Thinker Unplugged

You might think the modern rave bears little resemblance to the political arena. You might very well think that. I couldn’t possibly comment.

But observe, if you will, the mechanics at play. Thousands gather in warehouses and fields, surrendering themselves to rhythm and light, convinced they’ve discovered something transcendent. They call it PLUR (peace, love, unity, respect, for those mercifully uninitiated). How charming. How useful.

The DJ occupies the elevated position, controlling the masses below with nothing more than carefully timed drops and bass frequencies. The crowd surges and recedes at his command, believing themselves free whilst exhibiting the most exquisite conformity. They dress identically in their supposed individuality. They move as one whilst celebrating their uniqueness. It’s rather like a party conference, really, only with better lighting and more honest chemical assistance.

The promoters, naturally, profit handsomely from this manufactured euphoria. Forty dollars for entry, twelve for water (marked up, of course, from wholesale pennies), another twenty for the privilege of checking one’s coat. The economics would make a Tory chancellor weep with joy.

And the ravers themselves? They return week after week, convinced they’re part of something countercultural, rebellious even. Meanwhile, they’ve become the most predictable demographic imaginable. Malleable. Exploitable. Loyal.

One might suggest it’s all rather cynical. One might very well suggest that. But I observe only this: power lies not in force, but in making people believe they chose their own chains.

The bass drops. The crowd roars. And I? I simply watch, and learn.

You might think I’m being unduly harsh. You might very well think that.