The scene is massive

Items discussed: early 90s raves, gay flash mobs, the hopeless sincerity of youth
Items pointedly ignored: death, disease, the stalled film career of Rick Moranis

I was never a raver [ra-ver, noun: one who attends large dance parties; see also: casualties of the 1990s], though my flirtation with the early Midwest rave scene provided me just enough experience with glow-sticks and awful music to make me more than a novice. After a certain point, however, common sense and a natural aversion to giant pants got the best of me, and I left the scene behind, though not without some lingering admiration; from the stupidly infectious (and often chemically enhanced) sense of unity to the ridiculous lengths one had to go just to figure out where the damn things were held (call a certain 800 number, drive to a certain gas station, find of set of directions under a certain pack of Gummi Worms), the early rave scene had its wonky charms. Unfortunately (or, in hindsight, fortunately), I simply didn’t fit in.

Two decades later, I make my way through the ravenous mob of homosexuals invading Steny’s Tavern, all of us trying to make some sort of sense of the monthly Milwaukee Guerilla Gay Bar. For the uninitiated, MGGB is a loose collective of gay and trans-type folks who stage “friendly takeovers of traditionally straight bars” on the first Friday of every month. Like the raves of yesteryear, part of MGGB’s appeal is the element of surprise – the group’s organizers reveal the location of each month’s infiltration less than 24 hours beforehand. Of course, disseminating this crucial information is much easier than it was 15 years ago: cryptic gas station directions have given way to MySpace bulletins and abandoned warehouses have been replaced by unsuspecting south side sports bars.

I’m accompanied on this night of gay revelry by the lovely Amy Elliott. Doing our worst to fit in, we spend most of the evening talking about the least gay things imaginable (marriage, babies, movies not starring Kevin Spacey). Further proof of our naiveté lies in our unspoken expectations of unbridled flamboyance: flocks of hot pink boas, crotchless leather chaps, Bette Midler karaoke. Instead, we find ourselves surrounded by a fairly normal cross-section of the gay/lesbian/bi/trans-fat scene. In fact, if not for the three drag queens holding court near the bathrooms and one fellow’s insistence that Amy and I are actually a gay brother/sister duo, the scene could easily pass for any normal weekend bar crowd, albeit one with slightly more hair gel and collared shirts.

Wondering how this sudden influx of hot queer action has affected the staff of the normally straight Steny’s, I sidle up next to the door guy:

“So, is it always like this in here?” I ask.

“Um, not really. Whatever.”

Taking his indifference as a positive sign, I head back into the crowd and push my way towards the drag queens in hopes of a few quick questions. I’m too late, however, and they quickly disappear into the ladies room. I follow their lead and duck into the bathroom myself – the men’s room – unsure of exactly who I’ll find, all expectations gleefully thrown out the window and into the freezing night air.

Twenty-four hours later, I’m back on the south side – this time at the Borg Ward – for an evening of mostly heterosexual rock & roll. The lineup is top-shelf: the incomparable Trusty Knife do what they do best, reminding the crowd that they’re still one of the best acts in town. Openers Crappy Dracula (official winners of best band name since the mid-80s metal outfit Fertile Crescent) quickly endear themselves to me in ways only a band that gives dramatic readings of Juvenile’s “Back That Ass Up” could. Their ramshackle Dead Milkmen-flavored set renews my faith not only in my own musical endeavors, but in the entire Milwaukee music scene as well (need I mention their complete lack of cellos/accordions/washboards?).

Stepping out for a back-alley smoke break between sets, I bump into a young friend who just recently packed up ship and moved to Portland (Jesus, will Portland ever cease being the go-to destination for wayward indie-kids?). She’s home for a few weeks, she explains, visiting family and tying up some loose ends. The cold air quickly getting the best of us, we finish our cigarettes and head back indoors. She turns to me and sighs. With the utmost sincerity, she says: “It’s so hard coming back to your old scene.”

My first instinct is to laugh. She’s only been away for a few weeks; how hard can coming back really be? But the more I think about it, the more I realize just how ridiculous her statement is, and how it betrays her age. Hopelessly optimistic, it’s a statement that assumes scenes really do exist, that they’re not simply artificial constructs tied to tenuous relationships and hokey gimmicks. While large groups of like minded people have certainly defined certain times and places throughout the years, the fact remains that the only scenes most of us will ever know are cursed to fits and starts, ill-defined ideals and dead ends. After a certain age, the illusion of a coherent and life-affirming scene is just another thing we inevitably leave behind. Right?

Later that night, back at home and sick with stupid nostalgia, I dig up an ancient box of Massive, the long-ago bible of the Milwaukee rave scene. The cover of an early issue catches my eye: a silhouetted group of people dance in front of a giant bonfire, the words “The Scene Is Massive” emblazoned below them. I open it up and start flipping through, trying to remember everything I’ve forgotten. VS

Matt Wild only now just realized that James Brown really is dead.