“San Francisco, how the fuck we feeling, baby?” John Summit shouted from his elevated, 360-degree DJ setup at the Cow Palace. It was three minutes until midnight on a Friday. Just before the bass drop, a dozen jets of flame shot up all around him, sending the 12,000 fans in the audience into near-ecstasy. The rush of heat on my eyeballs matched the bass thuds vibrating my sternum. Hundreds of phones were held aloft to record the moment. It was, in the words of the awestruck guy behind me, dope as hell.