Deaths shake rave scene known for "happy vibe"

As shock turned to grief and the hours ticked by, Fidgit and Starburst and Unicorn were all accounted for, along with Ice Cream and Waffles and Chicklet and Gem.

In the wake of the early-morning shootings that left seven people dead Saturday, Seattle's electronic-music community came together to mourn the lost members of its close-knit family, checking in via their nicknames on Web sites like Candyrave.com, NWTekno.com and MySpace.com to let others know they were OK.

"We're probably the only community in society that would have welcomed somebody so easily," said Travis Webb, a Seattle rave promoter, the day after the killings at a Seattle house party by a gunman few seemed to know. But that welcoming community is now buzzing with concerns: about unwanted media attention, possible clamp-downs from city officials and widespread misinterpretation of its peace-loving scene.

It's a generally young community — ages 15 to 25, by most accounts — linked by music, nicknames and the uninhibited atmosphere of electronic-music events known as raves. Disc jockeys spin tracks all night and into the early-morning hours at events that range from spontaneous parties at homes and abandoned buildings to professionally promoted concerts at clubs or even large venues like the Stadium Exhibition Center at Qwest Field.

Pacifiers, once among the scene's well-known accessories, can still be found dangling from necks in the darkness, while glow sticks gleam and fingers twirl wrapped in gloves tipped with lights. Partygoers trade candy, or colorful bracelets, worn like badges of friendship. "It's techno-hippie," says Jason Robertson, 35-year-old owner of The Spot, a common after-party meeting place. "Everybody in love with everybody else. This is the family you never knew you had."

At one vigil for the victims, a young girl lighted candles placed on the street in the shape of the scene's main mantra: PLUR, meaning "Peace, Love, Unity, Respect."

"That's what the whole scene is about, really," says CDC Studio's Chris O'Rourke, a 31-year-old former DJ who came to Seattle from Portland's rave scene. "I mean, everybody enjoys dancing and listening to music, but at the end of the day, it's about a sense of community. ...

"Which is the most tragic thing about this, because if anyone in the community had known whoever did this needed the kind of help they needed, we all would have been hell-bent on getting them the help."

Sunday night, a group of electronic-music promoters gathered in West Seattle to discuss the best way to remember the dead. The details still are in the works, but they know they want an event filled with music reflecting the victims' tastes.

"A happy vibe"

Musically, electronic music — or techno — spans nine or 10 different genres from drum-and-bass to happy hardcore, which blips along at 200-plus beats a minute. "It has a comparative root to early tribal music," O'Rourke says.

"There's really nothing different between this and like square-dancing groups or line dancing," he says. "It's superficially very different, but at the end of the day, it's just a lot of people wanting to get together, sharing a happy vibe of music and community and dancing their butts off."

Many are drawn by the scene's open atmosphere, a welcoming place for misfits and young kids who are taken under the wings of older scenesters they call their "raver moms." "Raver moms are people who look after us," says Shoreline's Erika Keenan, 16. "They're older than us, and they take care of us at parties. Mine calls me every day."

But others say some are drawn for the wrong reasons — reasons that have contributed to raves' reputation as underground, drug-infused events. "Go for the music," advises techno regular Bliss in the "Rave Rules" he posted on Candyrave.com to combat what he saw as flaws in a deteriorating scene. "Not for the drugs and the under-age girls. The rave scene is a family. Start acting like it."

Dave Fellers, 23, a former rave promoter who showed up Saturday near the scene of the shooting, said he dropped out of the scene in large part because of the heavy drug use that he said overshadowed the music.

Keeping it clean

"Everyone says it's for the music," Fellers says. "They're a bunch of hypocrites. I just got sick of that."

Some in Seattle are "trying to keep it clean," he says, but not many.

Others say it's no different from other music scenes. "Drugs are part of any musical event on the planet," The Spot's Robertson says. "People at Britney Spears concerts are doing something."

Webb says promoters have been working in the past few years to make parties safer and more open. "The music doesn't need to hide down there in the basement," he says. "That's why we've been using very public venues. We have permits. We have insurance. We try to work with authorities. We're not this weird, supersecret underground culture of drugs and mayhem."

Promoter Webb says he hires the same emergency medical technicians and private security for his events that are found at big concerts. A core group of people works together to produce the city's techno events — "which is why there's so little difficulty with our events," he says. "We're so close we're able to self-police each other."

Promoters have been talking with kids around town in the wake of the shootings. "It's not so much about a party," Webb says. "These were our friends. The events are what tie us together."

The victims of Saturday's shootings were at an after-party that followed a "zombie rave" at the Capitol Hill Arts Center, one of the scene's "hardcore" events, with harder-edged dance music and discounts for those dressed as ghouls or the undead. The event was open to all ages, although accompanying adults were required for those under 16.

After-parties help techno partiers close out the night; it's a way to wind down with friends, maybe at Denny's, maybe at someone's house. They're such a routine part of the scene that some DJs often produce demo CDs specifically for them.

"It's the same thing that happens when you go see a band play," promoter O'Rourke says. "You're having a good time and you go, 'Hey, I've got some food at my house, we're all tired, let's go and hang out.' And people do."

In the University District, Robertson runs one of those places, a good, safe place to chill on low-slung couches. Robertson, whose alter ego is DJ Monkey, opened his green-walled clubhouse above a record store on University Avenue just over a year ago; everyone calls it simply The Spot.

Five dollars buys you membership and entry to the early-morning after-parties. "I keep kids off the street, keep them safe," Robertson says.

"It really is just a place to go rest and wait for whatever you're doing the next day," says Laurel Hulslander, 16, of Shoreline.

Her parents know she's there, she says; her dad usually comes and picks her up. "You lose a lot of your friends at the rave, especially the big ones," she says. "So [the after-party] is a meeting spot."

Keenan and Hulslander, wearing jeans and black hoodies, have been best friends since seventh grade and hang out at The Spot nearly every weekend.

They'd used markers to craft poster-board signs to the victims, adding to messages like: "This doesn't make sense still" and "Gonna miss you bro. Now whose evil twin will I be?"

Marc Ramirez: 206-464-8102 or mramirez@seattletimes.com. Seattle Times reporters David Postman, Pamela Sitt, Benjamin J. Romano, Maureen O'Hagan and The Associated Press contributed to this report.