If it had been a rave there would probably have been a chill-out room somewhere with seating, ambient music, and possibly even air-conditioning. But the Hard Festival’s Chicago stop at the Congress Theater last Friday wasn’t a rave. Raves don’t have ATMs or snack bars or 6 PM start times, or at least the ones I went to in the late 90s didn’t. So overheated dancers taking breaks from the sweltering main room had to make do with sprawling on the cool marble of the staircase in the lobby.
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The almost complete absence of candy ravers at the Congress could be explained in a few different ways. Chicago’s take on the larger 90s revival skews towards grunge and punk. Chicagoland’s rave revival might be based too far out—now as then, candy ravers tend to come from affluent burbs. Or maybe Friday was just too miserable a humid mid-August night to want to put any thought into dressing up, although no dedicated raver I’ve known would let something like the weather get in the way of an outfit.
As the night went on, though, things slowly started to resemble a proper rave. By 10 PM, when Sinden went on, some attendees had been dancing for four hours. A trip up to the balcony made clear that clouds of sweat were accumulating on the Congress’s domed ceiling, and the dancers’ faces wore the ecstatic glow familiar to anyone who’s ever stood in the midst of a body-jacking marathon. Some had chemical help, no doubt, but few people were obviously rolling—although the beer lines were short, that was more likely a side effect of the show being 17+ than a barometer of ecstasy consumption. (The one possible exception: a mixed-gender quartet standing on the edge of the dance floor exchanging hugs and sucking on lollipops while a dude nearby executed a choppy version of liquid dancing using a bracelet covered in flashing lights as a prop.)
As 1:30 AM approached, everyone in the theater, with the possible exception of the security guards, seemed locked into the beat together. That rhythmic cohabitation is the key to the transcendent feeling of unity that good raves generate, and it’s done more to make raving such a crucial part of some people’s lives than drugs ever did. By the time Rusko dropped his massive tune “Woo Boost,” I had set aside my critic’s hat. Hard Fest didn’t look like a rave or sound like a rave, but it felt like a rave in the deepest, most meaningful way possible. I put away my notes, pushed my way into the knot, and put my hands in the air.
