Hollywood often misses the boat when attempting to capture the essence of raves and the culture surrounding them. If you're anything like me, there’s a whoooole lot of satisfaction gawking at these abominations of movies and examining every minutia of detail with friends. It’s a pastime I call, “interactive TV.” You know the type. It’s when your witty banter surpasses the amount of dialogue in the script because there’s soooooo much to say. Otherwise known as, “it’s so bad it’s good” territory.
There’s quite a few movies in my “interactive TV” repertoire. And the worse they are the more times I’ve watched them. I was recently afters-ing with a close friend when I suggested a viewing of “We Are Your Friends.” A 2015 EDM-ified travesty directed by Max Joseph, the host of MTV’s Catfish and starring none other than Zac Efron and Emily Ratajkowski. My friend was hesitant, I mean- who could blame them when my synopsis was that it’s everything wrong with global dance music culture today. It’s a 180° from what I find substantive. Each scene is more ridiculously offensive and outrageous than the previous. And since laughter is allegedly the best medicine, I decided to write up my dissertation for Rants and Raves. My two part examination is the Cliffs Notes version, so though you don’t necessarily have to dedicate 1h 36 min of your life to the substanceless spectacle- I highly suggest you do. Because there's a heck of a lot that happens and detail that I couldn't even begin to contain in this piece
I'll pause here to clarify that though the music in this film isn't my cup of tea, that is not the focus of my piece. To each their own- you can be into techno or trance. That has nothing to do with your actions and treatment of others. The vast majority of this critique extends to the disgusting picturization of dance music culture. Because it really irks me that a movie like this propagates a white washed, misogynistic, and capitalistic narrative dominated by cis-white males that flagrantly omits history and depth in culture. Think about it- if you’re a newbie who doesn’t know differently, you might actually think this should be the norm.
The movie opens with Cole working on a track- pecking away at his keyboard intently, while his friend Mason, another white guy that TBH gives me skinhead vibes- paces the room on his speakerphone negotiating their payment terms for hosting at the club. It becomes abundantly clear that the contract terms revolve around the quantity of girls they can get in the club. Cole’s set is only considered when Mason makes his case for him to play the middle slot. “Does DJ Devin have 25 kappa alpha alpha mega sluts coming in a fucking party bus?” There’s no surprise here- these bro’s win because of the females they call ho’s. It’s crystal clear from early on that music’s reason for being is to get girls. Period. I’m no Pollyanna, and certainly know these types of folks exist. But to make a Hollywood movie glamorizing and glorifying them is grotesque.
The bullshittery ensues as the bros posse up with the other members of their toxic male membership club, Ollie and Squirrel, to hand out flyers at the local college. Cole has his headphones around his neck for an undetermined reason, but more on that later. I’ll pause here to say- I love flyers. And I’m not hating on them for flyer-ing. Though I find it odd that they are since they’re seldom handed out these days. What’s obscene is that they only give them to girls- that is, white girls. And for some unbeknownst reason handing them out involves getting each girl’s phone number. Super weird and of course unnecessary. There’s no reason to give out your number to some creepy dude just to get into an event. Another normalization of an unnecessary exchange as de rigeur. But good news ladies- bringing your girlfriends can get you a free bottle. Which establishes the seemingly secondary reason for music’s being- to get wasted.
What backwards behaving bro in his right mind wouldn’t want to be a DJ, right?! My sarcasm aside, WAYF gives the formula for those who do:
“All you need is a laptop, some talent, one track. That track is your ticket to everything.”
Erm, excuse you Mr. Director?! Let's break your requirements down:
Laptop: though it’s obviously very, very good to have, you don't have to have one. Turntables and a mixer will do.
Some Talent: This one puts me over the edge. The idea that one just needs a smidge of talent. However offensive I find it, it’s sad but true in today’s society of instant Instagram DJs. WAYF propagates the decline of the art and craft of DJing. Debasing the skills as if anyone can do it is cuckoo bananas and really pisses me off. But then again, I guess that depends on your standards and expectations for what a DJ delivers.
One Track: This is definitely bullshittery. You don't have to produce music to DJ. They're actually very different skills. Too little discussed and seen are the producers who don't also DJ. And a track is not your ticket to everything. Everything explained visually by clips of massive festivals and flights to Ibiza. Even a massive hit won’t take your career from zero to hero. With the little money records make and streaming earns- you'll be fortunate to eek out any type of return- which is incredibly depressing.
Next scene at a diner and the basic bro posse is socialism in action. They pool their earnings and divide them amongst themselves. But given that they’re barely at the bottom rung of success, just how do they eeek out a living? Ta da! An opportunity lands on their laps as a douche in a velour tracksuit walks in with a well endowed blond in a slip of a red dress and asks to hit him up if, “they'd like to make some real money.” They have zero clue what he does but the decision is pretty much made after they spot his shiny red sports car.
The next scene cuts to Mason’s father waking both he and Cole up; to stop being lazy and to get going with the construction on their house. What a dick, right? I dunno about that, but quick cut to the first of a number of what I've been told are homoerotic scenes. This one in the shower. And now, it’s to get lit ahead of the club. The one friend who seems like they have any bit of sensitivity, Squirrel, raises a shot and proposes a toast to the poser posse. It’s his favorite part of the night, “ the moment before it all starts.” Cut to what seems like some sort of version of a pillow fight with two of them tackling each other on the bed. Again- I've been told the homoeroticism mounts, but I am no expert on that.
