A Journey Through Psytrance

Or, How I Accidentally Became a Spiritually-Enlightened Reveler

Picture this: You're floating in opaque, emerald-colored waters. No, this isn’t some hallucination; you're in Northern Spain. The deep beats of the “Own Spirit” techno festival pulse through your chest, almost as if the sound is vibrating in the water. You glide forward, nose submerged, eyes just above the waterline when suddenly, a dark, erect nipple floats by. Oh yes, this is going to be a trip.

This weekend, I found myself at the “Own Spirit” festival—my second time, though I still felt like a tourist. The festival takes place near the Pyrenees, but my partner Aymeric and I lovingly refer to the site as “Utah.” Last year, fresh off an actual trip to Utah, I couldn’t shut up about how much these mountains reminded me of it. The festival is set on the shores of a spectacular, mountain-ringed lake with aquamarine waters. There’s no pavement, just reddish dirt packed underfoot, and hay bales serving as multi-purpose furniture, architecture, and I assume, makeshift beds for some.

The festival itself is a massive campground and parking lot, spread out from the stages and village areas, about a mile square. The stages are elaborate, with video mapping, psychedelic visuals, and kaleidoscopic faces and forms. The tents themselves are like wind sails with organic patterns. The main tent is spectacular, blending those patterns with a kind of archaic architectural trompe l'oeil—the poles are decorated as pillars, making it both majestic and trippy at once. The alternative stage has pod screens in a geometric, beehive structure that holds the DJs and receives the projections. The aesthetic is like trippy, fluorescent sci-fi space magic, deeply inspired by Alex Grey. At night, it’s all lit up and surreal, with lasers and projections crisscrossing the mountains in the distance, along with a spectacular summer lightning storm this year.

There’s also a village with shops and restaurants where you can pick up falafel, paella, or fluorescent pink short shorts. There’s a place for kids to play, with wooden toys and waterworks, plus a mellow family tent. The circus area features live music and people doing handstands (all day, go there anytime—it’s just handstands galore). This is the starting point for many performances—beautifully costumed but often a little “one trick pony” to this performance snob who’s always craving weird, intricate exploration.

I wasn’t kidding about the shorts

And, let's not forget the facilities. Imagine walking up to a wooden outhouse with a prime view of the lake, the wind blowing the flimsy curtain wide open, leaving you fully exposed to half the festival. But here’s the thing—it didn’t even matter. When everyone is pooping in plain sight, somehow it becomes the least weird thing. You reach a point where you just accept it: “This is my life now. I poop with a view and the wind in my… everything.”

Now, let’s talk psytrance. It’s a genre of electronic music designed to—how do I put this—derail every circuit in your brain. Think of it as the kind of music that makes you feel the vibrations in your ribs, and possibly the molecules in your spine, if you're on the right substances. And, let’s be honest, drugs are very much part of the experience. Not that I indulged—I carried a microdose of something in my pocket the entire time, but the idea of launching into a psychedelic free-fall? I chickened out. I’m already bombarded by my senses, so I tend to keep my feet on the ground and avoid letting my imagination run rampant—though it tries.

Psytrance is tricky. It’s fast, relentless, and complex—a sonic battering ram. Normally, I can dance for a couple of hours max, but to survive four days of this, I needed a slower, steadier approach. The seasoned revelers had cracked a secret code—moving with a dedication to micro-beats hidden deep in the chaos. No synchronized movement, no group rhythm—everyone danced to their own private god.

And the people! Psytrance-goers are a fascinating mix. Most were Spanish (you could hear the hoarse voices of Spanish women yelling all night), with gaggles of friendly, celebratory Israelis. The French were next in line, likely escaping their over-policed festivals, and a scattering of Europeans rounded out the crowd, with the occasional British accent. I met one other American, and I’m fairly certain we were the only ones there.

These photos come from the festival's website, only the last picture is mine.

Now, about the “healing” zone—don’t get me started on the New Age scene. I am, shall we say, allergic to anything involving too much astrological jargon or shallow spiritualism. Aymeric and I almost attended a tantric sexual connection workshop but were extremely relieved to miss it when we saw couples gazing deeply into each other’s eyes, chanting “I see the divine in you” in Spanish. However, the yoga and dance workshops? Surprisingly good. The “Namastes” even felt sincere.

I have to say, I was particularly impressed by one area of the festival: the tent and booth for "Psycare." It’s a space dedicated to people who might be struggling—whether they’re having a bad trip or just randomly having a bad time. What really caught my attention is that they also offer drug testing, making sure whatever substances someone is planning to take are safe. This brand of pragmatic care struck me as honest, acknowledging what’s happening without judgment and keeping the festival healthier and safer for everyone.

