Why hardstyle is sometimes considered douchebag music, and yet we fucking love it.

By: Kai Teo

Photos: Patrik Ståbis – Electronic Massacre

Event: Electronic Massacre – Level, Admiralsgatan 23
Date: Friday, 26 April ‘13
DJs: Lysmasken & Mosquito, Fraud & Corruption, DJ Toxin, Fatal State, Mark Frostbite
Genre: Hard trance, Hardstyle, Hardcore, Fucking Hard Stuff
Entry: 150 kr
Our rating: 4.5/5

Whenever I mention Angerfist to my hipster friends, I always get pretty discouraging responses. “Wow, is that a new experimental new-age indie band infused with Balkan tunes and emo beats?” or “We should avoid violence. Peace and love my friend.”

Yea. Fuck you.

Listening to Angerfist, the godfather of the hardstyle/hardcore scene, always made me feel like the weird kid in school that no one talks to.

No one I knew liked my iTunes playlist. And the loneliness got so bad that I sometimes cried myself to sleep at night, blowing my nose with the corner of my blanket. I felt so alone. Until I went to Electronic Massacre.

To those still unsure of what hardstyle really is, it’s kinda like techno with 3 or 4 layers of sounds neatly infused together, with an underlying sonorous bass (this is the most distinct feature of the genre) that is both fucking hard, and fucking fast. And hardcore, as the name suggests, is even harder than fucking hard. The English vocabulary does not have a word that can even come close to describing that. Ok, maybe Music Apocalypse.

It’s something that’s almost impossible to dance to, unless you want to end up with a fractured neck or sprained back.

All you can do is to jump on the spot and fist pump. Up, down, left, right. Fist fist fist fist! In case you’re wondering, hardstyle lyrics are sometimes as lame as this.

But you see, no other genre of electronic music delivers this much power and energy. Hardstyle blasts away all your stress after a shit day at work, it destroys all your menial concerns with its melodic explosions, and it temporarily (debatable) pulverises all your brain cells. And that’s why I fucking love it.

So Electronic Massacre came as a blessing. When Buddha Mag visited Level this time round, we already knew that it’s gonna be an intense experience.

There was no time for needless beers, no breaks in the musical assault, and and no room for any hesitation. My feet were stomping the trembling ground the moment I got in, and my fists were punching hard at the imaginary ex-girlfriend’s current boyfriend in midair.

And everyone else was doing the same. Except that everyone else didn’t look quite like I expected.

The crowd was very white. Almost Edward-white. And very straight. The boys were obviously gym fanatics who couldn’t keep their shirts on and displaying themselves on the stage seemed like the most natural thing to do, flaunting their waxed chests and mighty biceps. They had on neon aviator sunglasses that matched their spiked blonde hair. It was like Backstreet Boys on steroids and Jersey Shore without the fame. Combined. And there were at least 20 of them.

If this is the hardstyle community in Malmö, I better fucking learn to embrace it.

The DJs were flawless. They knew we wanted shit to get harder, and they gave it to us straight in our faces. The aggression was liberating and the anger in the music, rather beautiful. There wasn’t any anger on the floor though. Except for the Jersey Shore crew, no one else cared about anything other than letting the music control their every movement. Oh, and there were at least a few Snookis.

When Hardcore came on at 4am, I couldn’t really hear shit anymore. The beats were relentlessly slamming into my frail body and forcing their way into my pores. My bindi was, once again, stuck on someone’s else’s neck and it got a little too awkward trying to retrieve it. And I remember seeing someone showing off her glorious badangdangs after unzipping her skintight leather outfit at a corner of the club. It was wild.

But, no time for tits. I went all out for the last burst. Nothing could hold me back. My sweaty hair was swinging into people’s faces and they seemed to like it. They couldn’t care less. They were going at it as well. It was go hard or go home.

My senses were strangled and mutilated. My sweat accumulated in a drowning pool, ready to asphyxiate those who didn’t dance (that’s a fucking gross description). And my heart was pounding to the pulse of hardstyle.

And then before I collapsed on the dancefloor, I made my escape. I might have missed 15 minutes of the finale. But there’s always next time. The next time, when I will raise my fist for Angerfist.