Brute ontruiming rave in Utah

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12-Hour Party People

Utah County enforced its permit, even if time was on the side of dance party promoters, by Jamie Gadette;


Trudy Childs recalls rubbing her wrists and wincing in agony. No stranger to pain, the 52-year-old rheumatoid arthritis sufferer could barely tolerate the zip tags Utah County Sheriff’s deputies used to keep her in line. An unsympathetic officer congratulated Childs on an “Emmy-winning performance,” laughing as his colleagues—close to 90 law-enforcement officials, including Provo City police and a Utah Department of Corrections SWAT squad—cleared out hundreds of people attending Versus II, an electronic music event hosted on her private property Aug. 20. “I don’t know why you think this is so damn funny,” Childs told the officer, frustrated by his mocking grin.

Meanwhile, officers dressed in camouflage and helmets ushered revelers off Childs’ property. Armed with semiautomatic rifles, attack dogs and, allegedly, tear gas, few people questioned their authority. The next day, online forums and various blogs decried the “illegal rave” bust as a blatant violation of basic civil rights.

Authorities said that the all-night dance party attracted drug use, theft, sexual assault and underage drinking. They later said Versus II promoters didn’t have the proper permits to host a mass gathering of more than 250 people, “reasonably expected to exceed 12 hours.”

The permit in question now fuels pending legal action against Utah County. Brian M. Barnard, attorney for Childs and the concert promoters, High Point Productions and Uprok Records, said he’ll file a civil-rights suit in federal court. While Barnard has not yet filed a formal complaint, he’s confident the law is on his client’s side. Brandon Fullmer, manager of Uprok and part-promoter of Versus II, knew of the county ordinance but believed he didn’t need one since his party wouldn’t exceed 12 hours.

“I don’t think there’s any question that the sheriff misapplied the ordinance and acted improperly,” Barnard said, adding that the raid was discriminatory and an act of censorship. “If individuals break the law, punish them. But don’t assume that everyone who goes to a rap, hip-hop, or electronic music concert is a criminal.” The Sheriff’s Office did not return phone calls.

Utah County’s mass-gathering permit, and others like it, has roots dating back to perhaps the most famous mass gathering of all: Woodstock. Back then, officials nationwide wanted to prevent similar events in their own back yards. They feared a generation whose music and politics scoffed at authority.

“Fast forward to 2005 and things haven’t changed,” Barnard said. The irony becomes greater considering that the dancing-equals-eternal-damnation film, Footloose, was shot in Utah.

It’s not as if promoters wanted to rebel. In fact, they did all they could to comply with the law. Fullmer started planning the concert in April. He had thrown previous events as manager for a now-defunct record shop and didn’t foresee any trouble acquiring the necessary permits.

Fullmer, who scheduled the event for a 9.5-hour period, from 9 p.m. to 6:30 a.m., secured a permit through the Utah County Health Department (UCHD). He took out a $1 million insurance policy, hired security guards, rented portable toilets, obtained a solid-waste permit and met a number of other requirements before booking out-of-state and local DJs. Fullmer selected the Childs’ property as venue of choice for its sloping hills and scenic, redrock backdrop. He knew the family had a somewhat antagonistic relationship with Utah County law enforcement—Yancy and Rory Childs started throwing concerts in 2003, angering police with their rock and reggae noise—but figured since he’d met all the health permit’s requirements, there was no cause for concern. “I knew everything was good to go,” he said.

So did Trudy’s son, Rory Childs. The 23-year-old returned missionary, who planned to throw an Aug. 13 concert honoring a recently deceased friend, was determined to avoid a repeat of July 16, when local law-enforcement officials instigated a raid similar to the Aug. 20 bust, breaking up—but not arresting and/or ticketing—a large, heavy-metal audience. He researched all requirements, obtained a fire-safety permit, picked up a copy of the lengthy public-assemblies ordinance and says he showed it to UCHD officials who said it wasn’t necessary since his event would last less than 12 hours. Not taking any chances, Rory contacted Utah County Attorney Kay Bryson who gave him the runaround, with no straight answers and recommending he contact another attorney. Calls to Bryson’s office were not returned.

While the tribute concert went off without a hitch, its success gave Fullmer and High Point Productions a false sense of security. Like Rory, they did not “anticipate” their mass gathering to run beyond dawn.

“The sheriff, who apparently has a crystal ball allowing him to see into the future, said the concert would last more than 12 hours,” Barnard said. “But when the storm troopers came to visit, it was only two or three hours into the program.”

Some might suggest Fullmer should have secured the permit as a precaution so his bases would be covered. However, the ordinance is rife with arduous and costly requirements. For example, for large assemblies, promoters must hire a licensed physician for every 1,000 people on hand. An emergency medical staff is not enough. Besides, “The law doesn’t work with ‘should have known,’” Barnard said, adding that an individual cannot be held accountable for not predicting potential illegalities.

Childs understands her family can’t use their property however they please. She knows that the U.S. Supreme Court has upheld zoning restrictions and reasonable licensing of events such as the Aug. 20 ill-fated concert. She’s also learned, however, that sometimes bureaucratic measures complicate her constitutional rights. Twenty years ago, her family owned 9,500 acres of land. That number has since dwindled to 2,200.

In 1990, the Childs waged a five-year battle to protect a parcel of their land the Bureau of Reclamation wanted for constructing a pipeline. Or was it to save an endangered flower? The government’s story kept changing. Eventually, the Bureau won and her family waved goodbye to another chunk of property. She worries that her family will lose control of additional land—that is, if Utah County has anything to do about it.

Meanwhile, her sons Rory and Yancy still plan on turning part of their property into a music venue similar to Red Butte Gardens. Their venture might fill an overlooked niche in Utah County, offering a place for residents to enjoy a wide range of concerts—and, hopefully, never face the barrel of a gun.