The Wind At My Back by Paul Maunder

Author:Paul Maunder
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing

Later that summer, I got my dose of wildness. The rave my friends and I were headed to in Otterbourne was visible from the M3, a halo of strobing lights on top of a bare hill. Coming off the motorway, we found that the road we thought we could take to get there was blocked by police, so we turned away and found a nearby cul-de-sac. Other ravers had parked there too and were loitering around their cars, doors open, beats and bass escaping into the night air. The suburban houses kept their doors shut and their curtains drawn. One could sense the shuddering inside.

Leaving my trusty Vauxhall Nova behind, parked haphazardly in front of someone’s drive, we started walking. The police had closed the road to the rave but were letting those on foot get through – they didn’t yet have any power to stop us. There was a curious gleeful silence as we bowled past the line of policemen.

We walked along a country lane in a low valley. All around were groups of ravers, chattering away at amphetamine pace. MA-2 jackets, hooded sweatshirts, tie-dye T-shirts, baggy jeans, beat-up old trainers… We were suburban kids bored of being told what to listen to by radio stations and record companies. Illegal raves were our way of breaking free, of rebelling, and it was private property that was threatened. Which was why, in the end, the rebellion was put down by the government. It wasn’t the wholesale consumption of drugs they were scared of, but the midnight invasions of private land.

Through the high summer gloaming we walked, beckoned by the thud of bass from the hilltop and an occasional flash of light. Into a field and through a small city of caravans, ancient painted buses, tents and battered cars. Groups of people sat smoking around campfires, dealers stood to one side of the stream of kids climbing the hill, calling out their merchandise. There were no police here; they were happy to stay back at the roadblock. For them it was a better gig than dealing with football hooligans.

The music grew louder, chaotic, hypnotic. Basslines so powerful they shook the pair of oak trees we ducked underneath. Beats that eddied and ricocheted. There was no human voice, and that was part of the appeal. Acid house and all its subsequent incarnations was a sonic, not an emotional, experience. The music was made by machine and sounded like it. Truly it felt right for that time. The end of the century was approaching – we didn’t want swaggering guitar bands who knocked out versions of Beatles’ songs, we wanted something that felt like the future. Hardcore made you happy because it made you want to dance. Ecstasy intensified this relationship by releasing a flood of serotonin into your brain. As the MDMA filtered into your bloodstream the music seemed to lift your feet from the ground, the music became three-dimensional, a rich and physical force. For a few hours we were all synaesthetic.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.