Eclectic tutued and tattooed teens, people in sparkly bikinis, tails, whisker painted faces, and 12-inch sole stilt-esque boots swarmed the Hollywood Palladium to see Deadmau5 perform. In the first two hours, while the crowd thickened and peeled off their fabric layers, the Palladium was the site for a dance party, simply put, a “rave,” reminiscent of the late ninetees. People with latex glove glowing fingertips bounced around and moved their hands in front of other mesmerized people who were sitting legs crossed in the middle of the oval dance floor. Out in the hall near one of the four bars, I heard a female security guard ask an off balanced male propped against the wall why he was sucking on a pacifier. He responded, “I’m rolling. Get with the fucking times, lady.”

Around midnight, the rave subsided and the venue was quiet. A black mouse headed human with bulging robotic eyes in a t-shirt and jeans walked out to the center, and the party became a performance. All were on their feet again, facing forward, focused on the front stage. Then it got loud. Deadmau5 (pronounced “dead mouse”) attempted to undo their DNA with an electro-house roller coaster ride, as the sweating fans opened their eyes, raised up their arms, and grasped at the air. A few girls in fishnets crawled onto their jumping boyfriends shoulders and reached for the ceiling. Half way in, Deadmau5 revealed himself. He took of his head, put on a cap, and screamed, “We’re doing this live!” The lights got so bright it was as if the sun was exposing what was under the skin, while video art projected on a screen behind the apocalyptic Mickey—flashing images of yellow and pink Pacman mouse heads, happy skulls, lighting fire, and ancient television fuzz. If the Palladium were a space ship, it could have taken off by the end, fueled with the crowd energy and musical mix of rapidly built beats, hovering transitions, strange ghostly voice over, and toxic candy land cathedral-ready organ explosions.

—Beth McNamara