The Right to Rave

On the other hand, McKinnon blames some clubs for giving techno a poor reputation by failing to curb excesses. Case in point: Robert and Brian Brunet, managers of the State Palace Theater in New Orleans, and rave promoter Donnie "Disco" Estopinal. Their legendary raves attracted legions of pacifier-sucking fans from across the South, but their drug activity drew harsh scrutiny from the DEA.

To put a stop to the flow of illegal drugs at the events, the DEA did more than bust dealers. It put the State Palace's owners and promoter on trial. The agency's aggressive efforts may define the techno scene for years.

The DEA's landmark "crack-house" case centers not on dilapidated rowhouses where slumlords allow addicts to congregate and get high, but on a historic theater at the edge of New Orleans' French Quarter. The State Palace Theater, once a neighborhood cinema, became an all-purpose event hall in 1992, hosting rock acts such as the Dave Matthews Band. But federal law authorities also say the space morphed into a dispensary for ecstasy and other illegal drugs.

It began in 1995 when a young man named Donnie Estopinal, an accounting major from Louisiana State University-turned-rave promoter, insisted he could lure thousands to the State Palace. Robert and Brian Brunet, brothers and managers of the family-owned theater, were skeptical he could pull it off, but they gave him a chance

Word quickly spread, and soon crowds of more than 4,000--a diverse mix of teens, college students and young revelers--were packing the all-night celebrations. The Brunets liked the crowds because they didn't trash the place or create mosh pits. But techno's rapid rise in New Orleans came at a cost: the 1998 death of 17-year-old Jillian Kirkland at the State Palace because of a severe overdose, and dozens of lesser overdose victims shuttled to emergency rooms, averaging two a night during raves, according to the DEA.

Eager to clamp down on New Orleans' burgeoning ecstasy trade, the DEA eschewed the little-fish drug dealers in favor of a big fish--the State Palace. "Operation Rave Review" debuted in January 2000.

During eight visits, a fresh-faced undercover agent scored 45 hits of ecstasy and other pills. He also witnessed dancers with goofy accessories the DEA considers drug paraphernalia, such as pupil-dilating glow sticks, oversized pacifiers (used by some to stop the jaw grinding caused by ecstasy) and medical masks daubed with Vicks VapoRub (which supposedly enhances the ecstasy high).

In making its case, the DEA vilified State Palace raves, belittling the notion that they could possibly have any artistic or cultural merit. "In my time as a prosecutor this is one of the most unconscionable drug violations I have seen," said Eddie Jordan, U.S. Attorney for New Orleans, who has since stepped down from that post. "They used these raves to exploit young people by designing them for pervasive drug abuse."

The end result: In January 2001, the Brunets and Estopinal were indicted under the crack-house statute. None was charged with selling drugs. Rather, the government said they were guilty because they knew their facility was a drug-trade conduit. Facing 20-year sentences and fines of up to $500,000, the trio immediately sought a deal. But the ACLU and techno artists nationwide urged them to fight on Constitutional grounds: freedom of speech--musical speech, that is--and freedom of association.

The Brunets and Estopinal fought back with some success, but on June 13 relented in the face of mounting legal fees. The Brunet family's company pleaded guilty to lesser charges in a deal that merely bars the State Palace from hosting parties where ecstasy paraphernalia--the medical masks, the pacifiers--is sold or present. Likewise, "chill rooms," the extra-air-conditioned rooms set up to prevent the overheating caused by a combination of frenetic dancing and ecstasy, are out.

The DEA insists the changes will help prevent overdoses. As proof, it points to fewer emergency-room visits for club-drug overdoses since the suspension of mass raves (Estopinal now holds raves at smaller venues). But others deride the DEA for banning items with no direct connection to drug use. "Those things are not paraphernalia," the ACLU's Boyd says. "The pacifier is no more paraphernalia than a tie-dyed shirt."

In the wake of the State Palace case, the DEA launched another crack-house prosecution, this time at the mammoth dance palace Club La Vela in Panama City Beach, Florida, which was used three times in the late '90s for MTV Spring Break as well as other trendy events. With the second prosecution under way, as well as crackdowns by local authorities, defenders fear they're seeing the beginning of open season on the rave scene.

Boyd sees that police crackdowns in one locale will intimidate venue owners elsewhere. "All you need is a handful of prosecutions," he says, "then the threats do the job alone." Still, Boyd thinks techno promoters will eventually win the fight. Already, they have launched the Electronic Music Defense and Education Fund to fight crack-house-style prosecutions. Susan Mainzer, a spokeswoman for EMDEF, thinks law enforcers blame raves for the type of ecstasy use that is seen in several segments of society, including college students and professionals.

And despite the increasing numbers, ecstasy overdoses are still rare. From 1994 to 1999, emergency-room visits for ecstasy overdoses rose from 250 to 2,850 nationwide. According to the U.S.-funded Drug Abuse Warning Network, however, these constitute only a fraction of the 554,932 hospital visits for drug-related accidents. "The rave community is an easy target," she says. "They dress funny."