Burning Man has been ruined. But it was doomed from the beginning.

Burning Man in 1994. Burning Man in 1994. Photo: Owen James Photo: Owen James Image 1 of / 10 Caption Close Burning Man has been ruined. But it was doomed from the beginning. 1 / 10 Back to Gallery

In 1992, on a dusty Friday afternoon in Black Rock Desert, Terbo Ted prepared to play music for no one.

The setup for the first-ever DJ set on the deep playa was famously jury-rigged; the speakers, leftovers from a dissolved punk band, blew out within minutes. It was a historic moment — the beginning of electronic music at Burning Man. But to some, it was also an ending.

Ted was 24 years old at the time, and a few of his friends who were active in Oakland's underground rave scene had discovered Burning Man through analog serendipity — a print ad in a local New Age magazine. The message was austere, but cryptic: "An experience in the desert." After calling the number listed, they met Larry Harvey, Burning Man's co-founder. He invited them to bring their music and speaker system to the desert.

After hours of driving, the group spotted the camp's only marker: a pole, with a red blinking light. The landscape looked like they'd left Earth.

It was still the early days of Burning Man, just two years after what had started as a solstice ritual at Baker Beach in 1986 made its way into the vast Nevada desert. It would be years before it became an event home to more than 70,000 globetrotters, and a makeshift city with police and a medical clinic.

But even in the event's nascent stage, there was tension.

Members of San Francisco's Cacophony Society, an underground group of pranksters were the ones who brought Burning Man to the Black Rock Desert. This constellation of DIY-minded artists weren't excited about the idea of sharing the desert with starry-eyed ravers in their 20s, Ted told SFGATE.

"The pranksters blamed us for everything," Ted said. "For us to bring dance music culture out there — they thought we were bringing consumer trash. They hated what we were doing."

"When we first started going out there, there was no definition of what being a burner was," Ted said. "Going out there was like going to Mars, or the Moon."

Ted, now 50, considers himself an 'elder.' He's attended the event on and off for the last 25 years. When he goes, he regales new burners with tales of the event before it became a studied experience and an aesthetic — before the hot springs were banned, before there were fences, and the year — 1996 — when hell came to life.

And as an informal historian, he's also obligated to tell them the truth: He ruined Burning Man.

The event wasn't appealing to the public in 1992, Ted said, so he and his friends proselytized it into the ground. Around a decade later, it went viral — it was codified, memefied and rendered into the collective consciousness.

Anyone who came in contact with the event acquired a Midas-like touch, but it wasn't gold — it was the ability to destroy it.

For as long as Burning Man's existed, it's been ruined. The ravers ruined it for the welders. The collective-minded hippies ruined it for the anarchist ravers. Tech bros displaced the bohemians.

The list of acts that destroyed Burning Man is limitless. There are the extravagant camps run by sherpas, a sub-industry of event butlers. The 1996 Wired expose article. Kids below the age of five running in the desert. High-speed Internet. Lobsters FedExed and delivered to Burning Man.

In a cheeky 2016 article for the Burning Man blog, Benjamin Wachs outlined a history of who ruined Burning Man. Its self-destruction apparently occurred at its birth:

"In 1986, at the very first Burn, a crowd of complete strangers gathered around the Man once it was lit it [sic] on fire. Nobody had invited them. They didn't know anything about the 10 Principles, or understood what The Man was about. They just saw something cool and wanted to participate. They had no gifts. Strangers ruined Burning Man."

Burning Man, Wachs wrote, has been ruined 27 out of 30 times. "On two occasions, it was ruined twice in the same year. In total, 12 different groups (that we know of) have done the ruining. It's easy to get paranoid about something you love."

It seems useful to consider the event's conditions; Burning Man is an exercise in ephemerality. Like a city, it doesn't emit its own essence. It's a vessel, a container for whoever, or whatever resides in its limits.

Early arrivals to Burning Man take part in "Build Week" ahead of the main event, showing some of the work, art setup and mutant cars that arrive on the playa before most attendees. Early arrivals to Burning Man take part in "Build Week" ahead of the main event, showing some of the work, art setup and mutant cars that arrive on the playa before most attendees. Photo: Sidney Erthal Photo: Sidney Erthal Image 1 of / 85 Caption Close Burning Man 2018 - 'Build Week' 1 / 85 Back to Gallery

That sense of impermanence feels central to Burning Man, where desert whiteouts and dust storms have the power to blow entire campsites away, and meticulously assembled projects dematerialize after the week's end. Its very nature precludes its shackling.

Besides, Ted said, that's what makes it interesting. He's careful not to lament the changes as of late — the increasing police presence and proliferation of Plug 'n' Play camps, among other things.

"I accept it. It's going to be different every year," he said. "That it even happens is amazing, and it's the most modern city in the world. The culture's bigger than Larry. It's bigger than me; it's bigger than any one person. So you can't say anyone really owns it."

But there is one thing he undoubtedly misses.

"When we first started going out there, there was no definition of what being a burner was," Ted said. "Going out there was like going to Mars, or the Moon. Larry [Harvey] used to say, When you go out there, you have no choice, in this void of nothing, to have whatever your inner soul or spirit was to shine out of you. Whatever you was, would come into view because there was nothing else to measure it against."

Now, it can be hard to locate that sense of discovery — of blankness — in all the noise. This year, Ted opted to skip Burning Man, which is fine, he says, because he's already missed it 20 times. Instead, he'll be hosting a 2 hour-long live electronic set and light show in Mill Valley on Sept 1. He and the other DJs will be streaming the burn through a live feed.

The event is open to the public, Ted said. It could be for people who wanted to attend the event but couldn't, for whatever reason. Or, it's an option for people who've grown similarly disillusioned with how the event has changed. Like a blank canvas, it's for anyone.

Read Annie Vainshtein's latest stories here. Send her news tips at avainshtein@sfchronicle.com. Twitter: @annievain