I have a huge confession to make.
Under my endless and seemingly complex layers, I am a raver bunny.
There. I said it.
There was a time - perhaps ten years ago - when I bought all the raver music to be had. You name it, the Bumps, the ESPs, the Reactivates (wince), the Camel Party's. I owned them - and if I didn't own them, I had them on cassette, firmly entrenched on the penlight-battery operated cogs of my Walkman. Please don't judge me, I was a lost soul.
I have been very cheated. For true ravers, well, go to raves. I grew up in a one horse town where the word 'rave' was a well-matured Midlands cheese or such. At boarding school after the holidays, my friends from the big bad city of Johannesburg would come back with stories about "hitting it hard at ESP," or "dancing all night at Bump."
It drove me bananas.
"What did you do during your holidays Peas?"
I rode my bike, watched telly and ate cheese. If you must know.
All I wanted to do was dress in lumo latex and a fuzzy bra top and head to the city of Rave. Nope, wasn't allowed. The closest I got to a rave was dimming the lights in my boudoir, turning up Bump 2 when my folks were out and jumping on my bed.
I was such a loser.
Ten years later, it's gone. Rave was always an underground movement really, but it's completely left the planet. Here I am in the city of hecstasy and doof doof - but it's another era. I missed the boat.
Rave is very distinctly uncool, and going to Evolution in Midrand is not my idea of a good time. (The Ant said she'd take me there, we'll dress up, wear yellow glasses, revert back to the 90s together basically, but I'm scared we'll be beaten up stukkend.)
So I'm a closet raver that never was. Or am I?
Perhaps when next in Europe, I'll do that Berlin Love Parade thingie or maybe divulge in the Ibiza scene. For now, I replay my old stuff in my car - windows down, like a lanie leaving Lenz. Magic.
But please don't tell anyone. Being a Closet Raver That Never Was isn't exactly de rigeur.