Safe Ravin': Raves, like this one held in Space, are held in sanctioned clubs nowadays.

Once There Was a Rave

Walk into any rave these days and you’re likely to see lots of kids in baggy pants with glo-sticks in hands and mouths. They’re sporting department-store gear from Polo and Nautica with baseball hats to the side. They dance with a generic little hop-up-and-down-to-the-beat style. And the party will have the traditional setup: a main room with trance, techno, hardcore and/or house and a second room with jungle or hip-hop.

But the rave scene wasn’t always so predictable.

There was a time when no one could have even predicted such a scene.

Long before the birth of local rave promoters Local 13, dance music authority 611 Records or rave clubs like Space, there were Philly-heads who brought the now-flourishing rave scene into existence out of thin air.

The concept of a rave — an all-night party where DJs spun and mixed records into sometimes hours-long dance tracks — was completely new to Philadelphians in the late ’80s. New to the party-throwers and the partygoers they looked to attract. And with no proven commercial pull, no club with L&I or fire marshal approval would hold them. They had to be held on the down-low in secluded warehouses where people could get a groove on until the sun came up. The concept was not exactly legal.

DJs Josh Wink and Blake Tart (a.k.a. Big Daddy Blake) threw their first warehouse party in 1989 at the Killtime warehouse in West Philly.

"We were bike couriers and we promoted to the bike, club and art scenes," says Wink of the Philly rave scene’s humble beginnings, which took its cues from similar parties that had already exploded in England. "We mostly played house and acid house.… We had another DJ, Pat Prawl, who played hip-hop and dub. So for us, this party was as close as we could get to the ‘original’ warehouse parties happening in the U.K. at that same time."

Josh Wink and King Britt, who would later become partners at Ovum Records, started throwing their famous Here parties in lived-in warehouse spaces in West Philly around a year later. They were treated as private parties for their friends that grew in popularity and enhanced their reputations.

"We did a couple of these kinds of venues… then we decided to make it easier and safer for people to get to the venues," continues Wink. "We rented out the Trocadero and did several parties there bringing in national acts like Moby and providing better lighting and sound for these caliber productions."Wink and Britt both got out of party-throwing to concentrate on making music. But new promoters like Andrew Under and David Applegate (a.k.a. Applejack) of Dead By Dawn quickly filled the void.

With some experience organizing parties already under its belt, Dead by Dawn unveiled its first official party, Wonka, in August of 1992. Independent rave promotion wasn’t exactly a megabucks proposition at the time, so Dead by Dawn needed to be resourceful.

"We took advantage of this coupon we had — free color print-outs," explains Applejack of their efforts to promote the party with fliers. "Andrew collected dozens of these coupons.… We basically hit alternative ‘cool’ spots like South Street, Trash and Vaudeville and colleges…There was enough small word of mouth… [and] just enough curiosity about raves."

They rented sound equipment from a local sound guy, Andre, and found a warehouse space at Fifth and Cecil B. Moore — Fishtown central.

"We’d never given thought to security," says Under. "The party went off OK.… I sweated and worried. I worked the door. I talked to the cops when they showed up — ‘Just band practice, officer.’"

But, as it turns out, maybe Philly’s finest should have received an invitation. During the evening, word got back to Under that someone was accosting exiting partygoers with a gun.

"We urged anyone leaving to wait until the cops showed up to clear out his ass. A couple people wouldn’t listen and rolled out anyway," recalls Under. "Next thing I knew, a car squeals away, and there’s five gunshots coming from the direction of the car."

Luckily no one was hurt… except for the party.

"Nothing like a little gunplay to kill the vibe.… With the cops sirening about the neighborhood, most partygoers took the opportunity to make their exit. Party ends quickly."

Despite its drastic, dramatic ending, the party was successful enough to keep the fledgling Dead By Dawn from dying young.

Under recalls their fourth party, the second installment of the Wonka series, on Delaware Avenue near the Riverview Plaza. By then, raves were being held in Baltimore, Washington, D.C. and New York, and the audience was larger.

The party was much bigger, boasting two sound systems, expensive lighting, a smoke machine and even smart drinks from Popi.

But they still had a few lessons to learn: "First mistake was charging $8. No one carries around $8 in ones, and we never had change. The line started to creep out the door and down the block. Two people working the door couldn’t get the people in fast enough."

And L&I and the fire marshal soon rolled in: "Seems the fog machine made it appear as if the second floor of the warehouse was on fire and someone from the movie theater had called it in," recalls Under.Dead by Dawn’s most ambitious party turned out to be their most costly. They spent a week in sub-freezing temperatures cleaning broken glass and nails out of a warehouse near Temple they had rented from a realtor for their December 1992 East Coast blow-out Kool Rave.

With rented porta-pots, kerosene heaters and a bus to transport partygoers to the North Philly space, Kool Rave stood to be huge. They sold tickets out of a café, which served as a checkpoint for potential partygoers (and to divert the authorities from the party’s real location).

Yet for all their precautions, Kool Rave was busted a mere 45 minutes after the sound got going. "We shipped what partygoers we could back to Center City on the bus," says Under, "leaving a good share of people… deep North Philly."

Kool Rave damaged Dead by Dawn’s reputation and financially killed the company.

"Dead by Dawn had earned its true nickname: Dead by 12:30," says Under, who, along with Applejack, remain on the scene’s periphery as DJs and partygoers.

Due to rave’s growing popularity, some legal parties began to emerge. Still, these were in danger of being busted and remained a risky proposition.

611 Records owner Nigel Richards was also throwing parties in the early ’90s. With Blake Tart he started Horizon Group. "We had a bit of a profit from previous events to put into them," says Richards. "Then we scraped from our own shoe boxes."

"We would leave fliers under people’s doors at art schools," says Richards about their promotional efforts, "and we would bomb the cafés and hang out at Locust Walk for Penn students."

But to ensure some level of financial security, Horizon went through the proper channels. Their Unity party, at the Drexel Armory in May of ’94, was one of their most well-known events.

"It almost didn’t happen," says Richards. "We sat in the director of L&I’s office for a few days and convinced them to let it happen. We spoke to the Police Chief of that precinct and advised him of all risks and police needs. There were two police cars outside all night during the party and things went great."

Unity in a way gave rise to Special K, now known as Circle. The Special K crew — at the time, Kevin Gimble and Keith Landis (a.k.a. O’Keefe) — threw their first party, Big Sneakers in the Park, as an after-party to the Unity gathering in Fairmount Park. Special K went on to throw much bigger events as part of their famous It series with parties like Kick It, Feel It and Work It.

But a smaller party called Eat It, to be held at Group Motion across the street from 611 Records, was a nightmare for them. "We were quoted a capacity by the owner," says Gimble. "We ended up having 800 people show up when they told us that [only] 600 people can fit. He shut the door at 400 people, the cops came, and it was a big mess."

Though Circle remains one of the best-known party promoters in the city, their events tend to stay on the up-and-up.

"We grew up, our peers are growing up," explains Gimble. "Five years ago [the kids] couldn’t get into clubs and bars. Now that we’re all grown up, we’re putting the same music out there, but in a more mature environment."