The night began with a performance by New York literati and ended with a smoke machine.
It was a typical Wednesday for Emily Witt, who knows her way around the world. As a staff writer for The New Yorker, she writes about abortion, climate change and, most recently, Kamala Harris’ presidential campaign. As a techno lover, she spends her nights attending raves and immersing herself in the epitome of New York nightlife, which she describes with clinical neutrality in her new memoir, “Health and Safety: A Breakdown.”
“The misconception that having fun is something only young people have and that there is an expiration date on it is something I just don’t understand,” says Witt, 43.
Earlier that evening, at a party hosted by the Paris Review at its Chelsea offices, she seemed a little anxious.
“This is a professional space,” says Witt, wearing a long black coat over a see-through tank top and deep purple shorts, “whereas in the other space, no one knows what anyone does for a living.”
She meandered around the room looking for Emily Stokes, the magazine’s editor and Ms. Witt’s old friend and mentor. A few minutes later, Ms. Stokes emerged from the crowd. The two embraced, and Ms. Witt seemed relaxed.
Ms. Witt has been attending Paris Review parties since 2011. At recent gatherings, she said, the atmosphere was “more sociable,” as she ate leek pancakes, sipped plastic cups of Prosecco and greeted several writers she knows, including Richard Beck, Zoe Lescaze and her New Yorker colleague Naomi Fry.
After Gary Indiana’s reading, it was time to get serious, and Witt had a few more stops to hit: the club Nowadays for an electroacoustic gong set (yes, gongs), new two-storey bar and music space Earthly Delights, and wine bar Mansions for some end-of-the-night dancing.
Little did she know that her friends and acquaintances attended the magazine’s parties, all three venues were in Ridgewood and Maspeth, Queens.
“Right now, I’m not attracted to big clubs full of strangers,” Witt says. “To be honest, I like going to places where my friends are and where I’m not the oldest person in the room.”
In Health and Safety, Witt, who grew up in Minneapolis and writes that raves were “something that happened in the cornfields,” recounts tales of sex in bathroom stalls, drinking for days on end and then not eating for 24 hours, and taking a variety of drugs given to him by strangers that were considered taboo even to his peers and family.
Personal revelations are nothing new for Witt: Her last book, “Future Sex,” chronicled her explorations of promiscuity and polyamory.
“You’re not really doing your job unless you say something that’s going to upset your parents,” she said during the 40-minute Uber ride to Queens. “You have to cross that line.”
We entered Now A Days through a side entrance, with a sign on the door warning us that the bar was closed, that no phones were allowed, and to keep voices low and conversations to a minimum.
The club’s dance floor, usually lit by flashing lights, was dark, with black gym mats scattered around, and the highlight of the night was an amplified gong, with the artist Sfuente scheduled to perform for five hours.
Witt chose a mat and lay down, exhaling. Every now and then, Sfuente would strike the gong forcefully, producing a clang. At other times, the sound changed to a buzzing sound. With each change, a deep bass sound spread like a wave, the vibrations pulsating through our tailbones.
Thirty minutes later, Witt rose from his horizontal sonic journey to take a more careful look.
“It felt like I had to choose between diving deep or floating on the surface,” she says, grabbing a glass of water and a pair of green earplugs from the complimentary dispenser as we emerge from the quiet zone.
Feeling fully recovered and in good spirits, we arranged for another car to take us to Earthly Delights. Witt, who lives near Ridgewood, had never been there but had always wanted to go.
“My friends say it looks like the end of Looney Tunes with the credits rolling,” she said, sharing what friends have said about the décor.
The description was true. Witt walked up the stairs through a haze of blue and red mist into a dance room with walls curved like a rib cage, concentric circles around the DJ resembling the image of Bugs Bunny saying, “That’s it, folks.”
“I feel like I’m underwater,” Witt said over the beat.
She pondered how to describe the sound and came up with the words “slow,” “primitive,” and “chugging.”
“I’m not very good at describing music,” she said. “I tend to use metaphors.”
We went to check out the bathroom, which was decked out in shades of blue, orange and green, and upon looking in the mirror, Witt noticed that her lips were a lighter color than normal.
“Oh my gosh, you know what I did,” she said, “I put on concealer while I was in the car, and it was really dark!”
Cosmetic faux pas averted, we caught our third and final Uber at 11pm and headed to Mansions, a natural wine bar that books some of the biggest DJs on the rave scene.
Witt made his grand entrance and was immediately greeted by a long-haired man named Kid Sincere, one half of the DJ duo Pure Emanence, and soon after, Nick Bazzano, the other half, approached with hugs and smiles.
“I’m really enjoying this wine,” he said, swaying a little.
Oversized clusters of grapes made from ceramic were displayed above the bar like a rave-style still life.
They went to a backyard and met up with friends, many of whom had just spent the weekend at Sustained Release, a small techno festival in the Catskill Mountains. (Kid Sincere is Witt’s boyfriend, Witt later revealed; the two had started dating last fall.) They passed around joints and shared cigarettes. An ice bucket contained a bottle of Slovenian orange wine, with “Adult Kool-Aid XXX” listed on the menu.
Soon Ms. Witt was inside, with Kid Cynthia following a short distance behind, carrying a bottle of wine and an ice bucket on her hip. She shoved her bag behind a coat rack, stuffed earplugs in her ears, and stepped onto the shag-carpeted dance floor, where DJ Cousin was performing under beams of red light.
The sound was bouncy, the vocals sounded like jungle music, and Witt shifted her weight and shook her hips to the rhythm. She looked relaxed.
“I like to get out at the end of the day,” she says. “I’m not a Netflix person.”
