Operated by John-Riley Harper. Dedicated to archiving photography from Utah's underground scenes, as well as other personal projects.

Get Lucky '06
So, I am a complete and utter loser.

After 8 years of raving I still can't even find the afterparty. I went to a SLC rave this weekend to do a participant observation for my anthropology class, craftily merging leisure with my scholarly responsibilities. My main intention, however, was to find people new to the scene to get a few interviews out of. I've been interviewing people that have been going to parties for scores of years, and I think there's a limitation: they don't see raves as being unusual whatsoever. I've been trying to identify taboos in a scene that normally considers itself open to all ideologies, anything goes. I think that oldschool ravers forget how unusual the scene actually is.

I went to the party with two intents: to take photos and to make connections for afterparties (hard to conduct an interview above the usual rave roar). However, I wanted to go somewhere that I didn't know anyone so I could try to find some younger, newer kids. I got nine phone numbers of people that were recently introduced to the scene as well as interested in an afterparty.

After the show was over I went to my car and started dialing, notebook at hand. First was a girl who I'd had a conversation with that was so close that we were kissing more than talking. It seemed that her tactics had brought her plenty of attention. Every few sentences during our phone conversations was interrupted; she'd either say she had to call me back, that I should call her in five minutes, or the line would disconnect and she'd call back a few minutes later. There was definitely something crazy happening over in that universe. I gave up quick. Going down the list netted me the address of a hotel party, a party at an apartment, voice mails, and news that people were winding down with acetylcholine surges (the neurotransmitter that makes the body cozy and sleepy after eating). We (my friend Jennifer and myself) drove to the hotel to see about that. People were stuck in an elevator after ignoring the recommended maximum person limit of seven. When we got to the room the four people who actually had purchased the hotel were more interested in having sex with each other than partying, and so politely kicked everyone out.

I turned meagerly to my other option, but the apartment party was just a goose chase. Maybe I'm horrible at directions, but I don't think the place existed. So instead, we drove through a snowy blizzard southbound at 35 mph on the freeway, visited Betos, friends, and then bed at 7:30 AM. At least I got some pics:



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