José Cesar, who was born in Mexico, came from Oakland, Calif. to see DJ Tiësto, the 42-year-old, Grammy-nominated, Netherlands-born, electronic-dance wonder.
And when it all ended this Friday night, he was gathered in a circle with a few friends, all Hispanic, most from Spain or Mexico, telling a fantastic story of bowing to and shaking the hands of Tiësto, a demigod of sorts to millions worldwide, worshipped in rituals of fist pumping and head bobbing.
“Dude, people come from around the world to see this guy,” José said.
France, Venezuela, China, Nigeria, even United Arab Emirates—all had students present. And on the anniversary of Mexico’s Independence Day, José could find no better celebration, commemoration even, than at the altar of a man whose fans, this night at least, would range in age from late teens to mid ‘50s.
Earlier in the evening, most attendees reeked of cheap cologne and common beer, shoving and crashing their way through the concert crowd in drunken strides. Some
refused to dance, perhaps out of protest or rhythmic inability. Lost in their
inner world, some stood poker-face-straight within ear shot of bass-laden, thumping beats that blasted out ceaselessly. Before they could dance, some needed help—from creative substances. And for some reason, I seemed the designated dealer.
“Yo, man, do you have any Ecstasy I can buy?” A few came up to ask.
“No,” I would reply self-amusingly, “I’m all out…”
Another would come up slightly embarrassed, the probable image of a female Asian University of Michigan medical student:
“Hi. Are you selling any Ecstasy?”
“No.”
“Are there any other drugs you’re selling I can buy?”
“No… I’m out.”
Another, a frat boy with an ugly baseball hat bent backward, would scream into my
ear:
“Man, you got any rolls for me?”
“Not tonight, partner.”
And so it went, the drumbeat of demand for a supplement through which all sense of school-and-work drudgery—and the tiring grind of everyday reality—vanishes. All that matters, then, is this moment, the now, where half-naked girls with strobe lights bouncing about them pump their fists with closed eyes and grind on any guy who catches their fancy while dancing the moment away, shrieking in amazement when torrents of confetti would twirl down from the ceiling or when pillars of smoke would shoot out into the crowd.
Nicole Busse, 21, a senior at Eastern Michigan University, had an interesting theory: “It’s Jersey Shore in Ypsi: the music, the clothes people were wearing and the whole fist-pump thing.”
True enough—minus the glow sticks: banned by Tiësto because at previous concerts drunk fans would often hurl their sticks at him: a proper form of homage, it would seem to me.
After the show, EMU student Wei Johns, explained the rationale.
“It’s about a visceral high,” he said. “They don’t give a shit what comes tomorrow or who’s looking at them. They just want to lose themselves in the moment, to give themselves up.”
Tiësto ended his one-and-half hour set about 11 p.m., and right off went the chants: “Ti-es-to! Ti-es-to! Ti-es-to! En-core! En-core! En-core!”
It was, however, to no avail, and soon security guards had descended to disperse a potentially rowdy crowd. Some stayed behind, refusing to leave until Tiësto reemerged. But most reconciled with reality and scuttled to the parking lot, where announcements of after parties would be made.
Outside, some danced and bayed choruses in half-soused stupors; others camped in groups on the grass; many sat along the sidewalks with bowed heads, awaiting cabs or rides. Some handed out flyers for upcoming dance concerts. Many huddled in circles, drifting the night away with transient talk.
But whether sitting or standing, talking or trying to keep a swig-soaked head afloat, one notion rang common: a sense of ecstatic deliverance. They had come to pay worship to this demigod and he had left them entranced but wanting much more, which some would call the mark of a great performer.
