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Assisted Suicide
“Bro, if I see your face on the ground – I’m not gonna pick it up – I’m just gonna fucking
kick it to the side.” With my knees tucked against my chest and my toes grazing a half- naked
coed clad in glitter and spandex, I threaten Spencer as the Kappa girl sitting on his lap frightfully
retreats to the back seat of the minivan. Queasily gazing at the driver side headrest, rolling his
eyes into the back of his head, my aforementioned bro simply forces a smirk and drops his
Wayfarers over his brow as he sets down his makeshift barf-bag – “Pinch me when we’re
there.” His plea, muffled by the screeching voices of giddy Sorority girls and pulsing electronic
beats ringing through Manni’s infamous maroon minivan, merits a snarky response from our
driver – “I told you to wait until after we get there to puke.” I hand Spence my water while
Paige, who has relocated to the lap of her sister, begins to massage his greasy scalp from the
back row of the van – “He’s gonna be alright.” With the fear of projectile vomit out of the way
(for now), our criminally over packed carload, breaking open-container and seatbelt laws alike,
continues to rock to our chauffer’s Funkadelic playlist as we enter the final stanza of our hour
and a half dance with claustrophobia.
Crammed into the smoke filled soccer-mom-mobile like a demented set of fluorescent
crayons, the ten of us speed – both literally and figuratively – through the backwoods of
Western Massachusetts to the notoriously wasted Umass Amherst, deservingly nicknamed
Zoomass Slamherst. This will be my third state university of the day. After rendezvousing with
Spencer and this caravan of misfits at the University of Connecticut an hour earlier, we are
mere moments from our destination.
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We sacrifice our Thursday night to celebrate the legend of Tiesto – the knob-twisting,
button-pushing international phenomenon who can change your life with nothing but a tapedeck. Embarking on his second College Invasion Tour in two years, DJ Tiesto will transform the
Mullins’ Center into Techno Paradise – complete with a million dollar light-show; a legion of
raging fans, and of course, beats louder than your parents’ divorce. From humble Dutch roots
to sold-out venues from Dubai to Wisconsin – Tiesto is the Michael Jordan of Electronic Dance
Music – and a two hour car ride is petty compared to the unspeakable things I would undergo
to witness his glory once again. Brought together by nothing but our fanatic, almost cultic,
passion for the Trance God, my new brothers and sisters in-arms and I shake the minivan all the
way into the unfamiliar parking lot where our exhausted van rolls to a stop.
Stumbling out of the aluminum box like fawns out of the womb, my squadron gasps for
untainted air as our landing party regroups on the snow-dotted pavement of the Mullin’s
Center Arena parking lot. As we await the delayed arrival of the remainder of our Husky
caravan, we shamelessly turn the adjacent parking spot into a dressing room. Manni
commences our transformation into battle-ready ravers by dropping his Champion sweatpants
and revealing a pair of traffic cone orange short-shorts. He begins to pull out technicolor beads
and bracelets out of his pockets and shares them with any underequipped colleagues. As this
transformation takes place, I gaze into the tinted exterior window of the maroon convoy to
inspect my own reflection. Gawking at myself with dime sized pupils, I wrap my folded
American flag bandanna around my head with the obsessive-compulsive preciseness. I tuck my
aviators behind my ears and allow them to rest atop the stars and stripes now decorating my
forehead-- looking good, feeling good. Exposed by the short sleeves on my charcoal D.A.R.E t-
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shirt, the hair on my arms stands from the combination of anticipation and February air. To my
left, Spencer pulls up his knee-high soccer socks to protect his shivering legs. His exposed
chest, revealed by the unbuttoned Bile-green Hawaiian shirt hanging off his torso, showcases a
tuft of gangly black chest hair scattered on his pale pectorals. The blue sequined pattern of his
long paisley headband drapes down onto his shoulders, clashing with the already blinding floral
graphics of his self-titled “Charlie Sheen shirt”. The group of girls gathers around the rear
window of the car to perfect their fairy-like outfits; I begin to shiver just looking at them.
