Soap’s intrepid explorer, Ellsworth, is at it again. This time he’s heading west for some little music festival. Supposedly, it’s gonna a be a pretty good time. So good in fact, that Ellsworth has decided to blog live in the form of text messages. Oh, it should be noted that he doesn’t actually have tickets yet

(All times EST)

Thursday:

17:08 - Barely made it to airport care of nyc public transit. Now safely in the buxom (sp?) of virgin america. One of the dudes from the national is reading the Times next to me. Saw it on their guitars, confirmed through quaint conversation. Seems more interested in rising prices of domestic food stuffs than chatting. That’s ok. Pulling out of gate. Cocktails soon.

17:13 - Last pre- cali update. According to the guy next to me, M.I.A is also on my flight. If I meet her, I will bring up that rainy miami day we saw her three Conferences ago when she wore a sonic the hedgehog shirt when I thought that we were in love…

23:45 - After a totally manageable flight, arrived in LA, one tearful french movie (diving bell), two mini bottles of wine, and five episodes of top chef later. Clean yourself up ellsworth. Now curbside, pretty close to MIA and crew, a sea of psychadelic tights and guitar hero accessories…

Friday:

16:46 - Runs for liquors, groceries, and ice are now complete. The pool even has this charmingly distracting fountain-like water feature. The desert looks like some martian landscape, with the exception of all the 50’s ranch mansions…May try and snag weekend passes off some pr coachella dude. Aphex twin??!!1!

19:12 - A resourceful gf and generous friends made possible tickets for todays show. Aphexxxxxxxxxxx jfjrjkjehbhe

21:13 - Coachella by private charter. Missed cut copy, too hot. Too damn hot. Hoping for some sort of vip shenanigans (sp?) to roll in with the crew I’m with. Goldfrapp maybe? Well see….

Saturday:

14:14 - Made it to the festival after some lingering by the artists entrance. Drank all we could in vip area, then met up with people at goldfrapp. We came in late and were in the back, in sum, rather unmonumental. Headed over to see aphex twin, and Holy shit. Started funky, throwback hip hop and r and b, then started speeding up, increasingly more acid until it was a full blown idm glitch insaneo parade. We watched most of his set, then wandered back to vip for cocktails and pizza and a bus back to palm springs…

18:40 - At the anthem pool party. palm springs is in full effect. Think tommie sunshine is djing? His model wife stands right next to him in the booth. Heading to the festival at some point, trying to make it by 6 for hotchip.

Sunday:

19:46 - Coahcehlla, jesus. The dirt, the people, the organization. No words. At the anthem mag party in thois sort of tropi cal oasis. This may be the best pary of the fest. Finally overcast, finally good music. Claude von s playing now, I guess we missed mandy by an hour. Tommie sunshine is lingering by the decks, along with erol alkan, haven’t seen erol play, hope he steps it up.

* click on Don Johnson to view photo gallery

Shorter, faster, more hotel-y? The 2008 conference was less hectic than previous years, streamlined by the fact that after 7 years of WMC attendance, we at SOAP can say with confidence we have passed from enthusiasts to veterans. Our ratio of sunrises to sunsets in florida is near equal, and our absorption of bass beats now hovers around the 2.3 billion mark, so what could be of interest in the almost three quarters of a decade visit? Dispatch below.

First- a word of apprehension after ‘06 and ‘07 seasons. With the M3 Summit skipping out yet again and the flyers for euro-trance parties seeming to multiply, apathy continues to grow for dance music fans that annually flock to Miami to hear a diversity of acts rarely found in the states.

To be sure, M3 isn’t the only bastion of good music, and there’s plenty of ways to avoid DJ Boris’ 24 hr endurance parties at Space, but the momentum of past years still doesn’t seem to be there. Nevertheless, SOAP correspondent and jet-lagged degenerate Ellsworth avoided New Jersey’s spring break crowds to see a concentrated and engaged amount of good music, on land and (sort of) at sea.

