I had no idea what I was getting into. But, when Daryl invited me to Extermination Music Night, I decided to get into it. I had been invited to these underground parties before but had never bothered attending one.

I never go anywhere easily.

I tried to make Daryl feel indebted to me and leverage him into attending “Hotties for Humanity.” He couldn’t figure out why I –who hates hotties as much as humanity– would want to go to that. More to the point, he couldn’t figure out why he should go to that. So neither of us did.

But Extermination Music Night was still on.

These are a series of concerts/performances/art shows that take place in Toronto’s dark corners. Organized by internet, they happen outside the law in “The Places You’re Not Supposed To Be” as determined by royal decree of The Field Marshal of Public Health. They’re parties. In abandoned spaces.

This was the eighth iteration of the phenomena and it was to take place in the The Abandoned Nunnery Car Factory. Or something like that. I’m not sure what the place is called though I walk past it every day on my way to work. Honesty I had never even noticed it before.

Here’s a picture I snapped. It’s the tall building.

Late the night before this event, I saw an oddly attired fellow hovering around outside the place with a flashlight and wondered what he was about. Deciding that he was merely looking for a severed body part or hunting the chocolate creeper, I continued merrily upon my way. But I now suppose he had something to do with the festivities. Or that he found the finger he had misplaced.

He caught my attention because one never sees any other than factory workers on this street at night and only rarely during the day. This why I was also surprised at the manner in which the entry to the building was organized. It seemed a bit overdone.

The group congregated in a residential street. After paying the five dollar, voluntary cover charge, we were ushered in silence through a hole in a fence, which I banged my head on, around the perimeter of a dark, vacant lot and through another hole, which I also banged my head on, and onto Sterling Avenue.

This was, to say the least, a bizarre approach.

There is very little foot traffic on this industrial road and only one place where people actually live. To have four groups of fifty people suddenly appearing out of the lot seemed more likely to attract notice than to avoid it. When we came out on Sterling, I looked at Daryl and laughed. All of that? For this?

At the time I figured it was a psyops. It was just there to contribute to the feeling of adventure and to establish silence amongst the party goers. That sort of nonsense can serve to immediately build trust and deference to authority. But perhaps I was mistaken about the intentions.

As later events proved, I was correct about the danger.

With Daryl and forty eight strangers, I entered the dark factory through the fire escape and trudged up eight flights of candle-lit, concrete stairs to the top floor. Once there, we were informed that we were early and told to wander around the other floors. This we did in silence.

The factory was dark, only being lit from outside and by the flashlights we had been told to bring. Camera flashes continually went off and must have been visible from the street. Daryl had brought one of his fancy cameras and it had an eight second exposure to better capture the light.

We continued to wander about, looking out windows and talking in hushed voices, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. I lit my pipe to help cover some of the more noxious aromas of an abandoned factory and settled in by a window with Daryl.

We enjoyed the view.

But Daryl, who is a remarkably observant fellow, noticed a police car where our group had originally gathered. He surmised that they were onto us. I figured he was correct. If we needed any further confirmation, we got it when a friend of mine arrived. After some quick greetings we pointed out the cruiser.

He pulled a police scanner from his bag.

Switching though the different channels, listening to robot voices in the dark, he found the correct one. The cops had just about figured the whole thing out. But not quite. It was time for a decision.

Daryl wanted to go, I did not. The way I see it, if you’re going to be up for the good times you should be down for the bad. If that means getting arrested, so be it. I doubted they would arrest anyone anyway. That’s a lot of paperwork and the building was full of white kids. If I had of been in a building full of black people, I would have been running down the stairs before the cops opened fire.

Besides, we’re press or something.

But Daryl, I suppose, has good sense. Experience has taught me to listen to him not only when it’s against my better judgment but especially then. My better judgment is often worse than his worst judgment. I shook my other friend’s hand, wished him a pleasant evening and followed Daryl.

Briskly, we moved down the stairs and out the building. Police and security forces were already gathered across the street. The party hadn’t even started and already the apparatus of the state was mobilized against it. You really can’t get outside the law as long as the law exists. You can play make believe but men with guns are out there. Waiting. And they hate fun.

I spent the walk home upbraiding Daryl for having common sense. It’s a vulgar quality and not one I approve of. It causes nothing but boredom. But I suppose someone around me needs to have it. Might as well be him. At least I know that, with as much sense as he has, he still doesn’t wish to see me locked up.

All in all, my night out had lasted an hour. Daryl on the other hand, returned to watch the arrests.

He tells me that the police, who had no dogs, told everyone, via megaphone, that they were about to release the dogs. The hip, young and white left the building with their hands in the air. They sat on the grass to listen to uniformed authorities deliver lectures on art and good taste. I’m sure it was almost Socratic and that they gave these kids a good scolding that none will forget.

And I’m happy Daryl’s good sense spared me that. Frankly, some things are beyond endurance.

all pics except the daylight one by Daryl Banks