In our "beautiful province", where "Je me souviens" (I remember) is emblazoned on the rumps of cars, forgetting can be a virtue. Short-term memory is our real heritage: even if today's ravers, who renew themselves in waves every six months, don't know its founding myth, they appropriate rave culture in all innocence and without asking permission. Purists and the nostalgic be damned. The great majority of these kids, proudly decked out in the complete raver kit, never saw the warehouses of the late '80s, those predecessors of raves that were much more gay, black and house. They know nothing about the creative madness of Poodles, the chic Business -the gold standard of nightclubbing that brought about the gentrification of the Main (St-Laurent boul.), and the brief but intense presence of Crisco, although these were the starting blocks for most of the DJs and promoters in today's scene. Solstice, the first "true" rave (March 27, 1993, at the ex-Museum of Contemporary Art in Cité du Havre), was the prototype for the big events that followed. With the first four-colour flyer, first info lines, and first real separation of house and techno, it was inspired by what a few enthusiasts with connections to the European scene decided to implant in Montréal (Bus Company, DNA, Eden Production, then Harmony). As a result, raves didn't arrive here in an embryonic state, but polished, like imported products. How many of today's ravers were at solstice? Few. Most of the first generation have moved on to other things. You can't be a punter all your life. Some went on to become DJs or promoters, others opened record stores. A week after H2O (May 1, 93), the rave organized at the Palais du commerce and marred by stupid police brutality, Martin Dumais and Sylvain Houde created the "Vitamin S DJ team" and launched the "Dimanches technos", featuring Cozmik Kay and Alex Lepage, with Synergie taking care of the visual effects. They installed their events at the Foufounes Électriques, Montréal's alternative and punk headquarters, a prime site for nocturnal creativity. The "Dimanches technos" were the predominantly francophone platform on the techno scene, a division that occurred more by affinity than by choice, as it had on the anglo side. The Neksus events, held from spring to autumn 1994, were also milestones: half-circus, half-party, these monthly get-togethers were highly publicized, with, for the first time, posters and large flyers. Afterwards, raves grew exponentially, both in size and in quantity. Notable were the series of comic grandiose parties put on by Enigma, those of Beat2Beat, and Liqueeen, which rallied a younger francophone public from the suburbs. As the pendulum swings, this explosive growth and the often fierce competition that resulted served to thin out the number of promoters and parties. Only a few remain to share the cake: 514, Channel, Enigma, Experience, Millenium, Shock. Montréal cultivates paradox: doomed to economic stagnation, overshadowed by its eternal rival Toronto, prey to cultural despondency, it remains inventive, even with the sparsest materials. In this evanescent, fragmented city, you can still find a dizzying lightness and freedom of being, thanks in part to the low cost of living. Full of freaks who, anywhere else, would be quickly locked away, the city is relatively tolerant (with few exceptions, raves have never suffered the kind of repression here that they have in Europe). A Latin nonchalance combines with a North American approach to business, where all can try their luck.And those who fail come back six months later under a new name. Musically, Montréal is an island open to all currents. "We're influenced by Detroit, Paris, London, Berlin. We absorb everything", says Martin Dumais (DJ Thunderbold). It's like a sponge that always seems to be at maximum absorption. You hear it all the time: there are too many parties for the number of people; there's no market for records; raves won't last; the economy is so soft that no one can afford to go out. And yet, with the cost of an evening - ticket + smart drinks + various substances - tallying in around $100, you wonder what sustains the ravers' financial miracle. After all, they've also got clothes to buyŠ What's even more surprising is that this population base, which they say isn't enough to sustain the scene (in other words, not enough to create a living for promoters who do nothing else), is extremely ghettoised. Gays are a minority at raves. The ambiguous allure of the Ken-ravers, present in infinite numbers, exhibiting their muscles and perfectly hairless torsos, deeply massaging each other, fools no one: these boys couldn't be any straighter. The gay community has its own mega-events, including black&blue and wild&wet, organised by the BBCM (Bad Boys Club of Montréal) as fund raisers in the fight against AIDS. These parties have actually begun to attract more and more straights. "Cultural minorities" are also rare at raves. Same thing goes for those aged 24-35. Most ravers are adolescent white suburbans. Ask DJs and promoters about these kids on their dance floors, and you get a picture of a public that's demanding but knows nothing about music, that wants everything without knowing what. In any case, in these inaccessible DJ booths, you don't even know who's playing. Sometimes, papers at the entrance post the DJs' hours. That's it. Promoters seem more motivated by the thrill of staging the events than by satisfying this herd of