Being caught up in some complicated feelings and unresolved tension, the need to get out and clear my head was too strong to ignore. Flipping through the latest issue of SLUG, I checked out the events calendar and decided to head to Metro Music Hall for a release party. The music was solid, but I was craving something faster-paced — something that made me feel uncomfortable.
I made my way to the International Artist’s Lounge, knowing it would be quieter than usual since the University of Utah crowd was away for winter break. The air inside felt thick. I slid into a booth in front of the stage and found myself captivated by a guy in a train conductor hat and overalls, spinning tracks under the name “The Conductor.” The deep bass vibrated in my chest, each beat reverberating through the room, while the lights above flickered in rhythm with the music. The vibe was strange but perfect for what I needed.
Before long, a group of people slid into my booth, and we started talking. There was something about the way they leaned in to listen — like they were hungry for the kind of offbeat connection people like me seem to offer. They were artists, each with their own projects and a shared ambition: to start a magazine that would rival SLUG. They laughed when they said, “Fuck SLUG,” but when I asked if they’d hypothetically work for the magazine, they shrugged and said, “Of course.”
They weren’t exactly sociable, but they had a spark to them, like they knew they were onto something, even if the rest of us hadn’t caught up yet. I felt that pull too, like they were building something bigger than themselves, even if it was only a shared idea. They mentioned an underground event happening that night, hosted by a company called Blaqvoid. One of them vaguely described it as one of their “warehouse takeovers.” They didn’t have many details, but their eyes lit up as they spoke about it, a mix of excitement and uncertainty. It all sounded a little sketchy, but they were drawn to it, and for some reason, I found myself intrigued. I didn’t have to say much. They just kept filling in the silences, like they needed to keep talking, needed me to keep listening.
One of them pulled out his phone, typed something in, and handed me the screen. It was a link to the event page. “Here,” he said, “you’ll need this to get in.” He then texted me a password, something cryptic, like a secret handshake in digital form. I didn’t ask questions. I just took the info, bought the ticket, got a text with an address, and felt a strange excitement building as I got closer to something that felt a little dangerous, a little thrilling.
When I showed up, it wasn’t the usual club scene. There were no signs, no neon lights flashing at the entrance. Just hundreds of cars parked and people walking toward something hidden in plain sight. The air was cold, but I barely noticed as I followed the crowd, a flow of strangers all moving in the same direction. I wasn’t a raver, and I wasn’t part of this world, but there was something about being in this sea of faces that felt natural. The only light came from the distant glow of a few headlights, casting long shadows as I walked. I threw on my sunglasses, not wanting to make anyone uncomfortable with my observing eyes.
Inside, the space was alive with sound, heat, and color. The main rave area was mesmerizing. No phones, no crowding, just respectful, spaced-out energy. The bass was a physical presence, throbbing through the floor, my body syncing with each pulse as my senses were overwhelmed with bright neon projections swirling around me. I felt the buzz, but it wasn’t enough to just watch.
After about 30 minutes of swaying and head rocking, one of the people I met suggested we step outside for a smoke. I hadn’t smoked in a year, but I didn’t want to miss the full experience, so I joined them. The cold air hit my face as soon as we stepped out, clearing the fog in my head. After hitting the joint, the world was brighter and sharper. I couldn’t stop smiling. The energy was contagious, and I felt every beat of the music in a new way. The lasers above the DJ pulsed with an intensity I hadn’t noticed before, dancing above the crowd like electrified waves. I wasn’t the type to be drawn in so easily, but there was a kind of freedom to the night that made it hard not to let go.
We danced for another three hours, but as the high started to wear off, we decided to take a break. Outside, the quiet seemed to swallow the noise from the rave. I found myself watching the people leaving, each one stepping out of the dark, red-lit room and into the cool, calm space outside. It was a strange, beautiful moment, a reset before diving back into the chaos. For a brief second, I realized that maybe this wasn’t so different from how I was feeling, like everyone was trying to find a balance between their worlds.
I exchanged info with the group and said my goodbyes, ready to head out. But as I made my way back to my car, I found myself weaving through a different crowd gathered by another random warehouse. A security guard bumped into me and pointed me toward a line, so I did what anyone would do: I got in line.
While in line, I struck up a conversation with two guys who swore this was the place where all the “cool” people hung out. I laughed, thinking they were joking, but they were serious. “This place has changed our lives,” they said, raving about the connections they’d made. It felt like they were living in some parallel universe I couldn’t fully tap into, but the more I listened, the more I felt drawn to what was inside. But we weren’t standing outside a club; we were in front of a warehouse with broken windows. I exchanged info with them and moved on — still curious but unsure of what I had stumbled into.
I tried to get in, but with no membership, the staff told me to leave. No answers, no explanations — just a club in a warehouse. I walked away, sat in my car, and watched the scene around me. People kept streaming toward the rave, black SUVs dropping off their passengers in front of that warehouse club. The night had a strange weight to it now, like I had seen something that existed just beneath the surface of Salt Lake’s mainstream world. This hidden pocket of the city’s underground scene was a strange mix of exclusivity, classism, and status. People came here to connect, but it felt as much about who was left out as who was allowed in.
I didn’t belong there, not in any conventional way, but I was okay with that. The night wasn’t about fitting in; it was about seeing a side of this city that I hadn’t seen or understood before, and maybe never would. But there was something undeniably alive about it. Maybe that’s enough.