For the last several years, a slew of underground raves have been popping up across the South Bay in a variety of public places: sewers, freeway underpasses, seemingly abandoned fields, bunkers. There’s a lot of city, county, and federal land that doesn’t get used much, and in this economy, in this town, “free” space is currency. If you build it, they will come—and if you don’t, they will come even harder. The parties are run by a techno-and-bass-oriented group that would like to stay unnamed, owing to the less-than lawful nature of their activities. But they’re not hard to find.

Around me, all sorts of loving exchanges are happening—one of the reasons I love partying so much. What are likely club drugs discreetly (and not-so-discreetly) change hands. Bottles of water are shared. Weed and vape clouds waft through the air, stuck between the concrete above and below and the mass of humanity in between. Full-body hugs abound, and more than a handful of people are making out and grinding. Everyone is grooving in their own way. Some have their hands in the air, chopping to the rhythm, their eyes closed. Quiet smiles line the faces of more than one raver.

Over the hours, the turntables welcome new DJs, each with their own distinctive styles. Some thrash to heavy techno; others scratch out the dirtiest, heaviest beats the crowd’s bodies can handle. At some point, the black sky starts to lighten up, eventually turning a light shade of pink, and a cold breeze rushes in. It’s daytime now, and the music stops. Fuzzy-booted partygoers trek to their cars, parked miles away. In their places, a crew of homeless people files in, hired and paid by the party organizers to clean. Shortly after, any sign of life has been wiped from the underpass. It’s almost like it never even happened. But it’s a physical reality that energy doesn’t disappear, it simply transmutes. Later the next day, when I finally wake up, I still feel the beating in my chest, that telltale heart.

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