#29 __ sustain-release

photo credit: Raul Coto-Batres (IG: @rl.ct.btrs)

One night at Bossa I was standing at the edge of the dance floor, getting ready to jump back in, when a friend sidled up and tapped me on the shoulder. They asked if they could talk to me about something. We walked outside and they told me they’d been thinking about who they wanted to give their guest invite for Sustain-Release to.

People take this invitation-only aspect of Sustain seriously; the only reason this event matters is the quality of the crowd. Many people know who they’ll invite a year ahead of time. My friend said Sustain is for people who love the music. “You’re always feeling the music. You belong there.”

A more beautiful compliment could not be given. I was overwhelmed with joy and we hugged several times as we talked more about it. That phrase, I belong there, meant the world to me. It said that this feeling of community is not just my own, but one that others have towards me. That I am accepted and actively welcomed into these spaces.

Reality was a little less welcoming. Tickets sold out instantaneously and many of the community’s most established members were left confused and empty-handed. None of the people that invited me managed to get tickets for themselves initially. What previously seemed thoughtfully inclusive now felt competitively exclusive. Nonetheless, with the grace of friends and a bit of luck, I finally had my ticket in hand a few days before the festival began.

The days leading up to Sustain are full of anticipation. “You going to Sustain?” becomes part of the usual salvo of catching up with party regulars. I’m at Bossa the night before it kicks off and one of the bartenders flashes a big grin and wishes me a Happy Sustain as they slide over a yerba mate. It feels a bit like the Christmas spirit. Everyone seems to have a little extra energy to offer, a bit more softness to their touch.

Getting to the campground is a little tense. Local cops are on the prowl and aggressively profiling. But we get there safely and it’s an immediate comfort to see one of the residents at Nowadays working the door. Nearly all of the Bossa staff are here, some of them working, some of them attending (though the distinction is often blurry). The people running the lights, food, and bars are all Brooklyn rave regulars. More than half the lineup is locals.

There’s something so warm and gorgeous about driving 2 hours upstate just to be surrounded by exactly the same people I raved with a weekend prior. Everyone’s greeting each other with excitement and hugs and there’s anticipation for the music to come dripping over every conversation. We all can’t wait to see this camp come into its true form.

There is sadness, as well. Many core members of the community desperately wanted to go but couldn’t find tickets. Meanwhile, there’s seemingly a large contingent of internationals with no connection to the local scene. The motto says “strictly for the freaks” — but which freaks, exactly? The crowd seems more white and less queer than a good weeknight at Bossa. It feels wrong that such an event should be unable to accommodate its own community.

Once night falls and the bass comes rolling across the campgrounds, all is right with the world. It’s a well-oiled rave machine churning into action. Everyone here knows their role in this grand piece of theater and after a few hours of music pumping into everyone’s veins, it becomes an absurd delight just to wander around and soak in the atmosphere.

First, there is the layer of natural fog draped over the whole camp. It’s impossibly perfect; just dense enough to give everything a warm, soft glow and provide a nice continuity from the fog of the dance floor. Pockets of happy ravers are tucked in a thousand different nooks and crannies — in the hammocks by the pool, at some picnic tables by the pond, sprawled out on the grass, perched on the railing of their cabin’s porch, underneath the branches of a huge tree, or just meandering aimlessly.

Everyone’s smiling, but there’s something more than just happiness going around. It’s a comfort and security that can’t be found at any venue in Brooklyn. We know that the whole crowd is there for the right reasons and the staff are all on the same wavelength. There are no cops around the corner. The music is only going to get better and better over the whole weekend. Good food, plenty of water, and a thousand places to rest. Our guards can come all the way down.

To dance is to let go. It’s turning off the adult in our brains that tells us how we ought to look. It’s shedding that self-consciousness that worries if we’re making fools of ourselves. The art of the party is creating the conditions for this release. Most of the time, we’re working with imperfect tools — dubious crowds, awkward spaces, inconsistent music. Sustain-Release is what happens when every detail is done right: everyone can completely let go, together.

Thank you so much for reading.

previously on outer ][ space:

• #28 __ i’ve seen you around
• #27 __ gentrification
• #26 __ queerness