Picture yourself opening a door. It’s pitch black, and the hallway in front of you is narrow. There’s one sharp turn to the left leading to another door and then you're out—you enter a large parking lot. There are maybe one or two parked cars, but mostly what you see is people gathered around in small to medium groups, smoking cigarettes, sharing joints, having loud, half-drunken, substance-induced conversations about the complexities of life.
Overhead a streetlight brightens up a third of the parking lot with its harsh, unappealing white colour. It's also 4:30 a.m. and you can see the first rays of the sun break through the clouds in the East, creating this half purple, half blue hue of colour in the sky above you. The cool morning air that only the summer brings greets you like an old friend. You take in the moment as you breathe in the fresh elixir.
It feels pleasant, soothing; significantly different than the smoky, hazy atmosphere inside the space you just left.
Behind you - the palace that you just stepped out of – continues the raging party. You can hear the dull thud of the kick drum, and the melodic tunes of the bass and synthesizer as they dance together in tango. They call this techno.
The party is on for another hour and a half, but your creaky knees are starting to tire, and your feet - carefully compressed in those Doc Martins – are demanding a break, a rest. You’re not as young as you used to be. But this is the home stretch, it’s time to move, so you take in another deep breath, familiarize yourself with your surroundings again, take a hit a drag off a friend’s smoke and make your way back inside.
Through the same narrow hallway, the sharp turn to the right this time – the sound now increasing in volume – and into the second door, and you’re in.
Welcome to La Casa.
The space inside is bareboned, minimal. Just as you enter you see an open area and another narrow door-less doorway about 15 feet in front of you. In the daytime, this space could perhaps be an open, private art gallery. Maybe it is. But you only know it as the techno paradise that it is. When the sun goes down and the work week draws to a close, this space begins masquerading as something a bit more egalitarian. A safe space for everyone. Where nothing is off the table, and everyone is invited.
Next to the narrow doorway, you see a large triangular shaped table and a dim white light illuminating it. On the table there are goods: condoms, new, unused syringes, lollipops, earplugs, drug pamphlets, and much more—all the essentials to ensure you have a safe, fun time partying.
Inside the narrow doorway you see a few people milling around. Instagram usernames and phone numbers are being exchanged. You hear a lot of heart-warming, wholesome statements like, “I know we just met, but you’re truly awesome,” and “We really have to hang out on outside.”
It’s all part of the ambience of the night. Words are being spoken that are meant in the moment, and perhaps with true intent, but hard to follow through on when the chemistry of the body and mind return to normal and possibly lower-than-ideal levels once Monday rolls around and the backbreaking work week begins again. Yet, it feels different here.
This isn’t your average late-night intoxicated conversation between two strangers at a bar. There’s something unique about it all, something that connects you to the people around you. It’s why you came here in the first place, light years ago, when you knew nobody, when all you wanted was to dance and be free. You found your temple, and you found your people in it. This is like no club you’ve ever been to. No, it’s not a club. The energy is cosmic. That thing that connects you to everyone else here. This is it. You're immersed in it. Whether you're the DJ spinning decks—the beat conductor for the night — or a regular Joe, an enthusiast on the dance floor, — loved up and vibing, the purpose is one. To dance the night away.
And so, you leave the new friends to themselves silently wishing them the best as you scope out the rest of the place. There’s an ATM to the right of you that looks like it’s on its last legs, but the bright light of the screen works overtime to reassure you that you will get your cash, and no, your card will not be swallowed whole. Besides the ATM is a thin, plastered wall that looks so flimsy that you’re afraid to lean on it. On the other side of it are three portable toilets that look like haven’t been moved for a decade. The odour seeping out from there is unpleasant to say the least, but what else would you expect at this time of night.
You retrace your footsteps out of the door and to the open entry space before taking a right. The music is now almost unbearably loud, it might do you some good to grab a pair of those earplugs you just passed by.
As you make your way through the narrow tunnel-like hallway, you catch a glimpse of the bloke that scanned your ticket earlier and give him a nod. You can tell by the look on his face that he both appreciates the acknowledgement and is also impossibly tired. It's been busy tonight. And there’s still an hour and a half to go, not to mention the painful process of shutting the adrenaline-controlled bio humans off when the lights go on.
Further down the hallway opens into a larger space, and you catch a familiar flash of the lasers as they chaotically gyrate to create random, epileptic patterns on the ceiling and floor. With each step closer, you feel your body begin to get taken in by the sound and feel yourself shaking to it as if some alien life force has entered your body and taken it over. You never thought you’d like this music, and you never knew you could dance to it. But now you're smooth; a cyberpunk, chemically controlled Michael Jackson. And you can’t be stopped. You spot a gap near the front of the DJ, and you ease your way into it, sidestepping your cousins in arms. You're now moving in unison everybody else.
Your creaky knees and tired feet are an afterthought as you feel yourself get lost in the music. One look around the room—you see heads banging, jaws clenching, faces held high, arms interlocked. You see a couple in a dark corner letting their love flow as if they were one.
It all brings a smile to your face. You're on autopilot now, nothing is going to stop you.
The DJ is reaching the crescendo of his set and he knows it, milks it for all its worth, teasing the crowd, sweating with them. You think you know when the beat is going to drop, but the DJs have had one on you all night. You relinquish and let go, getting sucked into the vortex of sound. You close your eyes and surrender to the moment.
The chemicals in your brain are in a frenzy, a puppet master guiding your every move. You have no concept of time and space now and are swirling around in the cosmos completely present, energised and joyous in the moment. When you open your eyes you see one of your mates you walked in with early in the night and then lost to the wilderness of techno. He gives you a big smile and draws you into his mini universe of dance. You happily enter, shaking wildly, not a thought being given to what anyone else thinks of you.
The lights are set to come on soon. A silent word is shared between you and your mates,
“It’s time to go. We leave now to avoid the long wait for a taxi, beating the last of the wild bunch that stay till the very end.”
Through the narrow hallway out, a quick silent goodbye to the good people working the coat check and tickets, a nod of gratitude as you walk out and into daylight. Some might call this a walk of shame. But no, you know what it really is. This is a stride of pride. You and your army of friends, joyful, grateful, brothers and sisters in arms strutting out and back into the world that remains clueless to the ecstasy you’ve experienced and will continue to experience here in the underground.
You would never have thought this city had so much to offer. What once began as a tonic to the virus-induced boredom, the complete scarcity of social interaction, the total ban on your God-given right to party, is now a weekly, bi-weekly part of your life. There isn’t a weekend that goes by where you don’t rave. And for good reason. Where else will you find such a large group of like-minded individuals who – whatever their flaws – are absolutely, undeniably pure in the moment.
Tonight, has been unadulterated.
You take one last look at La Casa as you walk down and into your taxi breathing in the moment, tired and happy, eager for your bed, but yearning for the weekend again, and another night in the palace.