A story from the desert

7am, Las Vegas, 26 May 1999

I’m met at my hotel by Rex, a cotton farmer from Kansas, and Chuck, a pryotechnician from Salt-Lake city. Using the map which was faxed to us yesterday, we follow the directions out of Las Vegas. It reads, “take the freeway heading north for 45 miles. Exit at junction 12… then just follow the flames!” 

We’re stopped some distance from the gathering and I’m handed a piece of paper headed ‘Assumption of the Risk, (AKA don’t come crying to us). Warning! Desert Blast is dangerous.’  It then goes on to read: ‘There are inherent risks associated with attending this event. These include, but are not limited to: death, dismemberment, blindness or other severe injury, etc.’ This was the indemnity form I had to sign before I was allowed any further.

Desert Blast was started in 1986 by Bob Lazar, a former government physicist who claims he worked on alien spacecraft at Area 51. The event ran as an annual invitation-only pyrotechnic event held at one of the many dry lakebeds outside Las Vegas, Nevada and the exact date and location was kept secret each year to avoid a deluge of spectators and apparently law enforcement! (Due to strict government rules on individuals holding pyro material after the 9-11 attacks in New York, the event was eventually banned).

Homebuilt exploding shells are filling the sky with brilliant bursts. A fireball reaches 300 feet into the air creating a pseudo-thermonuclear flash. The desert floor is bleached red by streams of falling flares. The glowing tracer bullets arc across the machine-gun firing area. Pungent smoke billows. Scientifically speaking, this is the rapid oxidation of high-energy chemicals. In other words, very big, very loud explosives.

Desert Blast is a chance for the attendees to show off their creations without any restrictions, an opportunity to demonstrate new tricks and experiment with new ingredients. Some spend many months of the year building fireworks and bombs, stockpiling dynamite and flash powder ready for this firework orgy. Naturally, all share “flash stories”, garrulously telling tales of their biggest explosions. All are impressed by the performance from the human firework, Pyro Boy.

The party will stop because the sun comes up. At 4am the true devotees are still attempting to light 2,000 pounds of magnesium, without success, seeking that one final thrill. At 7am, the desert floor is scorched black, still billowing smoke and coughing up hopeful flames. By 9am the clear up operation begins, as all debris, shells, machine gun cartridges and exploded dynamite sticks are packed into bin liners and thrown in the back of vans.  The desert blasters must leave no trace of their “visit”.

My limited edition print - ‘Chuck & Rex, Desert Blast, Nevada, 1999’ - is only available to buy until July 24th.  

And don’t forget that one lucky buyer selected at random, will receive a signed copy of a contact sheet featuring this photograph.

best wishes, Simon