The five-hour rave has wound down, the drugs have well worn off and the realization of your surroundings finally settled in. You’re in a moldy warehouse cellar with paint chips hanging off the walls. The best house DJ you’ve ever heard is finally revealed for what he really is, a soulless drum machine. The jig is most certainly up, your denial notwithstanding. You feel duped, raped, connived into a dark alley and mugged, but you’re not sure why. It eventually hits you that the music’s impressiveness was based largely on the quality of the ecstasy you popped around 1 am. The headliner, incapable of even a modicum of originality, played off your high, with smoke and mirror mixing gimmicks. andRead more.