Before we dive, once again, into the wonderful world of rock ‘n’ roll, let me be yet another… Before we dive, once again, into the wonderful world of rock ‘n’ roll, let me be yet another upperclassman to say, “Freshmen, welcome to Pitt.” It was an absolute pleasure to watch you walk around South Oakland in groups numbering in the thousands this past weekend searching for a party. I hope you all found one and that the flat, keg beer that overflowed from your red, plastic cups tasted as sweet as nectar.

Alright, that said, welcome back to my column. Here we shall discuss, in great length, anything and everything that is rock ‘n’ roll. Please feel free to agree or disagree with anything and everything that I write herein, as you may send me your feelings in an e-mail whenever you choose to do so.

As my first column of the year, I think it fitting to talk a bit about my summer and how it related to rock. I spent most of my summer working at a summer camp for young Jewish kids in the decidedly un-rock ‘n’ roll town of Stroudsburg, Pa., a tiny hamlet nestled in the Pocono Mountains where the best thing to do at night is hang out at the local truck stop and buy overpriced beef jerky.

Most directly, though, I saw God in the form of the Decemberists performing with a full orchestra in Philadelphia, reveled in the new Ryan Adams album and, more than once, amazed campers by playing them death metal and explaining that, yes, that really is a guy’s voice.

Still, possibly the most important rock discovery I made this summer was this: The music we party to in American blows. Sorry, Lil Jon. In my mind, the crown of crunkhood is yours no longer.

Allow me to explain. As is the case every summer, much of the staff was not only from out-of-state, but out-of-country. This season, many of the counselors were British or Israeli, with one dude named Elvin coming all the way from Azerbaijan working in the kitchen; he spoke less than a dozen words of English but was always smiling (Me: “Hey, Elvin. What’s for dinner tonight?” Elvin: “(Smile and nod)”).

The Israelis were always up for teaching the campers a new song, dance or Hebrew phrase that they couldn’t pronounce, and the English just loved to rave, often playing their clubbing music both in the bunks and at shower time.

Now by no means am I a raver – I don’t wear oversized cargo pants, nor do I particularly like putting little glow-sticks in my mouth. At the same time, there is something about the fast, pulsating beats, mind-bending synthesizers and the explosive, up-down intensity featured in much of European and Israeli dance/trance music that just gets me moving more than, say, Young Jeezy or Akon ever could.

This became most clear to me on the last night of camp. After the little rascals had been picked up by their parents, the staff had one last night to enjoy each other’s company before we were all transported back to the real world. A few counselors decided to plan a ‘rave’ in the rec hall for that night – devoid of any American party music but with a playlist full of dance gems from across the pond. It was after only a half hour of flailing around and dancing like a madman that I discovered an interesting issue: All the Americans had left the dance floor, leaving only my girlfriend and I (both American) and a canoe-load of British and Israelis twirling endlessly.

So why is it that Europeans are so open to more free-flowing dance music while, in general, Americans stick to safe, often tired, party hip-hop? My theory is this, and beware the gross generalizations: Americans view dancing as more of a social activity, often attempting to get-to-know-ya-grind up on each other, keeping us from really moving without bounds or limits. Europeans, however, see dancing as a true relief – a purging of the stress from the week, in effect breaking free of the cage of work or school.

Because of this, European trance is more focused on getting you to bust a move, while American party music just sticks with a good sing-a-long hook.

Now this is not true for all Americans or Europeans, of course, but culturally, it is. Just look at the club scenes in both locales. Arguably the best dance clubs and rave parties are found outside of America, in these more exotic locations like London, Tel Aviv and the Netherlands.

And as the faux-rave wrapped up on that last night of camp, I saw Gillian, the camp’s Scottish nanny, twisting and bopping away, say to me, “Ah! This feels just like home! Just minus the intoxication!”

So, Pitt folks, if you’re already putting together your party playlist for this weekend, and I know you are, check out some names like Infected Mushroom (Israel), Paul Oakenfold (England) or anything starting with DJ and ending with a non-English sounding name. All the Americans at your party might leave to go to the party next door playing Rihanna and the Ying Yang Twins, but at least you’ll know you tried.