Immediately to my right, the long-legged lady who had been sitting at my feet for the past two
hours would probably be warmer if she was naked. Her black spandex shorts grasp the cusp of
her buttocks with unrelenting sex-appeal; her bejeweled bra allows her amethyst belly-button
ring to dangle freely in the frigid air, and the fresh eyeliner on her face resembles that of an
Egyptian queen. The other girls are no warmer. Equipped with everything from a rainbow tutu
to a tattered “Support your Local Drug Dealer” shirt, these wannabe Tinkerbells are seizing
every opportunity to flaunt their flirty physiques – with zero complaints from the boys. As the
other cars of voyaging crusaders roll into the adjacent parking spots, we make final
preparations for invasion.
“It’s Time for Tee!” – I scream this signature call, repeated throughout Tiesto’s weekly
Club Life Podcast, one of the most downloaded hours of music on the planet, into Spencer’s
face as it seems life has returned to his previously emaciated spirit. He grabs my shoulders and
begins to rattle my internal organs, shaking me left and right with uncontrollable energy, before
darting off towards the arena. “We should have put him on a leash,” Manni says only
somewhat sarcastically. Spence returns from his lap – still running in place to fight the freezing
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temperature – and impatiently waits for the rest of the party. Once everyone finishes the last
of their inebriating fuel, our legion of raging New Englanders forms one united mass and
marches towards the front entrance of the arena. Groups of fellow bass-addicts dressed in
equally absurd attire weave through the scores of parked cars on the way to the stadium. As
we join the wave of incoming lunatics, I begin to realize the scale of this Invasion.
We are not alone in our passion; in fact, over seven thousand of us traveled from well
beyond the tri-state area to witness the spectacle that is Tiesto. The disastrous combination of
techno die-hards and obliterated college students presents an opportunity for guaranteed
madness. As we approach the main entryway into the Mullin’s Center, we notice the first line
of defense protecting the arena typically reserved for basketball games and graduations; I smile
at the lines of police officers equipped with mace, tasers, and handguns as we make our way to
the ticket-check area. Eager to escape the grasp of the brutal cold, we pile through glass doors
into an already crowded lobby. Images of Umass basketball players Posterizing scrawny rivals
are plastered on the walls of room now containing a platoon of hyped-up concert-goers.
Screams and chants echo through the high halls of the foyer as we impatiently shake, shimmy,
and shout while waiting to exchange our tickets.
“Do you think they’re going to check my bra?” Paige whispers as we wait to be frisked.
“Barring sexual assault – I think you’re good,” Manni confidently responds, giving Paige’s
breasts a quick optical mammogram to evaluate her stash-job. And while Paige worries about
the contents of her cleavage, Spencer checks his briefs to ensure our packages – no pun
intended – are still intact. Tucked gently into his groin is something that is synonymous with
electronic music: Drugs, of course.
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To narrate an electronic experience without even mentioning narcotic use would be an
injustice. Like an Alabama tailgate without bourbon, a college show without gluttonous druguse is nonexistent. Whether it be speed, alcohol, ecstasy, or one of their funky cousins– almost
everyone’s on something. And while the synonymy between drugs and techno is common
knowledge, the culture has transcended its druggie stereotype formed by the underground
ravers of the nineties. Epitomized by our sober-driver, Manni – who is famously quoted
shouting “Cocaine for the soul, baby” in reference to live melodies – it is not all about the
drugs. But for every Manni, there are dozens of doped-up kids “rolling face” on everything
from Molly to horse tranquilizers. Spence is certainly included in this mass.
After successfully trafficking our “party favors” past Mullins’ Center security, we enter
the breach. The subtle boom of the blaring bass can be heard as we scale the exterior stairs of
the Mullin’s Center. Before entering the battleground, we make a stop at the concession stand.
