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Written by Peter Simek on December 2, Originally appearing here. He deejayed at gay discos in San Francisco in the s and did lighting and sound at clubs for New Order, the Smiths and Moby in the s and s. Over the years he has come to know everyone—a sort of omnipresent, Forrest Gump—type character in the club world. In turn, everyone loves him. And so it was not out of the ordinary when, on an otherwise unremarkable morning in May , Jaggers received a phone call from Grace Jones. The disco diva was in Dallas. Along with Stevie Nicks, Jones had headlined the opening of a flashy new club called the Starck the night before, but the house DJ never showed and the club had no one to spin the second night. Now she was doing the owners a favor by ringing her friend in New York. Jaggers was the one DJ she knew who happened to be from Texas and who would fly halfway across the country if she snapped her fingers. Sure enough, Jaggers hung up the phone, packed his bags and headed for the airport. Sex was found on the balcony, drugs in the locker rooms. His friend dealt drugs, and Jaggers needed supplies for the road. The dealer produced a fist-size sandwich bag of a new designer drug called Adam. A teaspoon of the white powder—often dissolved in a cup of coffee—was enough to flood your brain with serotonin and dopamine. Physical sensations intensified and thoughts became crystal clear. Your jaw muscles seized up and your body rapidly dehydrated, but you felt more honest, confident, powerful, compassionate, joyful and sexy. You wanted to feel hands on your body, the breath of a stranger in your ear and the thumping of bass in your rib cage. Jaggers stuffed the bag into his luggage. He had no idea that the powder he carried, as inconspicuous as cornstarch, would spread like a contagion through Texas and turn frat boys into drug dealers, sorority girls into sex fiends and the rich sons of oil barons into dance-club freaks. Jaggers touched down in Dallas with his little bag of whatchamacallit three months ahead of the Republican National Convention where Ronald Reagan would accept the presidential nomination. When Jaggers arrived at the club, a thousand people were already lined up outside. The drug Adam would go on to be rebranded as ecstasy and banned by the Drug Enforcement Administration, but in it was entirely legal. But it was in Dallas, at the Starck, that the drug truly turned into a phenomenon. If you could tap into the core of the Starck and liquefy its mood into substance, ecstasy would flow out like sap. Gays mingled with straights on dance floors. Parents panicked over dilated pupils. Politicians demanded action. Those charges were later dismissed because police had misspelled the letter chemical name, but more arrests followed, including a massive raid on the Starck that left its floors littered with a collection of pills and powders. Thirty years later, the popularity of electronic dance music has catapulted ecstasy, now known as molly, into the mainstream once again. Between and , attendance at the five largest EDM festivals grew by 41 percent. The rise of EDM culture has in turn caused an ecstasy resurgence. A study showed that one in 10 people between the ages of 18 and 25 have tried some version of molly; with that, the DEA reports a fold increase in arrests, emergency-room visits and overdoses attributed to the drug between and The number of molly-related deaths has also risen. Most of what passes for ecstasy today is a cocktail of drugs that may include cocaine, heroin, amphetamines, Sudafed and God knows what else. In fact, for all its popularity, pure MDMA, the stuff that sparked a national hysteria 30 years ago, is almost impossible to find. I was shocked. Indeed, the Starck looked as if it had been plucked by a helicopter and flown in from France. Everything was impeccably appointed. There were push-button flushers and automatic sinks in the unisex bathrooms, alternating rows of black and white matchbooks on the bar and an endless supply of Romanian crystal champagne glasses. Edwige Belmore, a veteran of the London and Paris punk scenes, guarded the front door. Those who did walked through a pair of massive, half-moon-shaped black steel doors and entered a room of polished black terrazzo floors, shimmering gauze drapes and a grand staircase that led to a sunken dance floor. The room was lit like a movie set—no disco balls here—and the air was thick with cigarette smoke, sweat and cologne. There they found ecstasy—and plenty of it. For six months, Jaggers flew back and forth between New York and Dallas to play weekly gigs. Each time he brought more and more ecstasy with him, and as the drug spread, the notoriety of the Starck grew. A cacophony of shiny animal-print jackets, wide-brimmed hats, blonde pompadours, baggy pants, shoulder pads, purple skirts and oversize T-shirts lined up outside and waited for hours. A month after opening, the Starck overflowed with ecstasy. They knew their staff was selling ecstasy, but it was legal, so there was no reason to stop it. Stories seeped out of people having sex with strangers in the unisex bathrooms and coked-out Republicans running around the dance floor with drag queens. Management relaxed the door policy and began to stay open till eight