capricious consumers, who flock behind any rumour, but who, in turn, determine the financial fate of the promoters. Of course, nobody is forcing the promoters to stay, but nonetheless you have to acknowledge that their profession -and it has become that: a profession - isn't enviable. Courted before the raves for passes or Djing, they can fall victim to anything afterwards: financial loss, insults on the infoline because there were too many people, not enough people, the coatroom was crammed, the temperature too hot, the sound system bad, the line-up poorly organized, etc. Rumour has it that they earn fortunes, though in reality most of them don't. But because, like all good sales people, they always claim to have lost money, no one believes them anymore. Trapped by their own greed and an almost infantile desire to outdo the competition, to be bigger and stronger, promoters have put the raves into the major leagues. "It used to cost $10,000. Now a single event can cost up to $120,000", explains Daniel Cordeiro (514 Prod.). The competition between these major players has increased the incentive for foreign DJs (yeah, they love Montréal for its famous European charm, its laid-back attitude, and its beautiful women, but also for pay scales that are higher here than anywhere else in North America). The change in the famous "vibe" is sometimes attributed to the decline in drug quality, though the suggestion is usually made half in jest, as though ravers didn't want to acknowledge that their state is dictated by a chemical substance. "E" isn't the MDMA it once was; and in any case, an evening spent on weed, speed, acid or mescaline is cheaper. Another element is often hushed over: young, inexperienced promoters, who can bring out anywhere between two and five thousand people, are confronted with the harsh reality of bikers, already dominant in Montréal, who haven't wasted any time realizing the economic potential of this extremely vulnerable microsociety. Given the stress and the risks, what motivates promoters? Creating an event from nothing, improvising as designers and scenographers to create the space, booking DJs, working the streets with hot flyers and selling tickets. This is a new genre of entrepreneur, twenty-something at most, creating a commercial niche for which there is no school, in a market that is unpredictable and escapes any kind of rational scrutiny. It's a pure challenge, with hedonism as its first objective. "Organising events is a drug" admits Kiki Dranias (Channel Prod.). So much so that she and husband Nicolas organised nine in a year. At that rate, they might as well have settled in a club. Others have found a niche in afters: 514 at Sona, Shock at Storm on Fridays. Experience is dreaming of having its own space. Unlike the old guard, none of today's big promoters would dream of running a record shop or making music. But the commercialisation of raves has its good sides too: the network of record stores is expanding, the media do a better job reviewing electronic music, and there are more and more free fanzines. You can finally talk music‹more than when electronica was the reserve of a happy few who gloated over their imports and limited series K7s, communicating through fanzines that were loaded with inside information. The door has opened wider, and while the events may have lost some of their magic, they've also created the need to come back to smaller, more experimental evenings."The public will get fed up with the big parties very quickly, and the underground scene will be all the more vibrant. Evenings like those at the Isart gallery prove it", suggests Mireille Silcott, musical editor at The Montréal Mirror, specialized in the techno scene. And the two genres are perfectly capable of coexisting. That's the beauty of techno's democratization and low cost. Pawn shops carry samplers and synthetizers; a living room is all the rehearsal space you need. It's not surprising that the rave scene runs parallel to a thriving electronic music scene. With excellent DJs, especially in house, and with artists who are increasingly productive, the Montreal scene is ready to explode, provided the essential dilemna is resolved: go mainstream or not? In a province with a low population (7 million; 3 million in Montréal), it's impossible to live off of underground sales or vinyl presses unless you also export your talent or do something else on the side. There's an impressive variety of styles and enormous potential. All that's missing is awareness on the part of the decision makers (rave and club promoters, record shops, mainstream media), who insist that the grass is greener elsewhere, and who are in desperate need of musical education. Should the blame go to that traditional Québécois inferiority complex, to the back and forth pull between American influences and a grudging respect for France among francophones, and a fascination for London among anglos? "Félix Leclerc was a nobody before he went to France. Everyone kissed his feet when he got back", remembers a smiling Louis Veillette. Montréal's techno-rave scene is alive, and not only on Saturday nights. It belongs to those willing to get involved. Those who think that its future lies in a fusion with rock, or who see raves as a simple leisure distraction, can go back to the herd. We'll talk about it in ten years. Bye. nora b. Exert from "Régime nocturne / craving for more" by Nora Ben Saâdoune. Text published in Rituel Festiv / Festiv Ritual, the book.