Everything I know about rave can pretty much be summed up by three things: The movie 24 Hour Party People, glowsticks, and the Pulp song “Sorted for E’s & Wizz.” The few raves I went to weren’t really raves, at least not in the view of a girl sorted for neither e’s nor wizz. The first one I attended set the tone: A few people dancing in a pasture to bad four-on-the-floor techno you could barely hear, as disinterested dealers elbowed through the crowd trying to make eye contact with buyers. I remember one girl throwing up on some weeds near the blanket my friends had laid out; I remember another one, shirtless, sitting in the dirt staring at her hands. People passed 40s around and, yes, there were glowsticks. You have to handicap for the fact that this was Central Florida, but even so the whole event had the aura of late-era desperation to it, revelers trying hard to live the dream before it died. About a month later, I asked my mom, in so many words, whether I could go to a rave the following weekend. That’s how little the rave scene impressed me: I didn’t feel compelled to lie to my parents about it.