I’m sitting hungover in just my underwear on the couch when the door suddenly opens, and Romain walks in. This is his apartment, the one where I’ve been staying. He was supposed to still be on vacation. Even better: he didn’t know I was here.
Romain looks surprised at first, but then he’s furious. I know him—he’s a good friend of Pierre, and the two used to live together. Pierre had told me he still stays here whenever he’s in Paris. Since Romain was supposed to be on vacation, Pierre assured me on Friday that it was no problem for me to stay here. I even double-checked with Pierre when I arrived, asking if Romain knew and was okay with it. “Yes, yes, everything’s fine. Don’t worry,” Pierre said. I should have known better.
Pierre stayed the first night, but last night, he went to stay at his girlfriend’s place. Now, Romain is beside himself. “How could Pierre do this? Damn it, I need to take the key away from him!” he fumes. I’m mortified. I should’ve just stayed at Greg’s place, but I’d already stayed with him last October and didn’t want to overstay my welcome.
Romain tries calling Pierre, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, Romain yells into his voicemail. “He’s probably still in bed with his girlfriend, having sex in her parents’ bed!” he snaps. I apologize profusely; the situation couldn’t be more awkward. Romain assures me he doesn’t have a problem with me—it’s all Pierre’s fault for putting me in this position.
As we talk, Romain gradually calms down. I’d only met him briefly before, maybe for an hour, but now we’re getting to know each other. We discover shared interests: DJing, snowboarding, and a similar lifestyle.
Romain works as a booker at a Paris modeling agency. He used to be a DJ but opted for the stability of a day job. Back in the ’90s, he and “Piero” (his nickname for Pierre) produced techno tracks and organized raves. These days, Romain is deeply entrenched in the fashion industry—but that’s another story.
As we chat, Romain plays some of his favorite tracks and reminisces about the early Parisian techno scene. I really should be working, but how can I pass up the chance to hear a firsthand account of techno’s golden years? He shares his recipe for a great party, emphasizing that drugs aren’t as crucial as people think.
“You know,” he says, “everyone assumes there are tons of drugs at techno parties. Sure, you’ve got a few pill-heads, but the real key to an amazing party is creating a great vibe. If the energy is right, people don’t need drugs to have fun. The whole ‘drugs at raves’ thing is just propaganda from people who don’t profit from the parties.”
About three hours later, Pierre suddenly shows up. A brief argument in French ensues, and I shrink behind my laptop screen. Then Pierre comes over to me.
“He needs to chill out! I tried to reach him, and anyway, he owes me a ton of favors. See this?” He points to an old analog mixer. “This is the kind of gear Carl Cox uses—top-notch. I went all the way to Belgium to get it for him. It normally costs 2,500, but I got it for him for 800 and even tested it because he doesn’t know a thing about tech. So he should just calm down.” Romain growls in response and shakes his head.
Later that evening, we all go to “Black Dog” for dinner—Greg joins us, and Romain comes along too. “You can stay,” Romain tells me. He just needed to give Pierre a piece of his mind because this situation wasn’t okay. “What if I’d brought a date home? Then what?” he asks.
The conversation shifts to the party scenes in Paris and New York. Romain and Pierre argue that Paris was ahead of New York in terms of techno culture. Greg defends New York, citing clubs like “Tunnel” and “Limelight,” but eventually concedes.
The talk veers off to women and sex—Pierre’s favorite topic, and apparently a source of entertainment for the neighboring table. In the end, Pierre picks up the tab for all of us—as a peace offering.
