I keep running into 25-year-old Flapjack at parties, and I’ve since learned that he’s like a rave Pied Piper: wherever he goes, colorful kandi kids seem to follow. Yet I didn’t grasp the extent of his encyclopedic knowledge and obsessive passion for California’s underground rave culture until I paid a visit to his home.
Sex Survivor sounded too crazy to be true: 30 porn stars in a Hollywood mansion, competing in ridiculous sex contests with names like “Blind Man’s Muff” and “Musical Blowjobs” to be the last person lying on their back.
As climate change fast becomes the defining issue of my generation, the need to stop destroying the planet every time we party is going from afterthought to urgent imperative. The future calls for sustainable solutions: a new party paradigm.
The club arrives at an opportune time: Underground dance music in New York is currently thriving on an unprecedented level, and there is no doubt that techno is the bloodline that connects the sprawling scene.
Being Cali sober allows me to take from these experiences what I’m looking for—mind-expansion, self-exploration, empathetic connection, sensorial amplification—without the addiction and selfishness, and other types of ugliness that I associate with many non-psychedelic drugs.
Beneath the glossy surface of Hollywood clubs and mansion parties, LA is host to a thriving ecosystem of raves. It’s a relief that in a city under the microscope of social media, so much still goes under the radar.
What happens to EDM’s DJ superstars now that the sugar-coated bubble has finally burst, leaving everyone with a throbbing toothache? Some run to Vegas, others learn to sing.
Are cannabis companies genuinely concerned with self-care and wellness? Or is this just another consumerist marketing tool that preys on women's insecurities?
In the struggle between self-promotion and self-protection many artists experience, maybe Halsey—a social media star who created a platform for herself by mastering the art of strategic oversharing—wants to keep some of herself for herself.
I have to admit that I wasn’t prepared for goblin gabber the first time I put on a track at an afterparty at my place a few weeks ago. “What the fuck is this?!” my friends screamed, ducking under the sofa cushions, clutching their ears. “I don’t know!” I howled, “My editor just sent me the link!”
If you listen closely to the streets of New York, beneath the wailing sirens and screeching subways, you'll hear whispers of the legendary parties that used to be. Who can forget the SHADE warehouse rave during Pride 2015, when giant inflatable dicks shot laser beams over an ecstatic sea of shirtless gays?
Pot paraphernalia has come a long way from looking like a Deadhead stoner bro sharted out the Monster Energy drink logo on a piece of glass.
There are a few cities in America with reputations built from the outside looking in — to most people, Atlanta is all about hip-hop and trap. But it also has a less famous and equally deep history.
Self is part of a group of queer artists who are experimenting with the human voice in intriguing and political ways.
Before shooting begins, Golding's in L.A. for a couple of days, and he wants to relax, which means taking his camera to Venice Beach—“It's like therapy,” he says—so I tag along.
David Lynch’s instantly recognizable, pinched-nose Midwestern drawl crackles through my phone’s speakers on an October afternoon: “You’re walking down a path after the sun is set,” he begins matter-of-factly.
I got together with my favorite podcast New Models in Berlin to talk about blockchain bohemia in the age of cryptoraves.
How many dystopian fantasy worlds do we have to dream up before we realize that we’re already living in one?
The anthems that define ballroom culture are more than just old club hits. They also glorify the spirit of queerness and femininity, flipping words like “cunt” and “pussy” from put-downs into the highest praise.