It was at a cocktail party at camp Daguerrodrome-aka Low Expectations-near the intersection of Faith and Sublime. I was on my maiden Burn-2003-and every moment, every sound, every word, seemed magnified in neon. Not unlike the on-the-­spot admonishment Larry Harvey dealt me about that evil word "rave." In passing, I had mentioned a book I was then editing called Rave Culture and Religion,' but dropping the "R word", in the presence of Burning Man's founder and chief visionary was like flashing a mu/eta at a bull. His hackled response was understandable I knew even then, although my awareness of the issue expanded as I dove into the history and culture of electronic dance music (EDM) at Burning Man over subsequent years. In 2003, we were dancing in the dust clouds of a decade of discord over the presence of EDM and its chief agent: the DJ, a figure loved and loathed in equal measure. "Rave camps" had long been disputed on the playa-a source of antinomy expressed in art skirmishes, desert jousts and heated conflagrations. But this wasn't just an internal controversy. The legal status of "raves" threatened already tentative arrangements with law enforcement and licensing bodies whose ongoing approvals the city relies upon to function and flourish. After the successful passage of the Illicit Drug Anti-Proliferation Act of 2003-formerly known as the "RAVE Act," Senator Joe Biden's sponsored effort to "Reduce America's Vulnerability to Ecstasy"-police were empowered to impose heavy penalties on the organizers of events where "controlled substances" were found to be in use. Having become synonymous with these "substances," here was a word that literally killed the vibe.