Justice - D.A.N.C.E

For most people, there is a truly significant ‘most memorable experience’ that guides and influences their entire lives. This is more typically an interpersonal experience shared with others; a wedding or subsequent divorce. A birth or a death… For me, as I have been alone the majority of my adult life, The most memorable experience for me was something I have spoke of often in these memoirs; the weeks I spent alone in Paris for my 30th birthday.

There is something inside of me, at the very core of my DNA that truly knows and understands that I am not meant to be an American. From the very onset of my age of reason, (decidedly much sooner than most, as my parents can attest,) I began plotting ways to get out of this place. I spent the majority of my high school years planning a way to become a foreign exchange student. When it came time for college, I applied to a handful of schools in the UK and France. When I dropped out of college (the first time) I spent countless hours researching (pre-internet) ways to get the hell out of the southeastern United States via work studies or volunteering (a route I still am pursuing, always!) Unfortunately, as my anxiety and later diagnosed panic disorder was dictating my limitations, no plans ever solidified or came to fruition. It wasn’t until a very patient and incredibly insightful therapist spent an entire year with me teaching me new ways to think, that I was able to make any headway. It just so happened that the month I “graduated” from therapy, my 30th birthday approached and as a reward to myself, I planned the trip to Paris. My last two ever sessions with her were guided meditations focusing on negating my absurdly overwhelming fear of flying. (I do alright now, Valium helps.)

There are several major reasons I’ve hit upon in the past why I chose Paris, (Oscar, Henri, le Moulin, etc…) but as for the timing of why I went; that’s another story. When I went to the UK (to stay with an ex,) I very specifically chose a time around a concert (Morrissey in Dublin). When I had made the decision on where to go, the only thing to decide was when. This basically meant I scoured the internets, straining my floundering French language skills, looking for the best shows to attend. The right show would dictate when I would go. (In case you can’t tell by the painfully obvious nature of this blog’s existence, my entire reason for being is music and going to live shows. Always has been, always will be. It’s my rainman-ish idiot savant-itude skill, I suppose.) I found a couple decent shows I wouldn’t mind seeing, but I was mainly scouring for bands that never came stateside, which are the majority of the bands I listen to anyway. I was just sure I would find a random Daft Punk or Fischerspooner show somewhere… I held out on booking tickets until a Queen Adreena or maybe a randomass Blur show would pop up… It didn’t happen, but I stumbled across this calendar of events page, that made mention of this a festival… The Techno Parade…. Oh my. What’s this?! I perked up and got to googlin’.

Not unlike its sister shows in Germany, the Love Parade or the FuckParade, the Techno Parade takes place every year September and takes over the whole city with music. Major Euro-djs and a few from this side of the sea get together and set up in gigantic semi trucks, starting at the Bastille, under direction of Joachim Garraud, grand marshal. The Parade makes a huge loop through the city, ending back at the Bastille, where all the djs take over the grounds and dancing ensues - all night long.

Paris was the first time in my life several things happened for me… It wasn’t my first solo flight or trip to a foreign city, but it was the first time I wasn’t afraid or skeptical. It was the first time I was really confident in myself. It was the first time I was really grateful to be alone. And in a testament to the city itself, Paris is the first place in my whole life where I felt like I was home. The concept of “home”, the existential understanding of it, the place where I feel the most relaxed, understood, inspired, calm, the best version of me, and the most like myself; it’s almost been like an el dorado for me. A place I always thought existed, but never truly believed I would find. And then suddenly, there it was. Paris was home. I knew it within moments of walking out into that street alone that first sunny morning. My feet connected with the streets and sidewalks in a way they never seemed to fit here in NC. I wasn’t overwhelmed, I wasn’t a tourist, I was in the place I was always meant to be. I still believe that. Leaving Paris was one of the saddest and most painful experiences for me, so much so that it was almost like an amputation. Every day and every moment of my life, I am always keeping my peripheral on a way to get back to stay. If I had just a skoosh more gumption and a surplus of cash, I would be gone today; no hesitation.

