"The first time I walked into my local pub, Ye Rustic Inn, felt like walking into Trouw during ADE for the first time," Loren Granich, founder and promoter of Los Angeles party A Club Called Rhonda, told me over the phone. "Just going to get chicken wings, I get goosebumps."

It's hard to describe the mood in LA right now, but that quote gives you an idea. After enduring multiple lockdowns—and some of the highest case rates in the country at certain points—Los Angeles came roaring back to life, officially, on June 15th, the day the state of California loosened almost all restrictions. No masks, no social distancing, almost no rules. Considering that a few months before many were questioning the future of nightlife, suddenly the situation seemed more promising than any of us could have imagined.

On June 19th, I was waiting in line for Compound, my first party after the official reopening, with my digital vaccine pass ready. This wasn't the first event I'd been to since the pandemic—warehouse parties started appearing once vaccination rates shot up—and I was struck by how natural this new normal was beginning to feel. The vaccine card and temperature check had become another step in the gauntlet of Los Angeles warehouse party security: after the initial ID check, bag search, pat-down. It didn't feel particularly strange or novel. As I heard the distant thrum of the kick drum from the airport-style queue outside, I simply felt that things were really, truly back. Sure, it looked a little different this time around, but it wasn't that different.

Compound is a quarterly team-up between four of Los Angeles's biggest techno promoters: Dirty Epic, Incognito, Synthetik Minds and 6AM Group. For many of the 1,200 people inside—organizers had kept it smaller than usual so the crowd could be spaced out—this was their homecoming, the return to techno. I went to the outdoor patio to get a drink, and the scene was unreal: throngs of people waited in the 30-minute-long bar queue, while across the way there was a makeshift sushi bar set up, as ravers sat around eating their 3 AM sashimi, sticky clumps of rice on every plate. Wherever I looked it seemed like someone was wearing a T-shirt that said "techno"—the best was probably the guy lounging on a picnic chair with one that had "LOSANGELES TECHNO" on it in the Stranger Things font, or two lookalikes in matching "Berlin Techno" shirts—and there was hardly a mask in sight.

Silent Servant at Compound

Compound is usually a star-studded affair, but this time it boasted an all-locals lineup, a testament not only to LA's techno scene but to the post-pandemic mood of appreciating what you have around you. As Drumcell and Truncate played a back-to-back set in the cavernous main hall and residents Gerard Not Gerald and Jia played raucously in the side room, I spoke with Bears In Space DJ Stacy Christine, who was excited for what was about to be an unusually heavy techno set for her.

I got the sense that most people were in the room specifically to see Christine, and her entrance—and every kick drum drop thereafter—was greeted with excited whoops and cheers. People weren't just clamoring to hear a big international name. They wanted to hear one of their favorite locals.

Christine delivered a set of kinetic techno cut with electro, breakbeats and a handful of catchy vocals during a night of otherwise gloriously punishing, reduced techno. It was loud, sweaty and late, but I felt peaceful and back where I belonged. Almost everyone I spoke to felt the same. People seemed comfortable, smiling and basking in the glory of this thing that can bring 1,200 strangers together in a unique kind of harmony.

After Compound, things started to feel real—what seemed impossible a few months earlier was happening at a breakneck pace before my eyes. The summer schedule was suddenly packed full of weekends with competing events. I found myself obsessively planning, trying to fit in as many events as possible, wanting to see everything, like I was 21 again.

Despite feeling back in my element, it was hard to get over the surprise of no one around me wearing masks. Most people I spoke to didn't share that feeling. Even if it was a shock to the system, the facts bore it out: at the time of writing, over 19 million people, almost 50 percent of the state's population, are fully vaccinated, with Covid-19 case rates at their lowest since the pandemic began. The vaccine check at some events provided a bit of reassurance, but since the state's reopening, even what felt like the "new normal" quickly faded back into the old.

