The Other Side of the Story Needs to Be Told
In Defense of Dance Music
There are very few universal languages. Food might be. Math probably is. But you can make a really strong case for music, even with its’ myriad genre “dialects.” My mom loves Andrea Bocelli, yet has no idea what she’s singing along to. The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Coldplay, and U2, among many others, sell out stadiums all over the globe and play to seas of adoring fans, at least some of whom have no idea what the lyrics mean.
It’s well documented that for me, a growing percentage of my generation, and a portion of the generation above, dance music is our particular dialect. And we’ll travel all over the world to engage in a spirited dialog. The pinnacle of all festivals, Belgium’s Tomorrowland, drew nearly 200,000 people from 214 countries. That’s 10 more than were represented at the London Olympics.
One of my friends saved every penny of his disposable income for an entire year just to attend that festival. I’m not kidding. I remember one time when I asked said friend to see a movie with me, he begrudgingly declined. He needed to save those eleven dollars for his Tomorrowland fund. So he took the twenty dollar bill from which those eleven dollars would have been deducted and gave it to his girlfriend, who played warden to the Tomorrowland fund. The logic went that if the money were in his possession, he would succumb to spending it, so he parked it in a “Fun01k.”
Ridiculous?
Yes and no. To those of us well-versed in the dance vernacular, such devotion is completely understandable. I speak on behalf of many when I say that some of my most spiritual and inspiring experiences have happened at dance music festivals. I’ve seen admirably selfless individuals hoist a paraplegic above the crowd, without any prompting or suggestion, to give him a direct view of the stage. I’ve looked on in vicarious joy as lovers wrap themselves in each other’s arms, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed, swaying in time, sharing a moment they wouldn’t dream of trading for anything else. I’ve given and received some of the most genuinely gratifying hugs I may ever enjoy. Overcome by wordless whispers that trigger distant memories, I’ve closed my eyes and sobbed deeply for the friends I’ve lost. But when I open them, I’ve found myself at peace, as if they were standing right next to me.
As fondly as I recall these transcendental images and memories, I’m growing both more aware and more reverent of the juxtapositions between the lighthearted festival atmosphere and the strenuousness of everyday city life. How many exhausting days have I willed myself through in order to “accomplish” so much that the next day would mean so little when I’d have to do it all over again? How often do I open the door for someone behind me, only for them to blow by, offering nothing but a scowl in return? For that matter how infrequently do I play witness to a random act of kindness on the streets of New York City? How many times have I been to an “intimate” networking event that, instead of incubating lasting connections, languished in oppressive awkwardness?
Yet at music festivals, where office politics, spurious small talk, and the next destination are of no concern, I can just be. Each time, without fail, I feel an instant and effortless sense of kinship to the 30,000 complete strangers around me because they want nothing more than to do the exact same. Dance music washes away the contaminants that taint our brightest selves. It gives life to these pure and human moments in which I, we, feel most at home and most present, away from the trying minutiae of “real life,” away from the stress-inducing buzz of a Blackberry that far too often interrupts living in the now.
Unfortunately, recent tragedy and the resultant media firestorm have cast a deserved pall over dance music. But whose duty is it to right the ship? The artists already wax evangelic over social media explicitly protesting drug use and promoting responsible behavior. The event organizers post clearly stated no tolerance policies; issue pat downs, bag, and even bra checks; hire ample security and medical resources; and offer free, accessible water. More can be done, though the safeguards are mostly in place. Maybe strip searches are in the near future, and if that’s what it takes then by all means, but they might be more trouble than they’re worth.
So that leaves us, the fans. We’re the root of the problem, the ones who need watching, and the ones with the most power to right the ship because we have the most ground to cover in terms of taking responsibility and ensuring our own safety.
People of the dance music patois. They may not understand our dialect, or even approve of it, but we can’t continue to give them reason to disrespect and potentially forbid it. So let’s get smarter about our conduct. It rests with all of us to enjoy music festivals without putting ourselves in danger. Each time I attend, I’m keenly aware that being alive to do so is a privilege, and even more aware of the great responsibility that comes along with it. A responsibility to me, my family, my friends, and the artists who make the music I can’t live without. I hope you’ll take a moment to consider just how much your life means to all of them.
And to those who are justifiably suspect. Yes, these recent festival deaths were incredibly reprehensible. They should never have happened. Hopefully they never will again and we’re going to help you in making sure they don’t. No doubt these senseless tragedies represent festivals at their worst, but there are many more like me who can vividly describe what festivals are at their best. For while Jeffrey Russ, Olivia Rotondo, and others before them, died all too young, the beautiful, spiritual, and rejuvenating experiences I’ve described to you are absolutely worth living for.
