Introducing BART THE RAVER's EVIL TWIN - Episode 15 - Ushuaïa – The Jury Is Out… Is It Any Good?

May 16

3 min read

Alright, let’s get this out the way up front: I don’t usually get my hopes up when someone in Dubai tells me there’s a “proper rave” happening. More often than not, it’s some influencer slumped over a bottle of Ciroc, a few sparklers burning the retinas off your face, and a DJ who peaked with Tiësto’s remix of Adagio for Strings. But this was Zamna at Ushuaïa Dubai, and even I, the cynical, jaded, hungover Evil Twin of Bart The Raver, thought, maybe, just maybe… it won’t be sh*t.

Spoiler alert: It wasn’t. But not without its crimes against audio and fashion.

First Impressions: No Rage Yet

Turned up late. Not fashionably late, just late-late. But that worked in my favour, walked straight in, no queue, no drama, even the toilets were behaving. Bar? Decent. Prices? Peak Dubai but not offensively so. So far, so uncharacteristically smooth.

Then I walked into the venue.

And wow - credit where it's due - it’s bloody massive. Visuals? Immaculate. Lasers doing the absolute most. If you’d told me I was at a Carl Cox closing party in Ibiza, I’d probably have believed you, until someone started filming a TikTok dance next to me. Reality check, still in Dubai.

DJ Amémé: Afro House & Audible Violence

When I rocked up, Amémé was mid-set. Not my genre - Afro house makes me want to check if my headphones are broken - but I’ll say this, the man had energy. Read the crowd like a pro. He vibed, they vibed, I vibed… and then my ears bled.

No, seriously. The sound system, or rather the tragic excuse for one, was pumping out ear-piercing highs like someone smuggled a Banshee into the booth. No idea who let that pass the soundcheck. I mentioned it to another guy nearby and got the ever-reassuring response of: “yeah mate, it sounds like sh*t.” Cheers.

That being said, Amémé pulled it back toward the end of his set. Swerved into more housey territory and actually dropped some solid grooves. His energy was infectious, and I found myself warming to him in spite of my tinnitus. Credit where it’s due: Good DJ. Bad audio guy. Fire him immediately.

The Crowd: Beautiful Chaos

Atmosphere? Electric. Drunkenness levels? Concerning.

At one point I saw a bloke physically carrying his girlfriend out over his shoulder like a fireman. Another guy looked like he was auditioning for a ‘Don’t Do Drugs’ PSA. And it was only Friday. No one has jobs anymore?

Now, I parked myself under the VIP balcony, because if you’re not pretending to be in GA while judging VIPs, are you even raving? Above me: Lebanese lads, drinks swinging, clearly up for it. I felt a disturbance in the force and moved away. Seconds later, a random solo raver got absolutely drenched by a falling drink.

Did he deserve it? No. Was he being weird? A little. Did anyone care? Absolutely not.

Side note: the fashion? Backstreet Boys revival tour. Everyone in vests. So many vests. Was this a Pride afterparty no one told me about? Nothing wrong with that, obviously - shoutout to the LGBTQ fam - but lads, not everyone can pull off a mesh top and bleached tips. And by "not everyone", I mean you.

Ben Böhmer: Precision Rave Surgeon

Right, onto the reason I stayed up past midnight without complaining - Ben f*cking Böhmer.

He started mellow. Bit too mellow. 1AM and we’re still floating in synth soup. But we waited. Patiently. Because we knew. And then… boom.

He lit a cigarette, sipped his beer, and proceeded to level the venue. Whoever was responsible for the previous sound disaster had clearly gone home, because his live rig sounded pristine. It wasn’t just better, it was like someone swapped out the speakers for a live orchestra.

Then it happened: he dropped “Strangers.”

I’m not saying I cried, but if there were tears, they were euphoric. It was a full on live edit too - different drums, huge breakdown, full goosebumps. He wasn’t just pressing play on Spotify. Then directly after that came Callisto, that Bodzin monster, and the place went feral. Actual limbs. Everywhere.

The rest of the set? Böhmer masterclass. A few unreleased bits, a sprinkle of breakbeat, and the perfect goodbye with his epic rendition of Monolinks “Father Ocean.” 90 minutes on the dot. German efficiency. Not a second wasted.

The Come Down

He handed over to Agents of Cheese (or whatever they’re called) and, like clockwork, half the venue ghosted. Me included. The night peaked, and we all knew it. No need to drag it out.