FRIDAY

After flight delays, we met up with Ghostly friends and family for sushi at a lounge in the basement of the Townhouse Hotel. After too much unfiltered sake, we headed down the beach for a hotel party. A friend had a massive balcony that peered into the courtyard of Opium Garden, so a voyeuristic sort of late night lounge session naturally came about. Partying in South Beach after midnight is always a game of chance; with all the liquor store closed, bars become black market boutiques for booze that only deal with hardened haggling and lots of cash. After paying “conference prices” for a bottle of absolut, the party carried on its merry way.

SATURDAY

Saturday was big. After two hours at local beach, we met up at the National Hotel for the Beatport Remix Hotel day party, catching Matt Dear, Ryan Elliot, and three pina coladas for opening set of the afternoon. The site of many a past pool party(RIP M3 Sunset Sessions), the National is a Miami institution where old party people and new technology gather together for free day parties. As Guy Gerber warmed up, we left headed up the beach for the fete du conference, the Ghostly yacht party.

Our caravan arrived early enough to avoid the lines that began to wrap around the will call and guest list. Just as we received our bracelets, a word from our gracious hosts: both Coast Guard and Homeland Security are on site to oversee check-in. No wallet, pant pocket, or open pack of cigarettes was left unchecked. License ID numbers were even written down to make sure our next of kin could be identified should we fall off the boat. The bottleneck to get on the boat finally eased around 6pm, and the place filled up.

The massive seafaring vessel was fully stocked with booze and sound. Downstairs, the dj setup was a humble 6 foot card table for Ryan Elliot and and pants-less cowboy Seth Troxler. The majority of the sound was reserved for the live stage upstairs where the rest of the lineup was set to play. At last, at sunset, with a full boat, the party shoved off. Sort of. Apparently, so much extra sound had been trucked in that the boat’s generators were overheating. Just before we could leave the protection of South Beach’s canals, the captain pulled the plug on heading ocean-bound, and we motored back to our cause-way. The view of the highway didn’t seem to stop anyone from enjoyment. Party favorite? Kate Simko’s twisting traverse of techno’s bubbly side. Her bobbing head and asymmetrical haircut were, in the words of a drunken yachter, “damn sexy.”

For Saturday PM, we spent our most energetic moments hanging out in a hotel before trying to rally for one of the millions of parties taking place. The goal was to make it until dawn for the Degenerates party, now something of a tradition. Sadly, a series of wrong turns led us back home before we could reach the Pawn Shop. Studio A was searingly loud- we saw what appeared to be Boyz Noise on the deck and ran for the nearest fire exit. The Minimoo warehouse party similarly had its share of problems- a steep cover, no AC, and, much worse- no crowd. After calling an end to our epic day and straggling soiree, we passed out.

SUNDAY

Sunday provided vindication; the Degenerates party didn’t end until that night, so after a leisurely dinner, we headed to Pawn Shop to catch Steve Bug, Matt Dear, and Jamie Jones close down the patio. There’s a certain inevitable sense of community that occurs during hour 13 of a 16-hour party, a hand-pumping badge of honor among dance music’s truest patrons. We said goodbye to Pawn Shop and made our way back to the hotel to gear up for the final party of the conference.

Ryan Elliot was booked to play Sunday night as the headliner for a techno party at Club 6, a small club on South Beach. We rolled up en masse, a group of twenty or so friends that took over the dance floor to welcome Ryan and Matthew Dear for what amounted to a private set- the best set of the conference- and probably the best set heard in a while. The intimate crowd literally freaked out as they went from Chicago house haunts to old school Detroit to bubbling minimal to more dance-y Italo, all while hugging and dancing and hand waving from the DJ booth.

We headed back to the hotel for more shirtless dance parties and a final sunrise, a fond farewell to the annual mess of humidity, dance music and excess that is the conference.

Lil’ Louis - Frequency || Dance Mania

*click on image to view full gallery

The next part of the race is coming back piecemeal, battle skirmishes creep back through the psyche as the post traumatic stress wears off.

