“Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene / Which others rave of …?” – Lord Byron

The word “rave,” the American Heritage Dictionary tells us, comes from an Old North French word meaning “to dream or wander.”  It’s mental rather than physical “wandering” – i.e. insanity – as in Chaucer’s “In our madness evermore we rave” from the 14^th-century Canterbury Tales.  In the 18^th century, when it became fashionable for highbrow people to have nervous breakdowns, the word began to be used in an ironic but positive way to mean, “to talk enthusiastically.”  It wasn’t until the twentieth century that the word expanded its meaning again to encompass a wild party, in the British slang “rave-up.”  Finally in the late eighties, it began to mean a giant underground electronic-music dance party with flashing lights and mass use of speedy drugs.

Etymology is seldom a conscious choice, but the origins of a word are almost always telling.  Anyone who’s ever been to a rave can attest that, even without drugs, the scene can make you feel insane.  Earsplitting music, seizure-inducing lights, and everyone’s dressed like characters Lewis Carroll would dream up in an opium nightmare.

I love rave.

I was born in 1982, a first-wave Millennial.  While I wasn’t turned on to electronic music till my late teens, once I began to understand it I wanted to claim it as my own.  The trance club could represent a yearning for transport, ekstasis, the out-of-body experience. I’ve never let go of the idea that electronica is the soundtrack to my generation – the only equivalent we have to the “jungle music” of early jazz, or the society-shaking sexuality of early rock ‘n’ roll.

But, I have to admit – I thought the rave scene was dead. These days, the term “ravers” is disparagingly associated with tweaked-out teenagers whose brains have been chemically depleted, boys who suck on binkys and girls who give you drug-ditzy hugs.

As of my experience at the Electric Daisy Carnival this summer, I can’t say the latter opinions have been all that much altered.  What has been altered is my sense that rave is dead.  I was astonished by the phenomenon that flooded the downtown Coliseum.  You can tell a lot about a culture when 70,000 people show up wearing the same kind of outfit.  Teenage rave is a massively developed subculture that I had no idea about.  It was a 12-hour teenage pop-culture Halloween.

It made me feel old.

The kids were starting to arrive at the Coliseum when I got there at 2 p.m. on Saturday.

My friend Simon had called the night before to ask if I wanted to be a P.A. on a one-day shoot.  As I’m unemployed, I jumped at the chance.  When he said the hours were 2 p.m. to 6 a.m., I swallowed hard and accepted the fact that it sucks to be broke.

The production office windows rattled, a constant earthquake.  There were around fifteen cameramen – and one woman – who were assigned to spread out through the carnival and shoot promo footage from 4 p.m. to 4 a.m.  Kevin, a taciturn fellow who has run the event shoot for years, gathered everyone together over lunch.

“Play with frame-rate,” he instructed.  “Don’t cut if something interesting is developing.  Look for the kid who everyone picks on in school but who’s the greatest breakdancer at this festival.  Those are the kids who shine here, that’s who we want.”

Four o’clock, five o’clock.  Thousands of kids streamed in, stopping traffic on Figueroa.

It’s an odd feeling – that first moment of looking at younger people as a separate culture.  They are still of my generation; they would still remember September 11^th.  But, as generations scholars William Strauss and Neil Howe would say, this is a different cohort.  Late-wave Millennials, Clinton- rather than Reagan-era, Britney and Timberlake instead of Michael Jackson and Madonna.  Until recently, I was “the young crowd” – the group that movies, clothes, and generally everything on earth is marketed to.  Last Saturday I found myself studying the first wave of my replacements.

I don’t think of myself as eminently shockable.  But as I looked around at budding girls wearing literally bra-and-panties in public, I heard an inner voice tsk-ing.  Kids these days.

The fashion was fascinating. I made note of the signifiers of the subculture.  Holdouts from the ’90s: striped cat-in-the-hat hats, candy necklaces, glowsticks, plastic bracelets and necklaces. Stuffed-animal backpacks, tutus, giant fur boots.  Soccer socks, pinstripe vests, neon dread extensions, colored fishnets, gold and silver lame.  One “Legalize Gay / Repeal Prop 8″ t-shirt on a defiantly feminine boy.  Half the boys were shirtless (and extremely buff, I couldn’t help noticing) and wore colored suspenders.  Some boys wore short shorts, some wore jeans that looked like second-generation JNCOs.  Tie dye, yellow crossing guard vests, fat plastic curve earrings.

Look for patterns.  Try to understand what’s going on here.  Girls held hands as they threaded through the crowd.  Glitter, sequins.  An exuberant mash-up of eras.  Shiny hot pants, lots of neon, very ’80s.  Baggy pants, platforms, plaid pants and skater shoes, punk schoolgirl chic from the ’90s.  Faux-sixties hippie stuff – peace signs, tie-dye.  Fishnets and garters from the ’20s.  Lakers shirts.  Yarn pigtails.  Bandannas worn around the neck, occasionally pulled over the nose in bandit fashion. Fake flowers, sweatbands, swimsuits, fairy wings.  Glasses with horizontal plastic lines.