During the very bright day, it was easy to spot the people who were in Miami for THE WINTER MUSIC CONFERENCE. Even without the ubiquitous lamenents around all of their pale necks, and the DJ bags across their bony shoulders, the white glow of their skin against the backdrop of golden brown, gave them away.
The squinters cluttered the streets of Southbeach, waiting it out until dawn when they could crowd together and celebrate future music in the comfort of a poorly lit club.
I, myself am more pink than white. But regardless, If you aren't from Miami, you look British in comparison.
My two paleface companions and I were to stay in Miami from Saturday night until Tuesday morning. The Winter Music Conference itself was to last until Wednesday.
Saturday evening, my friends went to the hotel to get ready for the evening. The hotel also served as a youth hostile which, ironically, was overrun with British people. So, for better or worse, my pink ass fit in a bit better than had we stayed at The Ricky Martin Inn or wherever.
Not wanting to miss anything in the only hip-hop dominant evening of the conference, I had them drop me off at G-Spot. If G-Spot hadn't promised at least a dozen big name acts, I wouldn't have gone into a club with that name. Not even to escape the Miami sun.
About 200 people were in the club when I got there around 10 p.m. About 15 of them obliged the smarmy white guy on the Mic ordering everyone to yell, "ho!" Inventive crowd-participation ploy. A natural born entertainer, that guy.
Strangely, there was a five foot empty space between the bar itself and the nearest club kid. There were a lot of people at G-Spot, but the bar itself was barren.
There was also a huge video screen behind the bar that made anyone who dared venture toward the bar feel like they were stepping into some spotlight. I was the only one at the 25 foot long bar.
When I found out I'd be paying $6 for a beer (after a $25 door), the divide between the patrons and the bar became as obvious as that between rich and poor.
After the nice bartendress handed me my beer, I tipped her and asked her if it was true that, for six dollars, I was suppose to receive a shoulder rub as well. She laughed. It was the least she could do.
I sipped my liquid gold and talked to some former Tampa residents who had since moved to New York. Even they had never heard of a six-dollar beer. Everyone was in agreeance that there would be two choices this evening: sobriety or drugs taking in the bathroom at G-Spot.
The crowd was thick with beautiful people as DJs Q-Burt and D-Styles of The Invisible Skratch Piklz turntable squad began their set. I've always likened The Piklz, The X-ecutioners (who were also scheduled to perform) and the rest of the turtablist movement to guitarists like Steve Vai: masturbatory, but interesting and entertaining even in all its tastelessness and abstraction. But Steve Vai is an earnest new age twit while the turnatblists, lucky for them, know the value of funk and a good laugh. During his set, the video screen behind the bar showed previews of Q-Burt's new movie, "Wave Twisters," a hilarious, elaborate computer enhanced cartoon that jerked along with Q-Burt's insane scratches, cuts and pastes and gave context to the requisite vocal samples that narrate his "songs". Synching up visuals to turtablism (no small feet) added sprinkles and nuts to an already rich dessert. The crowd rose up in laughter several times as a crazy dentist drilled for blood in various mouths.
Hearing a crowded club laugh loud enough to be heard over the music was a nice moment.
Q-Burt's set was less deconstructed and more groovy then I'd seen in the past and soon the crowd had formed a circle and the breakdancers had begun breaking.
Next up were hip-hop act, The Mudkids, who had driven down from Indianapolis, Indiana to play for a little over a hundred and fifty people (the other hundred or so attendees were in a room upstairs where Dread from Tampa and some others were spinning records. The room was meant to hold about 40: it was dubbed "the upstairs bedroom").
The Mudkids were intelligent ala the late great Native Tongue clique, very solid and obviously excited about having the chance to play such a big deal event. Whether there was anyone there watching or not. Lead rapper, Choc Soreel, got up on the bar pleading for attention in a self-deprecating and funny speech that led into their so-so video on the big screen behind the bar.
