tekk

The first impression is disorientation. Flashing strobes cut through the obfuscating fog, as the sound of drums and hi-hats escalate at a frenetic pace. Labyrinthian concrete walls set an oppressive décor reminiscent of their brutalist origins. Stale smoke hangs in the air; glass bottles and drinks hide in every orifice. The crazed, hectic settings inspire an animalistic fervor within the writhing mass of bodies on the dancefloor. Underground, we hide away from prying eyes and the moonlit skies above. Here, there are no rules or authorities. The only law is the unspoken mandate to vibe.

Raised fists pierce the fog, with enough vigor to break through the ceiling; the only logical response to the heavy, industrial beats that have taken command. On the walls, a panoramic sequence of images and vignettes cast a series of visual motifs that heighten the experience into a multimedia homage to the mechanical. Here, there are no leaders, no gods; just the ever-present pulsing of the kick drum at 128 BPM. Inevitably, the beat consumes your body and soul; you submit your mind to the greater energy that is techno.

Like puppets without strings, the crowd is held, enslaved by the music. We couldn’t leave even if we wanted to. Bordering on a quasi-religious experience, some of the clubbers have been here for days, the light long extinguished from their dead, bloodshot eyes. There is only the darkness. There is only the beat. There is only the pervasive, all-freeing experience that is to lose yourself in the temporary grip of insanity. Even the DJ is trapped behind bars, behind a booth that holds him hostage to the music as much as he controls the decks. Everyone comes alive to the spirit of the all-consuming, the all-knowing; slowly but inevitably, the music devours us whole.