Top: Developer at Comound / Bottom: Stacy Christine at Compound

The vaccine issue has proven thorny, and it became a favorite topic of discussion among the promoters I spoke with. After leaving organizers and planners in the lurch about what kind of restrictions might be leftover after the state reopening on June 15th, California removed all of them for events under 5000 people—no proof of vaccination or negative Covid-19 test necessary. When Deviation, a techno party promoted by 6AM Group, Synthetik Minds and Dirty Epic the weekend after Compound announced that (in line with state guidelines) proof of vaccination was no longer required, their Instagram became the center of an ugly debate between both sides. The promoters insisted they were merely following official rules set by people more knowledgeable than them.

"We were getting shit from people when we didn't put on events, and then getting shit when we had safety measures," Marco Sgalbazzini, founder of Synthetik Minds, told me. "Then when we announced we would have no requirements, they said we're trying to make more money or crumbling under the pressure of the anti-vaxxers. It's a lose-lose situation."

However, these social media debates didn't translate to the real-life events, and there was euphoria on every dance floor I stepped onto over the last two weeks.

"People are going absolutely wild at these parties," said Dirty Epic promoter Andrew Souto. "It felt like before the pandemic, you'd only get this energy at one or two parties a year, but now, it's like everyone's feeding off each other's excitement."

"These people definitely aren't taking it for granted," Granich told me in another conversation.

Compound felt like a momentous occasion, but the weekend after was ridiculous in comparison, with events from some of Los Angeles's most beloved promoters: Into The Woods, Dig Deeper, A Club Called Rhonda, Cyclone, Traffic and another collaborative party from the Dirty Epic and 6AM Group, to name a few. It was like a microcosm of the city's scene. My first stop was Traffic, a queer, hardcore techno-focused party.

"I kind of forgot how to do everything," David O'Bryan, AKA DJ Thoughtknott, told me. "I wanted to play vinyl but I left my cartridge at home. I forgot at least like five things."

O'Bryan runs Traffic with DJ-about-town Mike Etc (real name Michael Albrecht). The two had chosen a more low-key return to events, taking Traffic to a smaller venue, Resident in the Arts District, where I had only seen metal shows before. In California, last call at licensed bars is 2 AM, so there would be none of the all-night debauchery most in the LA scene are used to. But Traffic brought in a big guest, Lady Blacktronika, who started her set with some smooth, beatdown-style Detroit house before switching to her Femanyst alias for a closing stretch of aggressive, hard beats.

A chronic early bird, I showed up at the club before 10, and met a fan of O'Bryan's who had driven all the way from Tuscon, Arizona, to attend the party. It was the first public gathering he'd attended since the pandemic started. The Los Angeles scene wasn't just attracting its own but pulling in people from around the region.

After Traffic, I made my way further south Downtown for the Into The Woods afterhours, featuring a four-hour set from Ben UFO. He played for almost four hours—a harder-than-usual but perfectly mixed blitz of techno and leftfield club music—before the police came and cruelly shut down the party ten minutes before its scheduled end time of 5 AM. Another common occurrence I had totally forgotten about and a reminder of the precarious nature of underground events, even during what felt like a weekend of mass celebration.

The next night I started at A Club Called Rhonda, a queer institution that's been the buzz of the city's nightlife scene for well over a decade now. The Return To Rhondavous happened at Catch One, a sprawling former lesbian club turned all-purpose venue in the Mid-City neighborhood. People were lined up around the block to get in, and inside was thronged with people, as residents and co-founders Goddollars and Paradise played Donna Summer's "I Feel Love" and '80s favorites to a crowd avidly waiting for headliner Avalon Emerson. John Frusciante's Evar label hosted a "hardcore" room, there was also an ambient room and a mercifully ventilated downstairs house room, where I saw Kim Ann Foxman, who was probably the highlight of my time at Rhonda.

"I don't really like hanging out with strangers," my friend Mino, who I found behind the DJ booth, said to me. "But I love seeing all these strangers having so much fun!" Rhonda was her first party back, and while she and her husband were a bit nervous before coming, they had pasted-on smiles just like everyone else. You couldn't help but feel the joy that night.

