Barfly - Last night dubstep molly saved my life

There’s a new girl in town. Her name is Molly, and she loves dubstep. Molly is apparently a more pure form of ecstasy. And dubstep, a derivative of techno, is a much more difficult animal to understand.

It’s the early hours of Saturday morning in a rough and tattered corner somewhere near the West End. A raised MARTA rail serves as the skyline and sketchy kids are making their way through dark alleys to the reverberating wobble bouncing off warehouse walls.

With a hint of a less shiny late-’80s Los Angeles underground, people are getting pat down — not for drugs or weapons, but for glow sticks. This ain’t that kind of party. “We’re grown-ups, not candy ravers” says the promoter, explaining the no-glow-stick policy.

Inside the covert party, smoke and aggressive beats billow out from an ignoble den of tattoos and backpacks. Through the Marlboro fog, a crowded room unfolds with two ceiling fans spinning their hearts out as furiously as the DJs on the stage.

The acquired taste that is dubstep is hard to define. With roots in raggamuffin reggae and two-step garage, it fuses techno with a viciously hostile bass. A young lady enlightens a novice: “It kinda goes ‘didididididi WHOOMP WHOOMP!’ for like six hours. Most people think it’s annoying.”

“Or sometimes it will go, ‘p-p-p-pew WOBBLE WOBBLE!’” she adds in brilliant layman’s.

Through the crowd and into an unfinished back room with spackled drywall and plywood floors, 30 or so party people are huffing nitrous out of balloons of assorted colors. It’s like a bizarre birthday party in Happy Meal Land — grown kids with bouncy Cookie Monster eyes and the Hamburglar on the 1s and 2s going “wobble wobble.”

A couple of cute 19-year-olds from Marietta are overheard chit-chatting away: “Life is a gift and we learn from it.” The one wearing knitted mittens gets giddy with existentialism. “What if it is true? Why waste our life on something? What if there is a heaven?”

Back out by the bar, it’s nearing the witching hour as things grow stranger. A florescent pint-sized shortie who looks like she could be American Apparel CEO Dov Charney’s cherry-bombed play toy is standing on a step yelling random shit. “I’ve been 21 for two weeks ... and some girl in the bathroom asked me to lick her lady parts!”

Swaying and slurring, she then grabs a PBR long neck and begins making out with it until she eventually rounds third base and deep-throats the lucky bottle.

There are girls in pink tutus and black panties, hippies in sports bras and floor-length skirts, a pair of neon-stripped overalls from the Kimmy Gibbler collection, and a dude covered in smuggled glow sticks that looks like he just got off work from the Lady Foot Locker in outer space. It’s ironic how designer drugs can create such tragic fashion.

But taking the best-dressed superlative for the evening is the dude on the dance floor with a tie-dyed shirt and ponytail wearing a Yoshi backpack with the Japanese dinosaur sporting his own little un-confiscated glow sticks.

Molly and her friends have partied till the morning sun is near. And whether dubstep, brostep, thug step, or dumbstep rattles your skull with aggravation or fills your heart with the meaning of life, one things for certain: It makes for some championship-caliber people watching.