Could Magic Mushrooms Bring About a Rural Raving Revival? | US | Translation

When it comes to narcotics, every generation has its preferred substances and settings. Back in the Victorian era people flocked to opium dens. The Twenties saw ungodly amounts of gak boshed at the kind of decadent cocaine parties that make your quick-gram before getting in the Uber sessions in a grotty Brockley flat look like, well, a quick-gram in a grotty Brockley flat. By the time the Sixties rolled around, it was acid and marijuana at outdoor gatherings. Your parents, possibly, maybe, found themselves stumbling around the nightclubs of the near-mythical 90s with a bumbag full of stronger-than-steel garys. Today the soundtrack to pretty much every festival in the UK is the distinctive inflation of the nos balloon.

There's one drug, though, that's never really been emblematic of any period in modern British history, and that's the humble magic mushroom. While we might know that 'shrooms do grow in vast amounts in some pockets of this miserable island we inhabit, you might be surprised to learn that the hallucinogenic fungus does play a part in the history of rave culture here in Great Britain. Especially in North Wales.

According to philosopher and pyschonaut Terrence McKenna, magic mushrooms played a crucial role in the evolution of humanity, helping our brow-furrowed ancestors develop better hunting skills. Though his 'stoned ape' theory might have been disputed by most academics, recent studies have shown that mushrooms can help with the treatment of severe depression, and there's hope that they'll soon be used to aid with other mental health illnesses. However, as it stands, the ban placed on them in 2005 is yet to be overturned.

Mushrooms weren't always so shunned though. Back in the 90s and early 00s they were the staple drug at raves such as those organised by the Dosse Posse in the valleys of the Denbighshire area. Denbighshire, for those of you not acutely familiar with the geography of North Wales, is a county that sits between Snowdonia and Wrexham. "You drove towards the noise and then you looked out for a plastic bag tied to a gate," Bet, a DJ from Llangollen, who attended many of them, and organised a few himself, told me. "People would get up to all sorts on mushrooms. I remember a group of us hot-wiring a load of JCBs and driving around the forest."

"There was more of a sense of adventure back then. When mobile phones changed the whole game and it wasn't as spontaneous anymore," Bet goes on to say. Fast forward to today and you're more likely to see an under-the-radar rave advertised on Facebook than on a tatty flyer stuffed into a ditch. Profit has become as important, if not more, than ideology. Things have changed aesthetically, too. The generators and tarpaulin of the 90s have been swapped for a gazebo and a gaudy light-show.

Jed Deane put on illegal events in Wales in the early 00s before going above board under the moniker Workhouse Project and now runs a 12 volt rig called Dirty Lookin' Mobile Disco, taking it to festivals such as BoomTown. "We used mushrooms a lot," he told me of the parties "back in the day." "Now it seems everyone is just smashing cocaine like it's going out of fashion." He attributes this change to music, citing the past popularity of genres such as psytrance and D&B, so well suited to the psychedelic effects of mushrooms. But the decline is also to do with scarcity, both of raves and mushrooms themselves, which grow seasonally.

Ecstasy, that most 90s of drugs, wasn't as readily available in the wilds of Wales as it was in the bustling big cities that dot the nation like specks on an eggshell. Mushrooms, as we've established, grow plentifully, and as such it was mushrooms that fuelled these outdoor events. "Proper raves would happen 4-8 times a year," recalls Deane. The infrequent nature of the raves no doubt had to do with the scale of organisation required too. Without social media and phones, they were simply a lot more difficult to advertise and for punters to find.

But it was precisely that clandestine nature that made the rural rave so unique. There was a fundamental element of risk attached to the whole thing. The promoters faced the risk that no one would turn up, and for the punters there was the worry that the thing would never happen in the first place, let alone be to their taste. All of which added to the experience. As Bet asserts, that essential riskiness created an environment in which communality was key: hippies and crusties happily mingled with fresh faced teens ready for their first taste of hedonism. It's a sense of idealism that's dissipated somewhat as ravers are—arguably—better educated about nightlife, and more expectant of the best night out for the best price available. And this is why Facebook event pages advertise the DJs playing. This is also how problems arise.

Even up there in the remotest reaches of Wales, homogeneity has replaced difference in the world of the both the nightclub and the illegal rave. Genres like gabber or hardcore aren't likely to be heard in the clubs of town like Bangor. Gavin Hogan, who runs club nights in the birthplace of nearly-forgotten 00s photocopier soul sensation Duffy, told me that, "the clubs tend to go for the more accessible music like house, which kind of pushes people from the gabber scene to put these events on."

Despite the proliferation of those funny little funghi, even at the raves that do play hardstep or psytrance aren't stuffed with punters who think they've mutated into a winged Kent Brockman or whatever it is that happens when you have a good glug on some extremely potent tea. If you've seen Locked Off, you'll have had an insight into the workings of the contemporary rural rave run by local promoter Daniel John. One of the DJs who played at the party that Clive and the camera crew ventured to is Anthony Johnson. Anthony told me that, "people who like the music we play just don't go for that sorta stuff." Over a chat on the phone, I also learned that the rave filmed for the documentary went off without any problems, but that wasn't always the case in the Denbighshire area, and indeed, the next party at the end of August was cancelled last minute due to a disagreement between the promoters.

This, Anthony told me, is not uncommon, with arguments usually erupting over residents. He recently experienced it firsthand. "I told both promoters I'm an up and coming DJ trying to make a name for myself and I will not be choosing sides." Given the sometimes dire socio-political conditions of rural areas and the accompanying lack of opportunity to prove oneself, the attractiveness of status one can accrue from putting on successful raves begins to make sense. With that comes fierce competition.

The cancelled rave in question was scheduled to feature nine DJs. That might be standard for bigger clubs, with multiple rooms, but for a rogue event organised by a few individuals—most of whom have day jobs—it's a monumental mission. It would seem that unity, rather than competitiveness, is more important than ever. "I don't understand why the promoters round here don't just work together instead of against each other," Anthony said as he vented his frustration the next day. "There isn't really anything else going on in North Wales these days. It's a shame because it used to be rocking up here." Indeed, when I asked Daniel John if the cancelled rave would be rescheduled, he told me with some regret, "it won't be any time soon now."

The idea that millennials are a generation of dullards is, frankly, bollocks. Young British people still enjoy clubs and drugs. In fact, you could make a pretty convincing argument that they're more vital than ever in a world that's getting more and more depressing hour upon hour. In fact, if you're looking for an escape from the Post-Internet world of total technological absorption then magic mushrooms might be pretty handy.

With austerity still rumbling on, arts funding being slashed on a near daily basis, and nightclubs going the way of Woolworths, more and more of the nation's youth are looking towards the free party scene as a beacon of hedonism and hope. In Eurosceptic areas like North Wales, where only Gwynedd voted to Remain, they seem even more important as a way to provide opportunities for disenfranchised young people to let off steam. More importantly, raves, as history has shown, have the potential to bring people from different backgrounds together, and this, at a time of such division, where Wales saw an anti-Syrian refugee march take place just last weekend, feels like a hugely vital tradition to uphold too.

Now, about those mushrooms. I won't tell anyone if you don't…

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