Afterwards, I overheard the deadlocked Soreel telling a cute girl he was "Benny Kravitz". After she brushed him off, I went up and spoke to him. We both grew up in Gary, Indiana and waxed philosophic about the Jacksons and $6 beers. Despite the unforgivable price of beer, it was the crux of almost every conversation I struck up with a new person the whole night. Soreel even busted a freestyle for me on the subject:
After $21 dollars worth of beer (you do the math) I was actually drunk. Maybe it's extra strong beer. Maybe that's why it costs twice as much. Between the beer and the myriads of people smoking dope in the bathroom, I was doing o.k.
The women in Miami are healthy looking creatures. Every ethnicity was represented: Asian, Spanish, Black, Russian and many others I couldn't determine. There was even one striking women who looked like a Gelfling (the creatures racing against extinction in the Frank Oz movie, The Dark Crystal) But my fellow redheads don't seem to flourish on the streets of Miami without burning to a crisp and blowing away.
Everyone at G-Spot was paired up, boy/girl. I talked to several women who turned out to be models. Actually, every woman I met while in Miami claimed modelhood. I wonder if they were all lying? But, by looking around the club, and Miami in general, I looked to be one of the few people who wouldn't have made it in the modeling industry. There were times when I thought I had to be the ugliest person in Miami. But more on that later.
At one point a gorgeous "model" named Jenaveve came and sat next to me (with her boyfriend on her other side) and asked me what I was saying into my tape recorder. I thought, "Wow, people in Miami are remarkably friendly!" Later I saw her and two fat gay guys lighting a Vicks inhaler and blowing it in each other's faces. Then her friendly nature was not as remarkable.
The club hosted three performance areas in one small room, which allowed for a constant revolving flow of acts.
Hip-hop group, Anti-Pop-Consortium did a brief but fun set. One of the members was fixated on the breakdancers like he'd never seen anything so amazing. It was pretty amazing. One MC from Anti-Pop couldn't contain his appreciation, pointing at the dancers and exclaiming, "Damn, check that shit out!" in the middle of a verse.
A flamboyant black guy in red, white and black and a cowboy hat walked around the club like he was famous: talking to every girl, giving hugs and pounds to everyone who came within high-fiving distance. Not wanting to miss a journalistic opportunity, I stuck the tape recorder in his face and asked him his affiliation. His answer:
He may not have been too famous, but with as much beauty and energy and was up in G-Spot, standing out at all is a feat in and of itself. I didn't get to see him perform, but, judging from his energy, I'll bet he was good.
The evening went through a sample platter of genres during the next few DJs: Danny the Wildchild and Towa Tei were a couple memorable names. One Dj was mixing electro beats with R&B like Bell Biv Devoe's "Poison". That was great.
Coming from Tampa, where people only seem to like Old Wave and Gothic music, watching everyone dance and have fun to whatever was thrown at them was very refreshing.
Around midnight it was coed DJ duo Faust and Shortee who, between the two of them, cover a lot of stylistic bases.
They ended their set with techno which, in the context of so many different sounds was a nice addition. After what seemed like an hour, I was ready for a change. Unfortuantely, from Faust and Shortee's techno set onward, the face of the club froze that way. Music to do drugs and aerobics to.
This is when my friends were lucky enough to finally show up: at the beginning of a rave. "Everyone seems so sober," they remarked.
I can't listen to anything so predictable as traditional techno music for a long time. The shifting sounds and textures of techno are nice. But hearing the same beat, the four on the floor techno pound, for hours is grating, even when you're on drugs. Which I unfortunately wasn't.
I can't stand Death Metal cause I know it's always gonna have the cookie monster growling vocals. I can't deal with Ska because it will always, without fail, have that peppy upstroke guitar. And I can't listen to a lot of traditional techno because it's built on a well worn template.
I understand the theory behind the music. But there are ways to explore the concept of transcendent repetition without sacrificing freshness. That boom-boom-boom-boom beat is stale. But I was in the minority at G-Spot.
By 3 a.m., there was still a long list of acts from different genres scheduled to perform in the two hours before the club was suppose to close at 5 a.m.
I wanted to see underground hip-hop artist, Jeru the Damaja.
I heard lots of people yelling for Phoenecia a.k.a. Soul Oddity (brilliant electronic music).
But the majority controlled the momentum this evening and it didn't seem as if anyone or anything was stopping the rave.
After three and a half hours we had to get the fuck out.
Jeru was walking in as we were leaving.
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