The entire weekend was dominated by questions like, "Is this your first party" or "What else have you been to?" Quickly becoming the new "What time did you get here" or "How long are you in town?"

I finished it watching around 1,000 people absolutely lose their shit to Adam X at another hidden-away warehouse venue for Deviation. Promoter Marco Sgalbazzini told me it was the closest he's seen to a European club-style audience, going crazy, in Los Angeles in his years of throwing and attending parties. The music was positively evil, but the crowd was going at it as if it were a set of euphoric gospel house. It hit me that this wasn't just the return of the Los Angeles scene, but something completely different. Maybe even something better.

One word I kept hearing over the weekend was "grateful," from both ravers and promoters. People were grateful to hear and dance to music, grateful to be together, grateful to be close and sweaty. It sounds obvious, sure, but it's hard to truly realize the loss of the communal experience until you actually experience it again. "I was in tears," Granich told me about his first time on a dance floor since the pandemic hit.

"I've barely ever seen this energy pre-pandemic," Andrew Souto told me. "It's great and I really hope this energy continues. People feeding off each other, everyone going wild."

All the pent-up demand for these parties comes with a price, however—literally. The most obvious is with tickets. "Everything is a lot more expensive—vendors, venues, sound, staffing costs, everybody has raised their prices [since Covid-19]," Sgalbazzini told me. "How do we respond to that in terms of ticket prices? We try to keep them low, but costs have gone up 40, almost 50 percent since 15 months ago."

And you can feel that price crunch across all aspects of going out—not just the entry fee, but drinking, even transportation. Many cities in the US are suffering a rideshare shortage, and never was that more apparent than this last weekend trying to get a ride between parties or back home. A 15-minute drive that once cost $15 was now $80, and you might have to wait 30 minutes for it or find there are no drivers available at all. In a spread-out city like Los Angeles, where everyone uses apps like Lyft and Uber to get around, it's a legitimate concern.

So while the events are more fun, energetic and wild than ever, going out is increasingly cost-prohibitive. It contrasts with discussions among dance music communities from last year about racial and social justice and problems with inequality. If these prices keep up, the party scene becomes harder to access, not easier. Dig Deeper promoter Masha Mar was an exception, telling me that they offered both free ticket options for certain people and aren't turning away people for lack of funds at events, instead preferring to compromise.

However, over the two weekends I went out, I also noticed a greater diversity in crowds. At some events I would've considered almost completely straight in the past, there was more of a mix of sexualities, genders and races. Scenes and cliques mingled, people wore outlandish outfits, and the intense bro-y-ness that once haunted LA warehouse parties seemed to have fizzled out for now. It was as if people really started to appreciate what a special thing they had, altogether.

"It seems like people are really starting to take ownership of the rave," Mike Albrecht told me. "They're careful who they bring, and they take ownership of their actions at the rave, what they bring to it."

Several parties committed to increasing diversity, some in private, some publicly (like Incognito, who posted about their gender and racial booking ratios). Most say they want to continue the work they started years ago in putting on marginalized DJs.

One real, obvious way this has already changed is through booking acts. Not only is it harder to book international DJs (due to visa delays and Covid-19 travel restrictions), but so many American DJs suffered during the pandemic that promoters are eager to help them back on their feet. Like I saw with Stacy Christine at Compound, it felt like maybe you didn't need a big headliner DJ to get people excited anymore. As Granich succinctly explained, for a long time it felt like Los Angeles had an "inferiority complex," that it was a "net importer" of dance music talent rather than a source of it. But the tide may be changing.

"I hope this truly is a renaissance for LA nightlife, although the people who were booking expensive white straight male line ups seem to be back to business as usual," Mar countered when we spoke. "But I love that more open air events are popping up, both in parks and outdoor venues and the collective excitement and joy of getting together to experience music."

"The way that people are feeling about dance music and clubbing this summer, the energy is going to be amazing," Granich told me, the elation palpable in his voice. "I encourage people to go out there and be part of it."