The boys storm the club, sauntering past the throngs of girls waiting in line. The moment they walk in the manager demands to know where his 500 people are. Umm hello, dude- did you see the line outside? He then hands Cole a paper and says, “hey, you. Do not play any of the songs on that list. Do you understand me? Save firepower for Mr. Reed.” You'll soon find out that Mr. Reed is the illustrious global phenomenon headlining this evening’s event. DJ James Reed. Who apparently sends his tracklist ahead of the event to ensure no one plays “his” tracks. I can't imagine they were any good but that's just fucked up in any scenario.
It’s time for Cole to have his moment. He walks up to the DJ booth to take over from DJ Devin, who is now playing the opening slot because he couldn’t bring more girls to the club. Devin seems to perhaps be a gentleman and shakes Cole’s hand. But here is where it gets super weird. He immediately takes off his headphones and hands then to Cole, turns and walks away. Like, in the middle of a track without any transition. As his back turns, Cole makes a face and says “what a dick”. Ummm, Cole, what did you expect? You took his slot from under him at the last minute? Try not to act so in shock bro.
Later on, it’s very apparent why DJ James Reed had to fax his calculated cookie cutter set to the club ahead of time. He needs his focus to twirl his blazer around while DJing and later to fan people with a record. And you thought Jeff Mills had tricks?! How can James be expected to pick tracks with that fancy choreography?! Something's gotta give. To be fair- the set might have been recorded. Regardless, his lackadaisical laziness masked by showmanship has zero to do with DJing. Is this what the screenwriters meant when they said “some talent?” It’s important to point out that up to this point, not one word has been said about the music.
Cue Emily Ratajowski standing around, looking bored and sipping her drink through a straw. Cole is gobsmacked by her beauty, strolls over and makes a weak ass move. What does she think of the DJ? Again, nada about the music- she just says he's paid too much. He of course concurs. “He used to be good. Now he just gives them what they want.” The scenario seems rife with hookup potential so he slickly offers her a free drink at the host’s table. Her look of disgust says it all as she turns around and walks away.
Fresh with rejection, Cole heads out to the alley to smoke. Low and behold he spots the washed up DJ he was just dissing, James Reed. Feeling bold enough to make a move (again), he offers a hit of his spiff which Mr. Reed puffs and then chokes in disgust telling him you don’t mix weed with tobacco. James lights up a fresh joint and passes it to Cole who’s as eager as a beaver. So much for his disdain of the headliner. James asks if he gets paid, probably to ensure his bloated fee far exceeds Cole’s. There’s nothing to fear James, Cole is paid in free drinks.
An SUV rolls up and James whisks his new friend off to a party. After a car ride rife with boasting about his success, they arrive. It’s an art exhibition full of swanky people. The scene’s swirl starts when Cole points out that a painting is moving- telling James, “this painting is alive.” And by that he means physically not metaphorically. James nonchalantly replies, “nah, that's just the PCP talking” turns his back and walks away. Errrm excuse me? I’m not judging or drug shaming. But seriously, in my 29 years of parties a total of zero people have offered me PCP. And let’s just say LA did have a moment with PCP, the fact that this movie normalizes giving someone a drug without telling them what it is, is immensely fucked up. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a hallucinogen or something seemingly innocuous. That is a major no-no. It’s super predatory, creepy and potentially rape-y.
And thus Cole’s cherry popping PCP journey begins. One of many montages commences, splicing his hallucinations with the happenings of his bros whom he ditched at the club. The director makes a pitiful attempt at copying the club scenes from Trainspotting, but the only thing they have in common is the shit that’s everywhere at the end. And though I’ve never taken PCP, I can’t imagine it looks like a cartoon Instagram filter covering everyone and everything with colorful slime. If your trip looks like that, no shame- it looks terrifying but I guess it could be fun. My point is that it’s not been my experience nor anyone else I’ve watched this movie with.
Cole wakes up on the couch of a fancy modern home with floor to ceiling windows overlooking a pool amidst the backdrop of LA. Out of nowhere, the beautiful girl from the club suddenly appears. He knows it’s not a dream when James walks up and introduces her as his girlfriend/assistant, Sophie. This reminds Cole that he took PCP, which his new acquaintances shrug off nonchalantly. No big deal, whatever. Because Cole clearly talked up his musical prowess the night before, James asks him to play his track. Though I’d assume a house of that caliber has speakers, Cole hits play on the weak ass speaker of his phone. The only thing that’s moved are a few blinking eyes. The predictably cheap EDM sounds play for no more than a minute when James gives Cole the boot and Sophie then drives him home in a sports car.
Oooff what a night. The director attempts to lift yet another scene from Trainspotting as the boys regroup to come to terms with themselves and split up their cash. It’s not enough. Time to get things in gear. Cue up the ripoff off of “Wolf of Wall Street” scene. The boys get involved in a foreclosure scheme with the velvet jumpsuit wearing douchebag who trains them while swinging around a bat at the office.
It’s a new day and the bros are back on their construction gig. Out of the blue, Cole gets a call from James, “wanna make some cash?” It’s a dream he probably couldn’t have thought possible. I know I didn’t. The lackluster track that got him booted out, also got him a gig with the DJ whom he referred to as washed up.
It’s the day of the gig and Cole is hard at work in his Ambercrombie muscle tank. It appears that DJing comes easy to him. So much so, that the moment a woman comes up with a request his headphones come right off to talk. And then here comes Sophie with a challenge to amp it up- because this crowd doesn’t dance before midnight. Like, who dances before midnight?! As if. Confident after displaying his prowess, Cole mansplains his theory on how to get the job done for anyone who aspires to be a subpar DJ. Next week we’ll dive into Cole’s guide to Rocking a Party and my review of the second half of “We Are Your Friends.”
Written in memory of Arthur with whom I've obsessed and cackled about this movie countless times.