I’m nostalgic about my days that straddled the turn of the New Millennium as a wannabe Goth. The core of this persona manifested at an event called The Asylum every Sunday night in a, perhaps odd, not-so-little Sacramento nightclub called The Rage. Physically, the club occupied a retail shop space in an outdoor strip-mall. It was located a few doors down from another former-shop-space-turned-nightclub called InCahoots–a popular haunt frequented by many a rowdy redneck. I recall shaking my head at the yawning chasm that separated the two crowds in terms of philosophy and attitude.
At The Asylum, nearly always by myself, I mimicked the moon-dances I performed by many a pale, sometimes-slim-but-more-often-shapely, conspicuously-costumed female. It was essential that their costumes produce contrast, especially between their pale faces and dark, or artificially-bright, hair. Out on the dance floor, for all club-goers to see, they danced stone-faced giving off an air of practiced indifference to everything except the music that guided their sways. I greatly admired their confidence and, perhaps a bit, their nonchalance, though I did not try to imitate it. At first I attempted to dance as they did. That is, by emitting movements intended to be smooth and graceful. But my dancing quickly devolved into a rather rapid and terse stomp-and-kick. I suspect testosterone had had its way.
For me, the magic of The Asylum manifested from the tendency of dancers to move to the music how they wanted to; in accordance with what came to them naturally. There was something almost spiritual about it. Importantly, I do not recall anyone ever being explicitly called out for dancing how they did, or with whom they did, or for happily dancing by themselves, as I did.
The Asylum was, what is now called, a safe space, at a time when violence motivated by homo- and trans-phobia was still rampant and somewhat tolerated. Of course, some Asylum-goers went to try and hook up. Others, perhaps to show off how “Goth” they were. But I went primarily to dance, as I suspect most did. I differed in that, unlike most solo Asylum-goers who would eventually be accepted into the fold, I never gained this acceptance back then. For whatever, probably patho-psychological, reason about which I am still unaware, my matriculation did not occur though I attended the event pretty religiously for more than two years. One time some dude even asked me if I was a cop.
My sexuality is (boringly) cis. I believe myself to be unusual in that, as a straight man, I get the urge to immerse myself in music–to meld with the rhythm through movement. The great thing about The Asylum, then, was that I could do so without being judged, mocked or reprimanded. Perhaps most normal heterosexual males would view the event with hookup potential. I admit, there was one particular female Goth regular to whom I was so physically drawn, that I still remember her face and figure 25 years later. I never approached her though; my self-consciousness always won out over my courage, much to my regret. Perhaps a part of me did not want to risk tainting my sacred space with potential embarrassment I would undoubtedly feel if my interest in her was not reciprocated.
Alas, sometime in the the late aughts The Rage had closed. And over the course of the next decade or so, I believe The Asylum coalesced into, and dissolved back out of, existence in various venues throughout Sacramento a number of times. From what I can tell, the city’s Goth scene never really died out completely, but it did seem to be on life-support for a number of years (c. 2010-2020). Every so often I’d voyeuristically inspect the state of the Sacramento Goth scene via vicarious internet search, hoping for signs of recovery to its turn-of-the-Millennium glory that I remember so fondly.
Well, as of at least a few days ago, it has, I’m most pleased to report. On Saturday (1/3/2026) I attended Club Necromancy at the Press Club in Midtown. It was like going back in time for me. Costumed, stone-faced dancers–both my age and half my age–moon-danced and stompy-stomped to hauntingly similar Goth/Industrial grooves that I remember from nearly a quarter century ago. Of course, there was some new music that I did not recognize that night, but most I did. And all of it I enjoyed dancing to in my own overtly aggressive way.
My flailing elicited the seemingly favorable attention of a pair of young beauties, who themselves enticed the attention of another, very hopeful and persistent, potential male suitor who they graciously tolerated. Both ladies had traffic-stopping figures that their meticulously-assembled Goth attire well accentuated. One put on display her robust mammalian assets framed by a black bodice from below and delicate shoulders of alabaster skin from above. Several times I had to remind myself to keep my eyes on her face. The other showcased her slim legs that went on for days. They were laced up in (once-ironic but now, sadly vanilla) heftiest of knee-high combat boots. Her dark hair of tight curls made me wonder if Scarface-era Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio had rematerialized as a Goth chick. Surprisingly, the two actually seemed reasonably nice as well. I gathered this when each of them broke stone-face to smile back at me a few times over the course of the night.
Despite all the above nonsense, my biggest take-away from the event was that I felt the same way I recall feeling at The Asylum many years ago. That is, the same freedom to be who I am through movement and dance. Also, that I can continue to remain anonymous, without it being anybody’s issue.
And I intend to make the most of it while it lasts.
