2011. The first place I ever properly “went out” to was the ever-notorious club Fabric, in which I was mostly disappointed: nineteen-year-old me did not enjoy being surrounded by Italian men in their thirties gurning wildly and flailing on the dance floor, pumped full of uppers and ready to fuck.

I loved the music, though, its loops and basslines and occasional thundering drops making my bones shake, the sweaty thrum of the crowd, the togetherness, yes, that togetherness (cheesy as it sounds), we were all here to dance and have fun and that was it, really, and yes, I wanted to do it again, so I did – Corsica Studios, Dalston Superstore, warehouses in Hackney Wick and Tottenham, the bank of the Thames, basements of friends’ houses, The Alibi if I was on my worst behavior. Four years on and I left London a seasoned rave veteran, full of love for a solid night out with my friends and a good DJ or two.

What a shame, then, to lose that once I had prosthetic legs. What a shame – I could go to a house party, stand around and shoot the shit, but when things got too raucous I’d say a couple of goodbyes and slip out the door and head home alone, miserable that I couldn’t tag along on whatever night out people were planning later on. It was over – I was done – the rave days were finished, I’d only be able to dream about those nights spent pulsing and gyrating in a dark room, a grin on my face, a chemical post-nasal drip in my throat. I coulda had a few more years in me, I’d think to myself, but I guess not. I’d stare at my prosthetics: if only! God!

Then, though, a friend made a good point, bitch-slapped me out of my self-pitying k-hole one day: “Dude,” she said, “have you even tried?

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The first rave I attended in New York was at Nowadays, then in a strange no-man’s-land far from my home in Crown Heights; I took an Uber there at 3AM, coaxed by a friend who, I suspected correctly, was fucked up and wanted some company. I wanted company, too: having been freshly deposited here only several months prior, desperate for friends, and very much wide awake, I figured, well, why not – if it sucks I can just leave.

Anxiety shot through me as the car careened through Bed Stuy and Bushwick: sure, I could leave if it was bad, but then that would be confirmation that I couldn’t do it, that my raving days were solidly over, and then – god, then I’d feel terrible, the finality of it would kill me. The concept of if you don’t know, you’ll never have to be disappointed began to feel appealing, and as I stood in line, somewhat wobbly on my feet, I could feel my heart pound: please let it be okay, please let it be okay.

The dance floor that night was near-pitch black, thick curls of smoke occasionally lit up bright by white lights cutting through the air; solid, heavy gabber beats thrummed so loudly and rapidly I could feel it in my teeth. I laughed to myself: my first night on the dance floor in my legs and the music was a full-on 170 BPM. I couldn’t dance to it, that much was clear, but as I swayed from left foot to right, testing out my strength and balance, I came to the realization that if the music were a little slower, a bit more house-y or techno-ish, I would, in fact, be able to dance. I didn’t stay for long that night – 4AM was enough for me – but as I cabbed it home, breath fogging up the window I leaned my head against, I grinned with an anticipatory satisfaction: I’d be back.

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I can’t quite recall, now, when I was properly back – was it that night at Sugar Hill? Nowadays again, maybe? It couldn’t have been that one putrid night at Elsewhere, no, that was later… at any rate, soon I found myself texting friends what’s good tn and knowing that I could – would – show up to whatever was happening and have a good time.

Raving in prosthetic legs can be an endeavor. There is preparation beforehand: I must be fed, watered, well-rested and energized (often difficult when disabled), have my legs on tight and solid – the latter is crucial, as one odd gyration or slip can send me sprawling if my legs are on funny and I’m not being careful. If the train ride is too far I take a cab. If I think the line will be long I get a ticket beforehand – standing still on my legs for too long hurts, much more than walking or dancing on them does. I am in tune with my new body now, know what I can put up with and what I refuse to, and know which precautions to take.

And dancing is not simple, is much more limited, a little robotic and funny-looking. I can no longer two-step – my natural balance on my prosthetics doesn’t allow it – so I shift from foot to foot, my head bobbing, my arms doing whatever feels right in the moment. I can’t jump, can’t twirl around, can’t run onto the floor with excitement when the beat drops; I stay near the back of the dance floor, where it’s less crowded, as being shoved into too much makes my tipping over much more likely. I cannot keep my balance while dancing to music with certain rhythms, certain BPM counts. It is restrained. I am restrained. Things are not the way they used to be.

–And do I resent it? Yes, sometimes. Several months ago a substance hit me harder than I anticipated it would, and I found myself suddenly whirling around on the dance floor, every step feeling like one taken on a trampoline, too bouncy, too difficult to suss out where my feet were landing. As I headed to the bathroom I felt my prosthetics beginning to wobble treacherously, at great danger of making me collapse, and thought to myself I have to go, I can’t ride this out, it’s not safe, and so said my goodbyes and hailed a cab home. I was certain – I still am – that ten years ago I would have been alright, would have been able to keep dancing, but this time, this time I could have fallen and hurt myself quite badly in my legs, and so the night was over.

But only rarely is it like that – only rarely do my legs betray me, do I worry for my safety while I’m out dancing. In a sense, I have had to learn to dance again, re-learn how to shift my weight, keep up with the rhythm, keep myself upright. It is more difficult now, to be sure, and not at all natural. But I want to do it, still, so I do.

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I sometimes wonder if I am pushing myself too hard. Often enough I come home near daybreak, the skyline purpling hazy and slow, my ears ringing and my legs desperately sore – god, so sore! – and I come home and take off my prosthetics and swallow an Aspirin and crawl into bed, my sheets softening around me, my eyes flickering with pre-sleep. I expend roughly twice the energy moving my body as someone with “real” legs does, and the post-rave exhaustion is noticeably more intense than it was back in London. Disability often means finding oneself very, very tired.

But that exhaustion, sore and bone-deep as it is, feels so deliciously worth it, every night spent flailing around to fat, chunky house music beats or a barrage of techno thud thud thuds a night well spent. I feel terribly, deeply lucky to be able to continue doing what I do, whether or not it’s more difficult, more held back. I am there. I am there. That is all I care about.

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Several weeks ago a friend and I were at an outdoor day rave, bouncing up and down to a good, healthy dose of house music, sunshine golden and sweet, sweat beading on our foreheads. The beat dropped, solid and good, and we looked at each other and immediately burst out laughing – with joy, with sheer unbridled fun. That’s it. That’s what I want: that heavy, pulsing happiness. I have returned to the dance floor, and I will stay.