Thousands of ravers gathered from across Southern California and beyond to party at Skyline Los Angeles, an impressive two-day house and techno experience spanning several city blocks.
Insomniac and Factory 93 brought Skyline festival to the streets of Los Angeles for its fourth year, and madness ensued. Busses were rerouted and multiple streets were blocked off for the festivities. I had a thought during the frenzy of the second night: “Who even authorized this?”
Not that I was complaining. The weekend at Skyline provided further evidence that Los Angeles is one big party disguised as a real city. The festival descended upon Gloria Molina Grand Park, and it was a grand old time. Whoever said “people in LA don’t dance” got it wrong. The SoCal ravers were not messing around.
The perimeter of Skyline Los Angeles was bustling as guests began to arrive. “Fans, fans, fans! All fans ten bucks!” hollered a sidewalk vendor on Temple Street. Just outside the venue, a promoter in a hoodie was holding an “Afters?” totem with a QR code. There was no line when I arrived at the entrance, but I had to pause to chug the rest of my water. The security guards were in a playful mood and prodded me to chug faster.
The weather on both days was gorgeous. It was the kind of virginal springtime sun that sinks slowly into your clothes and casts a love spell over everyone, making everything rosy and reminding us why we put up with all the traffic.
Saturday’s vibe was immaculate with sunshine, good vibes, and sheer synchronicity.
I kept bumping into the same strangers who eventually became new friends. At one point, I even happened to be dancing next to WELKER, an artist who I had recently interviewed for EDM Identity. Things were going well.
The bathrooms were fresh and accessible. There were lots of easy bars and filtered water stations at both the East and West sides. The Liquid Deaths clocked in reasonably at five bucks a pop. There was even a fake ivy wall-adorned mocktail bar between the stages offering bubbly, non-alcoholic “social tonics” by hiyo, infused with buzzy nootropics like ashwagandha and lion’s mane. There was not much shade by any of the stages except for a few trees, but the air was soft and the sun began to sink below the buildings soon enough.
Mia Moretti started things strong at the West Side stage. At a festival like this, where I’m not super familiar with the talent, I bounce around until one of the DJs grabs my attention and I can’t pull myself away. Mia Moretti did that for me, so I stayed. Most attendees had not yet arrived but the ravers who showed up early were holding it down. As I stepped onto the near empty, metal dance floor, I felt vaguely self-conscious.
I headed over to the East Side stage next, right as a police helicopter was landing right behind it. The sound went almost unnoticed next to the thunderous bass coming from the industrial-looking rows of speakers and subwoofers below the landing pad. The low drone of the helicopter’s blades blended right into the atmosphere. At that moment, it felt like the perfect place to stage a house and techno festival.
I again stepped onto the broad metal dance floor, as KinAhau was vibing with the growing crowd. Somebody threw a kandi bracelet on stage and he caught it. The dancefloor was steeped in cigarette smoke. Everybody was getting down. Little digital cameras dotted the audience as revelers captured moments of joy and friendship.
One raver I spoke with described the East Side stage as having an intimate feel, since even though the stage production was massive, the dance floor was rather slim and long. The sound at both the East and West Side stages was phenomenal.
Where I felt the production fell short was at the Arts District Stage. The bass bleed-over was horrendous, and I could almost feel the DJ’s frustration from behind the booth (or maybe I was projecting my own feelings) when their drop was overpowered by the endless thump of the East Side stage. If you got right up to the speakers you might have almost forgotten about the two mainstages, but not quite.
The first night came to a close with a legendary b2b from Seth Troxler and Honey Dijon. I found myself walking through the quiet streets near downtown with my platform combat boots in either hand. Nearly twelve hours of dancing and moving around got the better of my Docs. As I padded along the sidewalk in my socks, I fell in love with Los Angeles again.
On Sunday, the vibe took a turn for the feral.
I should have known it was about to get real because the fan dealers and after party promoters outside the venue were replaced by religious protestors with megaphones. They held up a heavy-looking sign that read “The wrath of God abides upon the children of disobedience” as hoards of revelers screeched by in sheer tights, pounding buzz balls. The party was well underway.
As day turned into night, it was not a scene for the faint of heart. The festival had truly taken over the city, and behind those opaque gates, it was absolute rave madness. The music was relentless. Fuzzy coats and leather and tall boots and glitter swarmed in and out of focus. Downtown had rubbed off on Skyline Los Angeles, and all that edgy Mad Max energy usually bestowed upon DTLA leached into the festival grounds. It was almost impossible to imagine that I was just a few minutes from my apartment.
The fear and loathing was palpable. One raver I spoke with was completely overwhelmed by the experience by the time GORDO took the stage. Then, to make things extra spicy, GORDO got divisive by dropping “Hold On, We’re Going Home,” and telling everyone to put their phone lights up so he could “send it to Dreezy.” The crowd’s reaction was mixed. Some people booed, while plenty of others sang along with their phones up. Regardless of these antics, his “Crazy Frog” drop was a highlight of my night.
The crowds were noticeably larger on day two and I, too, caved to a few moments of genuine overwhelm, lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces. I took a few moments to sit in the middle of Hill Street, glancing at the inactive traffic lights aglow above me. I was amused by the fact that I had crossed this very road countless times on my commute. Now, when I pass by, I’ll always remember the time I raved here. At one point someone rushed by me with one of those light-up drums. God help us. No friends to be found. I was admittedly spun.
By some small miracle, I was able to squeeze my way up to the rails to catch a slice of Matroda’s set. The crowd up front was impressively courteous, albeit sardine like. The “HOT” sticker people were out in full force. I ended up with one on my cheek as I clamored to the rail. Despite the chaos, or maybe because of it, the music prevailed. Without a doubt, Cloonee’s Party All the Time flip made me smile and sing along.
The Porta Potty area at the East Side was a muddy maze, and there was almost no water coming from the foot-pump hand-wash stations. The quality of the facilities at Skyline had deteriorated significantly by sunset on the second day. By the end of the night, I came across one attendee dancing with an entire roll of toilet paper in his hand. When I asked if he had brought it with him, he shook his head and told me that a security guard had given it to him for reasons that were unclear at the time.
The whole weekend, the crowd was buzzing about Skyline’s closing set from Nico Moreno and TRYM. I had to check it out. I was not disappointed. Although I’m a techno newb, I felt comforted by the seductive embrace of trancey beats and near-blinding flashing lights.
I shoved my show glasses further up my nose to shut my eyes for a moment or two. I had escaped the colorful, housey chaos of the East Side and crawled into the belly of the beast. I arrived to a place where space-time was an afterthought to the ferocious beat. I was suspended in techno limbo, floating on air, when suddenly I snapped out of it and looked to my side just as someone came crashing through the crowd right at me. They muttered an apology and hurried on.
I was reminded that the festival ended at eleven instead of midnight. The ending felt abrupt, all of a sudden no music, just ears ringing, lights on, and a mad rush for the restrooms and exits. But before then, I wandered around in the final minutes. As I headed down to the Arts District stage, I ran into Thor Wixom (AKA Thor God of Bass), cinematographer and Steadicam extraordinaire. His multi-colored braids glowed warmly under the bridge of black lights.
He gave me a brief blessing under his braids and I felt the serendipity that had eluded me since Saturday fall together again. It was a real rave. I asked if he would like to say something “on the record.” Thor smiled and agreed. I pulled out my Voice Memos app and pressed the button. “Life is short, you’re never too old to rave. Because the older you get, the shorter it is. So go out there and rave.”
Everything was meant to be on that night at the edge of forever. Moonlight and street lights washed over us in the heart of our beloved party town.
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