The Techno Parade took place 15 Sept. I got up early and got my hair in the buns and threw on those same red chucks I’ve been wearing since high school and I hit the metro. I rode the Ligne 1 to the Bastille and from the second I stepped out of the station, It Was On:



I was thrilled, I was happy, I was home. I wanted every day of my life to be thumping bass and dancing and crazy haircuts and strange new people and glorious, glorious house music; throbbing electro bass lines taking over the cadence of my heartbeat. Yes, I am a music snob, I can rattle band names and talk shop with the best of them, but I have the side of me that cannot and will not be repressed: I am a house music junky. Specifically, dirty European electrohouse. Scratchy filthy bass. Swingy Italio disco. Five minutes of the same junky bass line running at 120bpm, I cannot resist. Throw in a screechy diva, I am in heaven. It all started when Veronique, my high school best friends’ exchange student showed up in 1992 with all her crappy happy hardcore with tales of the discothèque. I was smitten; it was love at first thump. People get so confused when they pick up my iPod and see only one or two songs by major bands; only to hit the subfolders and realize they are all remixes. I love a damn remix. Especially when it’s good. Especially when it’s rude. Throw the words “dark dub” on anything and you can almost guarantee I’m going to deafen myself with it.


(i get chills @2:09every time i watch this)

Justice’s D.A.N.C.E came out in early 2007. I’d heard it maybe once before I hit France. I heard it, or variations thereof, no less than 10 times during the parade. When I hear it now, I am there. I am knee deep in androgynous teenage boys flipping their arms in circles doing the Tecktonik, I am guiding Australian tourists back to the metro, and I am crouching under bus stops, taking pictures. I am following David Guetta down the street, hooting like a madwoman. I am flipping out when I realize I am standing around watching Carl Cox, Martin Solveig, Laidback Luke, Oliver Huntemann and Benny Benassi roll past.


(this one kills me, as i know i was right there and nearabouts where i was standing/jumping... indulge me and spare 45 seconds for this video! I followed Huntemann like a lusting zombie through his whole set!)


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I have gotten into this mindset of Accountability lately. (This may be a digression, but in my mind, it is all connected, bear with me.) It’s more or less a final acceptance of my place in the world. A gradual and solemn acceptance that I may never be married or may never have that elusive “soul mate” I always assumed I would find. I made the choices that got me here, I am the one who let my body get to the point that it did and I am the one who made the decision to irrevocably change it. I accept the repercussions either way. I am the one who dated the wrong men and maybe let the right ones go. I am the one who went to Paris alone and came back to meet my ex, who I care for greatly but spent the next 3 years repressing myself to the point of crippling depression to please him. It took three years of being the submissive in a relationship to realize the varying levels of co-dependence that I am unwilling to accept. And I see the patterns of men in my life that I have found myself drawn to, simply because they needed me in some way. I accept that I have dated men who are weaker than me or broken or addicted, because I am so strong I need to dominate someone. I have never dated anyone with the strength to love me back the way I know I deserve. I have never dated anyone with my level of perseverance, hope, intensity or tenacity. It’s time to change all that.

This translates into other, more tangible areas of my life; I accept that if I don’t pay my bills, they won’t get paid. If I don’t take out the trash, it won’t get taken out. I have finally, FINALLY, gotten to this place where I don’t need a man in my life. It would just be nice to have one. That’s a concept I never even realized I needed to clarify or … feel. And when I think back on it, when I start to understand what it all means, I see the butterfly effect of the moment I stepped out into the crowd at the Bastille spinning me into the tornado of the past few years and placing me gently on the ground in front of the amazing person I know I am today. I am proud of myself, I am in love with myself, and now I know I’m finally ready for the right person to see what I see. And if that never happens, I accept it. I know I can do it alone.

It started in Paris. God willing, it will end there.