We made our way past an army of panda bears as we headed towards the first check point. Thankfully we were still in heavy automobile traffic, I think those guys had throwing stars or something. We veered off Jay Street onto a smaller street, and stumbled upon our first check point, the Spank Station (or something?). We were instructed to park our cart, line up as a team, and bend over and ass up. After an invigorating go-around with wooden paddles, we received a stamp and the flyer for our next checkpoint.

All roads led to the decaying industries of South Central Brooklyn, the guillotine cart of the Marie Antoinettes lighting our way South towards warehouses. With powdered faces and blue wigs, they curtsied about in corsets and garters offering cake to other teams. Non functional was their guillotine. Quite functional were the eggs, flour, and mystery balloons of the other teams we happened to be keeping pace with. Bosley tried to slow traffic behind us, taking one in the face from a monk or a pirate with a bag of flour; D was pelted with vitamins by a team of scientists, horsepill vitamins that stick in throats and make pee turn green. As we were running too fast to actually drink any of the bar we had brought with us, we resorted to Sparks canons and whiskey squirt guns, standard fare for the all powerful cougars.

The second checkpoint was a patch of dirt and gravel running along the Gowanus Canal bordered on all sides by warehouses that looked abandoned, or whose proprietors didn’t care about having their land turn into The Thunderdome. Carts were everywhere, people were crawling about the ground, tugging-o-war, stealing shit from each other, all in what appeared to be loosely sanctioned activity. It looked like Burning Man at war. On speed.

For the first time, race officials were everywhere, shouting out orders that only seemed to add to the chaos. This is the exit! You cannot go in here! Go around to the other side and wait to be let in! Only 5 people per team are allowed in! We peered through the exit gates as we walked around the building at the lawless debauchery taking place inside. When we finally got to the front of the line, more race officials were there to enforce the 5-people-per-cart rule. We were 6. Someone was going to have to wait outside. In a panic-stricken moment of brilliance, Bosley climbs onto the bottom rack of our shopping cart, hiding under a dirty fur coat. We then crowd around the cart, yelling and revealing skin under the questionable attire, confusing the judges enough to let us pass.

As Bosley climbed out from under the cart, we were told more about the tasks at hand. We had 15 minutes to turn in 5 empty cans, 10 red flags, and 3 stamps. The cans we could handle; we had a gross amount of Sparks. The stamps (1 given upon entry, so two remaining) were given after winning feats of strength- the 2 team tug-o-war and the shopping cart crawl race. No one except Em knows how the red flags were supposed to be acquired, and no one bothered to ask her what she had to do to get them.
Our first event, the crawl race. On hands and knees, we squatted down on the rocks, ready to tow our heaping Carte of LV luggage. Our Carte was easily twice the size our competitor, but there were so many whistles and people shouting, that we had a solid head start to win, dragging ourselves and our cart over rocks and dirt, totally staining our hot dresses.

For the tug of war we teamed up with some big dudes after losing a quick round, and drug our opponents over the makeshift line. In what may have been the most confusing 15 minutes of our lives, we had completed all the tasks. We made for the exit, then off for the finish line. Our stand-in photographer finally found her way to us, but we were running too fast to actually capture much of the action. Truthfully, by this time most of the teams were out of ammo, which is probably for the better; the residents of Park Slope (I think?) were probably disgraced enough to see all the heathens past the stoops of their brownstones without all the pancakes and ketchup.
The finish line was a dead end street near a bar at the foot of the BQE. There was a BBQ, lots of team mingling and, shortly after, police cars and smoke bombs. Somehow the police maintained composure, or humor, and didn’t break any kneecaps. After all the carts had been photographed and remaining ammunition depleted, we were told about an after party nearby where the awards would take place. Sweet, an after party. At 4 PM.

The venue was a massive unlit warehouse that served beer and whiskey and had a DJ playing top 40 music loud enough to get bodies moving. Once the place was full,the 11th Annual Idiotarod Awards Ceremony commenced. The awards and the prizes were festive and arbitrary. Best sabotage, best bribes and purple hearts were all presented and awarded dollar store oddities, with bribery committed until the last second. Alas, Cougar Carte of Brooklyn did not win, but for the Best In Show Award, there was little contest. Team Dangerzone- a themed fighter jet, crew and ensemble Top Gun cast- was pretty much flawless. They welded the cart, had folding wings, pumped music powered from a generator, and played sexy volleyball in speedos. Our lady hats are off to you.