A. People of all sorts—gay hairdressers, young Texas punks, rich debutantes, West Texas oil tycoons, Luxembourgian princesses and, eventually, Hollywood celebrities—flooded in. Rob Lowe was a Starck regular, as was the cast of Dallas. Oscar-nominated actor Thomas Haden Church was a college student at the time, working the concierge desk at an upscale Dallas hotel. When celebrities visited town, he would drag them to the club. Michael Clegg stood under the stars on a beach in Tulum, Mexico and slipped a pill into his mouth. His brain flooded with serotonin and dopamine, his body tingled and his mind cleared. As he looked out across the black-molasses mass of ocean heaving under the glittering night sky, Clegg knew his life had changed forever. It was How Clegg came to be standing on a Mexican beach, so moved by a drug that he would appoint himself its prophet, is a strange story of all-American self-realization and personal reinvention. Clegg grew up on the South Side of Chicago; at the age of 12 he entered a Catholic seminary, where he studied Spanish, theology, psychology and tennis. Former priests often find it difficult to readjust to society, but Clegg was likable and funny, with a breezy demeanor and a keen mind. He had a natural feel for people. Clegg also had a knack for spotting opportunity. After reading about a new technology, he built a security company that sold motion-sensitive alarms that automatically phoned police. To boost business, Clegg paid a night-watch captain in the Los Angeles Police Department to slip him burglary reports. Whenever someone was burglarized in L. When he ran out of money, he found ways to earn it back: a mercury mine in Nevada, imported microwaves from Japan, resorts in Texas and Mexico. By the mids he was teaching yoga and tennis at an upscale residential development in tony north Dallas. Clegg was splitting his time between a condo in Dallas and his yoga resort in Mexico when a friend insisted he try a new drug called Adam. He immediately understood what a powerful product he had on his hands. Health, business, relationships—none of it matters. Everything looks beautiful. The only source of the drug, however, was the Boston Group, an underground legion of medical chemists in Massachusetts who produced the drug primarily for therapeutic use. So Clegg decided to make his own. He did, however, make contact with someone who had access to the formula. Then he found a chemist. Armed with those, Clegg purchased a house in the remote mountains of northern California and had his brother-in-law learn how to make the compound. But there was a problem—it needed a name. What is the true experience of this? I was telling people it would let them see God. Then it came to me: It was pure ecstasy. He invited friends, psychiatrists, former yoga pupils and tennis students to his place, where he coached them through their first trips. There was something freeing about it. He stuffed it in suitcases and shoved it in his garage rafters. He even bought a Cessna jet he piloted solo, flying shipments of cash to depositories in Switzerland. Michael Clegg never went to the Starck. He never met the club kids who were passing out pills or the bartenders who openly sold his product over the counter. But by February , he knew things were getting hot. Ecstasy had taken over Dallas, and it was spreading. Saxon Hatchett was 14 in when he started going to clubs in Austin and first heard about ecstasy. They started doing ecstasy, which produced more than a high. It changed how he and his misfit friends understood their place in the world. One night someone handed Hatchett a pack of 20 ecstasy pills and told him to pass them out to his friends. He sold the pills for five bucks apiece and ended the night with two or three for himself—and a pocket full of cash. Student dealers popped up on the college campuses in Dallas and Austin. The drug spread from clubs to fraternities to college parties and eventually trickled into high schools. Concerned parents began calling the Dallas Police Department, asking about the new drug. Even though it was legal, Jordan cased it like any narcotic. His agents went undercover, looking for dealers and buying large enough quantities to work up the distribution chain. The Austin Chronicle had ads for mail-order doses on its back page. As far as Jordan could tell, the vast majority of ecstasy was coming from outside Texas, from a lab somewhere in California. Seven months later, in May , Texas senator Lloyd Bentsen asked the acting administrator of the DEA for an emergency ban on ecstasy. He recognized a production vacuum and decided to set up his own ecstasy lab. He recruited an organic-chemistry graduate student from the University of Texas and over the next four years built one of the largest ecstasy production operations in the state. At its height, he moved 50, pills a month. Hatchett bought a new car, skied in Aspen, lived in a downtown condo and hung out with members of New Order, who liked to spend downtime on Lake Travis outside Austin. But finding the ingredients to manufacture MDMA had become increasingly difficult. By Hatchett wanted out of the business. Then a cash drop with some cocaine dealers in Houston went wrong. It was supposed to be simple: , pills for half a million in cash. Hatchett wanted to brush