You always remember your first.

It begins as words unspoken. A silent nod signals the starting point. You are here. Euphoria slowly seeps up from underneath you, triggers a warmth that comes in slow, deep waves. Your body responds as a rush floods those internal places, a recurring innocence coupled with more waves that slowly crescendo from within.

A nervousness clings onto its last hinge and then deteriorates with the opening draw of violin strings. It's a feeling of complete immersion as you momentarily thrust completely in and then briefly pull back, enough to keep you focused. The decision has subconsciously been made. No point in resisting now as those first moments are the beginning descent into a familiar and an unknown. From out of nowhere, a voice glides to the surface. Words fumble over themselves, half understood upon first listen. They lazily plunk down around you, while mentally, there's a reassurance you can always decipher their meaning later.

The layers seamlessly build higher and higher, climbing as your body begins to cover itself in a film of sweat. It tries so hard to resist its greatest urge, resulting in a restrained shuffle to an unsettling bass demanding some movement until everything converges into a full-body climax.

It arrives with an almost immediate snap and release as you mentally unearth what your body has known this whole time. Eccentric Icelandic singer Björk has described it as such. It's a Big. Time. Sensuality.

You are here.

Around you is a realization that you're not the only one who's had this experience. Deep in a sea of glow sticks, fun fur, and a prevalent smell of VapoRub complimented by Tigger backpacks and high heels, there's an understanding that while your experience was individual, the truth is that everyone on the dancefloor just experienced the exact same thing you did. The music tells a complete story, something that each person experiences differently.

When the DJ's ninety minutes to three hours are up, each person will have a different interpretation of the tale that jockey just shared. When the house lights come up at eight or nine in the morning, those of use who are left celebrate the arrival together. This is the feeling you've made it to point B. Through layers of sweat and heat, with embraces all around, it becomes a communal sense of reaching the finish line. Because for those few hours you spent on that dancefloor, you not only escaped but also experienced.

Whether it's the basic four-to-the-floor of house, the light airy escape of trance, or the Tetris-style shape throwing of drum 'n' bass, there is a simple truth: that it's all connected into this woven fabric called the rave scene. An evolution from disco and the gay-created circuit parties, raves adopted said party's fundamental desire for unity and developed an identity all on its own. Other bits and pieces were embraced to the budding scene and the whole concept, along with an adopted mantra of peace, love, unity, and respect had taken off. However, before the glow gear, the glitter, the mantras, the ecstasy, and the evolved psychedelics was the music. Because in all actuality, all it ever was and is about is the music.

The first time is a voyeuristic experience. All you can really do is either sit or stand off to the side and watch it all unfold. Even though you say you normally don't, you admittedly like to watch. Secretly, everyone is a voyeur, whether it's a video camera, a telescope, the holes haphazardly drilled into the private booth at your local adult bookstore, or that worn-out copy of Foreskin Gump that, at first, you admitted was a curiosity (especially because in the cinematic monstrosity the porn was inspired by, Bubba was African - American and far from being a football jock). So how does this make you a voyeur?

It's an eye on the dancefloor and then over to the DJ and then back again. There is the music you think you'll know and then that sound that briefly leaps out at you and then scurries away and hides once you've been sonically teased. Seamlessly, more music taunts you until you finally experience that one song that makes your feet perpetually move. A signal from your brain exclaims, enough synapses fire off, and it's time for less watch and more do. For the next few hours, you will dance like no one is watching.

At some point, you'll see me across the room, conducting and mixing the music that becomes the story you find yourself gliding to on the dancefloor. Because tonight your voyeuristic experience is complimented with a proper soundtrack that will thump around in your head for the next three weeks. I might get a verbal compliment from you, or you may just silently nod. All the same, the music has that kind of profound effect on you. It might be a religious experience to you. I believe this to be true; however, it's all in a night's work.

I'm Noel Riley, a twenty-three-year-old disc jockey who balances an academic career with a spiritual devotion to electronic dance music and its many variations. It's that kind of aural fixation that preserves my sanity while I maneuver a currently static university schedule. Give a few months, and a clear winner in the tug of war between English and political science will be decided. Or I might wander back into the college wilderness yet again, like most of my peers attempting educational enlightenment.

Back to the music.

My first experience was when I was sixteen. My group of friends who had discovered the rave scene two years before me were going mental on the dancefloor while I was off to the side, slowly making sense of the glow gear, soothers, candy necklaces, feather boas, and colorful sparkles everywhere. It didn't take long. My best friend and soon-to-be "brother in rhythm" had explained it in painstaking detail to me. Whether it was intuition or a blind leap of faith, the reassurance was "When it happens, you will know."

"It" happened during Deko-ze's opening staple at the time. It was Björk, reconstructed over a funky techno coolness that scored the big connect and made everything, and I fucking mean everything make sense. I'd embraced it completely, filling my weekends with an entourage of which was the tight-knit group that had left us overall different from most of our peers. In essence, they were the best friends one could ever have. And upon graduation, some of us grew apart, entrapped in other things and moving on with life. A couple of us persevered and kept in close touch, still managing a night out or few.

A couple of years in, and I had not only grown addicted to the music but also felt inspired enough to want to help weave the magic I'd experienced on the dancefloor. So like those before me, I bought two turntables and a mixer and a set of headphones. I picked up some records that I trainspotted from other DJs whom I frequently watched in the DJ booth. Other tracks, I'd just discover in the wee hours of the morning on Muchmusic when I couldn't sleep. I'd mentally piece together my own DJ set and then translate that into the practice in my parents' basement. I played house parties and invited friends onto my patio for grilled eats and techno beats. Eventually, I'd get a chance to open a couple of empty clubs before securing a residency.

The music was always the constant. Genres came to the forefront there and basked in their fifteen minutes in the spotlight. Fashion trends came, evolved, and went. The scene was a contrast from the cloud of Canadian indie music that seeped...