Photos by Jessica Gurewitz
Being caught in the Sisyphean cycle of Instagram scrolling sometime in March of this year, I happened upon the profile of journalist Michelle Lhooq, known on the internet for her music and marijuana beats over at Vice Media for the last several years. It was here that I first caught the scent of the Weed Rave, Lhooq’s “stoner fantasy” party that synthesizes electronic music, marijuana, and public celebration into a eight hour bacchanal (from 4:20 PM to 2:40 AM on 4/20, appropriately), equal parts bass and blunts.
The soiree struck me with an initial sense of cognitive dissonance. As I am no stranger to the two primary components of a “weed” “rave,” I was uncertain how the evening’s “high-key” musical attributes would pair with the “low-key” aspects of its central vice.
Throughout my five years writing about and experiencing music throughout the eastern seaboard and parts abroad, the primary pairings to most subgenera of EDM that I have bore witness to (never as an active participant, of course) have been coke, molly, ecstasy, speed, nicotine and/or ketamine. Barring all but the last, these are the energy-laden stimulants I have come to associate with club music— from these experiences alone, I thought jazz cabbage would not fit in this musical context.
Boy am I fucking dumb. I must be the Mayor of Dumbville, or at least a jester in the court of the Mountain Dunce. The New York Weed Rave was, by any account, a resounding success, a blissed out party matched in length by the tremendous vibes laid down throughout the afternoon and into the early morning light.
Before the evening’s ravier festivities came underway, a number of panel discussions and informative presentations were provided, sparking important (but necessary) discussions about the culture surrounding cannabis. Lhooq herself took to the stage to talk her new book, Weed: Everything You Want To Know But Are Always Too Stoned to Ask, alongside illustrator Thu Tran, who provided the guide’s visuals (the book was also provided as a parting gift to attendees, and I can confirm it is as informative as it is entertaining). This was followed by a cannabis cooking class with Olivia Harris (of LEVO) and a discussion panel about what weed legalization would look like in New York City.
Throughout the presentation component of the evening, patrons wandered through the private Bedstuy loft hosting the Weed Rave, securing gigglebush from a variety of commercial vendors (that I feel conflicted mentioning by name in a public article), imbibing pre-rolled js and CBD cocktails while mixing and mingling— right before Joey LaBeija took the stage to start spinning and kicking off the party in earnest.
I came through the event with a crew of my own, splitting our time between the loft’s two levels: the Sativa Room, where DJs like Jasmine Infiniti, Quest?onmarc, and Gooddroid laid down uptempo romps, suitable for dancing and partying, as well as the upstairs Indica Room, a small den of cushions and throw blankets, where Pure Immanence, Olga, and John Barera channeled mind melting psychedelic soundscapes to stoney seated attendees.
The two spaces, almost opposite in their vibes, provided an excellent balance to the rave. Feeling yourself after taking several Js to the face? You can cut a rug all over the downstairs. Smoke too much and need to chill the fuck out? Go hang upstairs and let tactile, almost ASMR-like square waves wash over you.
Perhaps this duality was part of the reason the Weed Rave’s energy stayed liquid as the evening went on, even with the en masse consumption of grass. Lhooq had provided a space that didn’t barrel ever outwards like some kind of hedonistic bull in a china shop. A curated equilibrium permeated the event’s entirety, creating an environment that never felt forced; people danced when they wanted to, chilled when necessary, and lit up when they weren’t high anymore.
I lost my wind in the middle of Quest?onmarc’s set, subsequently parking myself on a beanbag in the corner of the Sativa Room to collect myself, staring upwards into the rafters and ingesting the night’s high spirits before going back to dance. Couchlocked partygoers were hard to come by, a continuous sense of motion present as those attending smoked, danced, and rested ad infinitium.
When the party was over, the loft’s doors swung open, as parishioners drifted out into the Bedstuy night to sleep, or more likely split a midnight spliff. I left a convert to the Weed Rave cause, chastising myself for ever thinking that it’s two sum parts could not coexist, with an unexpected resurfacing hatred for Richard Nixon. Happy 4/20 y’all.