Now, I’d like to pause and address the mullets. Yes, mullets. They’re a thing. A big thing. Almost every guy had one—some long, some curly, some styled into a punk mohawk. Every toddler, seriously, had one. At first, I thought I was hallucinating—did I accidentally take that microdose? But no, mullets were everywhere. I even gave Aymeric one before we left for Spain. When in Rome, right?

Many of the girls have extremely short bangs and are dressed like some sexy alien girl who came to Earth to kick ass… vaguely The Fifth Element, kind of punk but tribal. Everything is low-key flamboyant, but rarely excessive. You see a guy dancing shirtless wearing a huge Native American headdress. One woman wore a spectacular geometric bodysuit, totally retro 60s. There are lots of Indian motifs and flowing silk scarves, leather saddlebag vests, lots of guys with tails—and some surprisingly discreet loin cloths.

There were also these groups I assumed were local, but Aymeric thought they had a more Eastern European vibe. They brought their camping chairs to the dance floor—a trio of Jason Momoa look-alikes, super beefcakes with neck muscles and all, tattooed and terrifying. Their girlfriends looked like they stepped off a reality TV show, with heavily made-up botoxed lips and transparent roped dresses over their push-up bikinis.

Hey, you can see that Momoa group if you zoom in!

After the festival, someone in the Facebook group complained about Saturday night's vibe (I, for one, had a great time, dancing like crazy, hopped up on Red Bull and Saint Miquel). I was loose enough to pass between a couple, both dressed as Pikachu in head-to-toe pajamas, and I stopped just between them, caressing both their fur—one on the left, one on the right. But apparently, at the big stage (we were at the slightly alternative stage, meaning the sound wasn’t quite so frantic and even had some funk and hip-hop notes, melodies even…), some people said there was a feral, coke-fueled vibe. They blamed the influx of locals, bringing a more frenetic, less benevolent energy, calling it a “football fan cocaine catastrophe, not a hippie festival.” One person responded, saying this place is “how commercial people turn into hippies,” citing that we were all once “commercial people” and it’s a place to be open for everyone. Maybe it was the Jason Momoa group—maybe the Facebook group misunderstood, thinking that it was just a coked-up frenzy when it was really an initiation into their transformation?

And that’s the truth of it. The festival is transformative—welcoming everyone. It’s a chance to escape the rigid constraints of society, to shed the snarky judgments and rules that box us in. For a few days, something real and unfettering happens here.

Why do I go to these things when they’re clearly not my thing? Simple: it’s Aymeric’s thing. This is where he comes to let loose, to feel alive. Ever since his days as a young professional, wearing a suit and tie in a 9-to-5 architecture job, this is what recharged him—festivals like this. I come because he’s generous, and I love seeing what it does for him. I’m here as much for the joy it brings him as for the happiness I feel watching him so ecstatic. This year, I didn’t just come along—I was the one who suggested it! He goes for the music; I go for the freedom.

Let’s get back to the music. After all, that is the center of all this madness. Most kinds of music need some kind of education to even hear properly. My friend “G”, a brilliant musician, once took me on a journey through a familiar Beach Boys song. Before, it had been flat to me—just one texture. But he helped me take it apart, piece by piece, so I could hear each instrument individually. It was like entering a room where all the elements suddenly stood out—the song gained depth, and I could hear it in an entirely new way. Psytrance is similar—you need to research it, and that research has to be sensual, involving all your senses. You have to immerse yourself in it fully, to even find the beat you can dance to.

The music is so thick and layered that it first sounded like absolute garbage to me, just noise. There’s something suffocating about it—no air, no melody. And at this festival, the 24 hours of music, from morning to morning, just get heavier, more intense, and more frenetic as the day moves on.

And let me tell you, it never stops. The music literally doesn’t stop, and the festival is small, so no matter where you go—whether you're sleeping, eating, or hiding from the blistering sun—you’re never out of range of that pulsing beat. I couldn’t rely on my usual, wild ways of dancing. I had to leave that behind and find something totally different, something slower, deeper. And it wasn’t about looking to others for cues. I had to feel it out within my own bones, find a rhythm that belonged to me alone.

The festival vibe was surprisingly warm and welcoming. Random strangers came up asking for hugs (bare-chested, sweaty hugs, mind you), and people openly offered you mushrooms like they were sharing candy on Halloween. There’s something disarming about it all. Nobody cared about your sweaty state or whether you had shaved legs or wore feathers. We were all just people, dirty and happy, reveling in the heat and the intensity of the psytrance assault on our senses.

All in all, this festival is a wild, sweaty, psychedelic lovefest where nobody cares how “together” you are. It’s about being fully yourself, letting go, and hugging a stranger without judgment or weirdness.

And hey, if all else fails, at least you can say you pooped with the best view in Spain.

Oh look, there we are, looking so happy! (He doesn’t have the mullet because this was last year).