Here we stimulate the Massachusetts’ economy by partaking in several odd – but necessary –
rituals. As any veteran techno-enthusiast knows, staying hydrated is the key to ensuring
survival – so I buy two four-dollar bottles of water, fully aware of the ungodly amount of
perspiration that will be taking place in the coming hours. While the rest of the squad supplies
themselves at the concession, I pop open a fresh pack of gum and begin to distribute this
essential tool amongst my companions. Much like water, gum is another necessity to any
intoxicated concert-goer (although confusing to those outside the society) gum preoccupies the
mouth and stops it from chomping one’s own tongue – or inflicting permanent dental damage,
only otherwise preventable with a mouth guard. The final touch to our supplies is another
bewildering tradition amongst the bass community: Vick’s Vapo-rub. I cannot explain the
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science behind lathering yourself in this menthol grease, but I do it anyway. Smearing the
transparent cream on Spencer’s face as a linebacker applies eye black on Sundays, I prepare
him for the impending chaos. “Is it supposed to hurt? I kind of like it!” One of the newbie
members of the group proclaims as I smudge the gel onto her eyebrows like a cutman lubing his
fighter before a bout. Now, fully hydrated with a tingling sensation tickling our eyes and
nostrils, we begin.
Only thirty minutes into the opening act, the floor – what was once a basketball court –
is seemingly packed to capacity. From atop the staircase, looking down past the rows of packed
seats, the sea of bodies sways with the rhythm of the beat. As make our way down the stairs
into the mass of dancing madmen, we funnel past over twenty rows of occupied seats. Across
the ocean of brightly decorated heads, the image of jammed chairs is reflected onto the other
side of the arena.
Relying on the patented “Buddy System” to stay safe in the coming hours, I lock arms
with Spencer as we stride down the interior staircase. Breaking away from the less fortunate
attendees confined to upper seating, we submerge ourselves into the wake of hypnotized
fanatics. Looking up at the stage, a flashing screen depicting the opening act’s name, Quintino,
pulses with the salacious sounds. On both sides of the massive screen typically reserved for
WWF Monday Night Raw, enormous speakers capable of deafening a fighter pilot blast
electronic beats. Pillars of audio equipment tower above the Disc Jockey and surround the
front of the stage. A quick survey of my surroundings and I soon notice that Spencer and I have
separated ourselves from the rest of Husky nation. Although divide and conquer is never the
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best strategy, it is almost unpreventable. Plunged into a mix of crazed students and Wiley
veterans, we begin the ride.
Guided by the exhilarating sounds of the young Dutch producer Quintino, Spence and I
begin to – as we say – “Get weird.” Bobbling my head back and forth as the electro sythns feed
my bent arms rhythmic bliss, I immediately feel the music. While I stand with my arms in close,
cautious of elbowing the strangers breathing down my spine, Spence has cleared his own
personal dance floor. Stomping left, right, left, right – Spencer swings his arms violently as the
bass corrupts his soul. For us, the transformation into dancing-machines is seamless; for
others, it takes time to succumb to the sound. Sprinkled throughout the crowd there are, like
always, a number of novices self-consciously pumping their fist to the beat in a controlled
manner. Perhaps it is the lack of performance enhancing drugs in their system or the lack of
passion for the pounding bass flowing through their veins, but that all will soon change.
As I light a cigarette in the midst of the action with blatant disregard for the comfort of
my neighbors, the lights on the stage suddenly begin to dim. Quintino humbly bows to the
audience before delivering an energetic high-five to the next performer: Tommy Trash. The
crowd erupts into a roar as I blow smoke into the atmosphere. The pride of Australian House
Music, Tommy Trash, showcasing his trademark mop of unkempt midnight locks, rises to the
stage with unprecedented energy. With a reputation for nasty beats and even nastier fans, Mr.
Trash begins to blare his Trashed tunes, pushing the speakers to new limits. With a much more
distinctive sound than Quintino, Tommy Trash brings out something that his opener simply did
not invoke – Grime.