it off. His two partners, however, insisted they get their money back. In April Hatchett was arrested and served seven years in jail. He purchased an old pharmaceutical company in Brazil and retrofitted it into a giant lab. To shore up capacity, he secured 15 gallon drums of safrole oil. From Brazil, he continued to produce and export to the European market. There he bought some land on the top of a mountain and settled down, well outside the grasp of the DEA. By the winter of the drug had made its way to Ibiza, where British DJs discovered it and brought it back to London. The drug followed the youth-culture trajectory, becoming synonymous with the emergence of acid house, the Madchester dance scene and warehouse rave parties on the outskirts of London. In the s raves were eventually reimported, along with ecstasy, to New York, where it became the drug that defined a generation of club kids. Now a knockoff called molly is attempting to do the same. A few people can still get their hands on the same kind of legal MDMA that took the country by storm 30 years ago, thanks to Rick Doblin, an advocate for the psychedelic wonder drug. Esalen was the birthplace of the New Age movement and a coastal highway for true believers of the s psychedelic revolution. It was there that he heard about a new drug called Adam that had piqued the interest of psychotherapists at the institute. Adam was all the buzz, but Doblin was unimpressed. It made his mind feel crisp and clear. It also offered a vision of what he should do with the rest of his life. He formed a nonprofit, the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies, that conducted research intended to prepare for the inevitable illegalization of the drug. In the summer of , Doblin conducted his first clinical trials of MDMA, keeping the results secret while quietly building a network of advocates. The American legal system allows nonprofit organizations to exist, and you can use them to fight the government. In the process Doblin realized that his passion lay not in the psychology behind the MDMA experience but in the fight to change the legal structure around drug prohibition in the United States. In , the FDA approved the first clinical trials of the drug. Today, MAPS oversees much of the research, which involves Iraq War veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder and people suffering from clinical depression. A follow-up study in showed that these benefits were sustained on average for 45 months. I ask Doblin if there is a place where fringe believers in MDMA therapy are continuing their work in secret, quietly and illegally. Doblin chooses his words carefully. Hatchett, like Hook, is now sober. As far as Hatchett is concerned, there is no more MDMA—at least not the pure stuff he made back in the s. The Starck closed its doors in , killed not by the outlawing of ecstasy but by the natural entropy of cool that eventually claims all hot spots. The shell of the space still stands underneath that highway overpass, mostly vacant but occasionally used for nostalgic parties at which former Starck regulars seek to recapture the feeling, if only for one night. As they had with Hatchett, the feds caught up with Michael Clegg. In , after more than a decade running what was perhaps the largest ecstasy-production company in the world, Clegg was arrested at an airport in Palo Alto, California. Federal agents slipped a tracking device onto his plane before he left Costa Rica, and when he landed to refuel on his way to Vancouver, they were waiting for him. His plant in Brazil, his cash in Switzerland and his barrels of safrole oil were all seized by the DEA. After a complicated legal battle, Clegg managed to save his resorts and reduce his sentence to four years in a federal penitentiary. I find Clegg at his home in northern Georgia, overlooking a wooded ravine in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. We sit in overstuffed leather chairs, drinking espresso from ceramic cups and listening to a New Age music station on DirecTV. Clegg says that jail—not ecstasy—was the best thing that ever happened to him. It prompted an authentic epiphany. When he left prison, he was no longer Michael Clegg, ecstasy kingpin, but Satyam Nadeen, an enlightened spiritual teacher on the path to spiritual awakening. He hands me a copy of his book, From Onions to Pearls, which boasts a Deepak Chopra endorsement on the cover. After years of drugs, he explains, he has found a spiritual happiness that far exceeds anything any drug produced. After lunch on the porch of his yoga resort up the road, Clegg takes me back to his house, where he produces a pyramid-shaped crystal tied to a string. He waves it over a piece of paper printed with black numerals. When the crystal comes to a halt, he tells me encouragingly that my consciousness level—the extent to which my inner being is tied into the all-infinite being of the universe—is above average. He tells a story about a woman in Seattle who, right before ecstasy became illegal, purchased 10, pills and buried them in her yard. We are a c 3 non-profit research and educational organization developing medical, legal, and cultural contexts for people to benefit from the careful uses of psychedelics and marijuana. 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