BØF, HØVL, KLØ & SKVAT!!!! – Psytrance in Denmark is like Jersey Shore on acid
By Kai Teo
Photo: Kim “Zebra Cat” Nielsen
Event: BØF, HØVL, KLØ & SKVAT!!!!
Venue: Some construction building in Amager, Copenhagen, Denmark
Date: 17 October ‘14
Artistes: Pixie Trap, Wigwaash, Furvus, Andy, Teslacoil, CTCM, Freakture, Deerman
The Psytrance scene in Sweden is very much dominated by vegan hippies with massive dreadlocks, harem pants and chakra talk. But step into a Psytrance party in Denmark, and you’re in for a serious mindfuck.
Last weekend, Buddha Mag invited ourselves to an all-out Hi-Tech psytrance party in the heart of the city. And just in case you’re wondering what Hi-tech sounds like, it’s like Psytrance on a lot of Redbull and speed. Yep, it’s 180 bpm no-mercy destruction of the eardrums, and your soul.
Please don’t get technical on us here. We’re not good with music classification terminology. Genre Nazis always seem to be able to give exact, obscure genre names that no one else seems to understand. “Oh, this is progressive psydub-tech cosmic synth, maybe it’s got a little bit of fidgethouse infused into it too.” Right, thanks for the clarification.
So BØF, HØVL, KLØ & SKVAT!!!! (we don’t mean to be screaming here, but it is the actual event name), was held in a dingy, crumbling building beside a huge construction yard. The place looked so dodgy it could pass off as George Bush’s secret Asian-slave hideout. The streets were unlit, the road was littered with empty beer cans, wet spliff butts, and used condoms. Compared to conventional Swedish clubs, this place looked pretty far from what many would call “welcoming”.
But dodgy party venues attract us like fruit flies to an overripe banana.
They’re not always great, but most of the time, they’re light years better than most big clubs.
The music was on full speed and full power by the time we stepped into the grey concrete box, and we wasted no time placing ourselves right in front of the speakers to warm up our eardrums and prepare them for the relentless massacre from the DJs.
As I slowly went deaf while stomping on the spilled beer puddles on the floor, I figured that it was about time to finally stop looking into my mental telescope and check the crowd out.
Fuck me. It was like Jersey Shore on acid. And it was a serious culture shock.
Heavy, sweaty, steroid-filled muscled men wrestled for their right to dominate the dance floor with their alpha-male tendencies and threateningly violent fist-pumping dance moves. Tribal tattoos that ran down their shoulders, arms and half-naked bodies served as a stark reminder that fashion sense and popular tastes do change over the years. Every beat they moved to, these men seemed to flex their bulging meat like they were competing in Mr. Ghetto Olympia 2014.
The thick chains of gold and silver bound them tightly, just like how they refused to let go of the 90s. Those who were wearing T-shirts were just as loud as the pumping, deafening Hi-tech. They screamed motifs such as “Techno or death” and “I love trance”. Well, that’s one way to announce your membership in the exclusive psytrance culture.
I mean, they didn’t behave differently from you and me. It’s just the choice of appearance, yea, it’s something I associate to Avicii gigs and the now gone-down-the-drain-of-super-mainstream MTV. I’m pretty sure they’re nice people and that I’m just not used to seeing so much bodybuilding going on at a party.
Then there was the heavy makeup, overpowering perfume, and neon-coloured leggings.
Not many of the dreadlocked love tribe people running about. But I guess really, whatever the fuck anyone chose to wear that evening, we danced as one. No one really gave a fuck.
The bathroom was almost candlelit, with only one cubicle available. And the toilet queues gave us all a chance to know one another better.
I love bathroom queues. Here’s when you are sheltered from the loud music, united by the physical desire to release our pent-up urges, and forced to stand beside one another with very little personal space. I mean, if you think about it, the first thing that the other party in your conversation would do after talking to you would be to take off his or her pants. Now, I know my little bathroom speech didn’t cause the removal of clothing, but correlation is often mistaken as causation and in this case, it works to the advantage of my ego.
I went out telling my friend, “Hey, you know, I was talking to this girl, and shortly after, she took off her pants.”
The chillout area was just another concrete cube with pillows and a messy mash of people.
In the dark, everything looks pretty. So the chillout room, with its soft yellow lighting and even softer pillows, seemed like a haven for the tired feet and hungry souls. Everyone seemed to be piled up on top on one another in pure bliss, hands on thighs, face on tits, legs on tummies and everything tangled with everything else.
We jumped into the orgy of comfort and sat there for about an hour, stroking our own arms and chain smoking. The room felt like a hot box filled with a bunch of strangers. And it was actually rather intimate.
“Hey, I’m not sure if you’re a girl or a guy. But you’re beautiful. Can I come with you to the bathroom to confirm your gender?”
That must be the best pickup line I’ve heard in a while. (Now, insert your wildest 2-people-in-a-bathroom fantasies in this paragraph. Content has been omitted due to our younger audiences who are not acquainted with the art of bathroom fun).
And as we emerged from our drunken state of mind like phoenixes fresh from the flaming pits of passion, the sun had shone its way through the glass roof, and it was 9am.
Time for afterparty. And time for more Hi-Tech.