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Ah, the grime. Filthier than fried road kill; raunchier than your own conception; dirtier
than a backalley abortion – I love every ounce of it. As his signature rumbling bass bleeds out
of the amplifiers, Tommy Trash bounces in the DJ booth like a certified psychopath. Whipping
his hair and the crowd alike into a rabid frenzy with screeching sythns and deafening bleeps, he
takes the energy levels to new heights. With the speed and intensity of the music increasing, so
does the perspiration. Thousands of exposed armpits pour sweat onto whatever – or whoever
– is lucky enough to catch a splash of bodily fluid. Drenched by an unhealthy amount of
moisture, my short sleeves help to protect innocent bystanders from a salty shower of sweat –
sadly, the same cannot be said about Spencer. Now using his Hawaiian shirt as a headband,
Spence flails his arms and pounds the floor like never before. With beads of sweat flying in all
directions, his glazed torso allows him to slide through the crowd with ease. The unmistakable
howls of Tuna Melt ring through the arena as he knifes through the mob to plunge himself even
deeper into the sea of sound. Grabbing my buddy’s shoulders to prevent a premature
separation, I bump and stumble through the crowd to get even closer to the Australian
sensation.
Now closer than ever, a familiar devil rejoins the party. Grazing the rough stubble of a
presumably shaved arm, claustrophobia overwhelms me. Drunks literally falling through the
crowd, creating an awkward domino-effect of unbalanced dancers, cause me to grab Spencer
and call for a retreat. “Bathroom!” I attempt to shout over the hundreds of decibels of sound.
He hears my plea for escape – and we attempt to flee to the bathroom. Mercilessly shoving
boys and girls alike to get out of the raving mob of possessed humans, we eventually find our
way to a bathroom. Complete with resourceful ragers refilling their water bottles in the sink
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and shady group trips into the stalls, the restroom at electric concerts never fails to disappoint.
After refilling and relieving ourselves, we are ready for more in an instant. As we make our way
back into the breach, we spot Manni’s shorts like a beacon. Relieved to see a familiar face, we
march with Manni and his small squadron onto the main arena floor.
A twisted version of The Veldt rattles the structure of the Mullin’s Center as we return
to the orgy of sound. We decide to enjoy what little personal space we can find and begin to
bust back into our unusual dance moves. Now towards the back of the crowd, neighboring
some older fans more interested in the music than the violent moshing of the young go-hards,
we can soak in the energy of the DJ.
As quickly as he jumped into the booth, the Australian Dingo thanked the crowd and left
them in craving more. I knew what was coming next – we all knew. “Tee-est-oh, Tee-est-oh”,
the chant amplified as the entire crowd joined in a harmonious beckon for our savior.
A ghostly howl followed by a wave of subtle chords echoes through the speakers as the
crowd cries with passion. As the chords intensify a visual display of gold ocean waves
illuminates the giant screen above the audience. The humming rhythm of Chasing Summers
strengthens and coeds begin to shriek with uncontainable excitement. With my arms spread to
the sky, I welcome Tiesto as he runs onto the stage while the pounding bass of his classic
anthem drops onto the audience like an artillery strike. The outwardly simple Dutchman takes
control of the turntables and audience with authority. Confined to no single genre, the man
known as the Trance God captivates the mass with eargasm after eargasm. The rolling
technotronic beeps of We Own the Night transitions seamlessly into an absurd mash-up of
Atlanta-based Trap music – something familiar to a Gucci Mane (who? Exactly.) listener – and
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traditional house music. Feeling the vibes of the audience, Tiesto mixes and matches sounds to
best suit the crowd and the night. Like a sophisticated chef, Tiesto does not take requests or
orders; rather, he tells you what you want – he tells you what you need. This unmatched ability
to recognize what an audience wants is what separates a real DJ from someone who plays at
weddings.
The spectacle continues for over an hour. Highlighted by his legendary adaptation of
the classical Adagio for Strings – once performed at the opening ceremony of the Athens
Olympic Games – the set is simply magical. Between bursts of smoke synchronized to the drop
of the beat and showers of confetti, Tiesto puts on a show rivaled by no other DJ. The
unfathomably expensive light show makes sunglasses almost necessary. His indescribable
ability to create harmony amongst a crowd of individuals signifies the inexplicable magic of the
night.
Before we knew it, Maximal Crazy closes the show with maximal crazy power. Almost
thirty minutes of phone calls to rally the troops concludes a night of mayhem, and we march
back to the minivan. I wanted to commit suicide – but in the absolute best way possible.