As for next year? Earlier planning, more drinking, smarter sabotage, and maybe this.

Xclusiv - Fools Are Friendly || La Maitre

*click on image to view full gallery

Idiotarod 2008! Hours of preparation went into this event, organizers devised an elaborate route with unconventional checkpoints, and participants crafted outfits and carts that shocked and awed the residents of Brooklyn.

Our preparation began modestly, less than one week before the race. Once our team members had been nominated and our cart- um, acquired- we began preparations for the construction of our chariot. Our choice? Cougars, the fascination of which we at the SOAP extended family happen to share with mainstream media, prime time television and collegiate humor sites. With our new female physiques, fabulous new outfits and a few choice Louis Vuitton accessories, we had become the Cougar Carte of Bushwique, with a young bell hop to round off the predatory effect. We had seen the pictures and heard the stories about the vicious fighting among teams jockeying for position during the race, and opted against the mainstays of eggs, flour, and fruit, as the weapons inherent to cougars are more subtle: money, age, influence. Satisfied that our powers of persuasion would keep us afloat during the race, we needed only wait for the starting gun to go off, 12:00 pm Saturday January 26, 2008.

Sabotage, however, was at play even before the race began: a false starting point. We arrived at noon to a park in Brooklyn, leaving warmth and self-respect along the bumpy sidewalks of the Marcy projects. Greeted by a suspicious official, we were told to check in with the slightly more suspicious man in the hoody across the street. With no proper papers to check us in, we awaited his next instructions. The false starting point allowed us to size up the other lost competitors, and no one but the Scooby Doo Mystery Van looked like they could outshine us. We made friends with a couple of freelance Norwegian journalists who were trying to cover IDIOTAROD, but were also apparently fooled, so they followed us on a tip given by a girl in a black ski mask that the actual race start was taking place in Chinatown at the foot of the Manhattan Bridge. Feeling like the information from the third suspicious character must be the charm, off we went.

One of the modifications to our cart was a beam fashioned out of broom handles that ran through the cart so as to create a rack or, hanger, for our luggage rack cart. Vehicle clearance was never thought to be an issue, as we had not anticipated the constraints of subway stations. Or transferring trains. Nevertheless, we left a streak of gold spray paint and plastic above the stairs of the subway entrance but somehow avoided breaking the halogen bulbs. All in drag. The C train heading to the city was crowded and lively, and we were the crescendo to the mid-Saturday commute. People wanted to know where the party was at. Others asked if we were famous. One dude even asked me if we were on America’s Next Top Model. All the while our Norwegians were instructing us to pose for increased dramatic effect, scribbling notes furiously.

Our information was not without merit. We had found the starting point, but were a half hour late. The race had started, weapons were deployed as they ran across the Manhattan bridge, leaving a trail of food, weapons, and broken carts in their path. This was all the hope we needed. We had come too far to not compete, missing the race was not an option. We charged up the ramp of the bridge and began the arduous ascent to its peak. Never slowing to more than a fast walk (and only then to open more Sparks), team members and Norwegian satellite group were questioning the efforts. Were we too far behind? Would be ever catch up? How will we know where they went off the bridge?

Once back in Brooklyn, we came across gated paths and lanes of slow moving traffic. Across the street, some 200 yards away from the river, we spotted a man carrying a harp, a quaint little shopping cart in tow. Further ahead, just before the traffic-choked horizon, looked to be the mustachioed face of The 3 Amigos. We had caught up to the race.

Bal Paré - Metamorphose

*click on image to view full gallery

Holy F! I thank party gods that the Consumer Electronics Show had the self-awareness to keep putting on their annual show in Vegas. A brief rundown and photo expose from the road.

Sunday night, the cab to hotel, cab to 40/40 club, cab from 40/40 club. The sports bar ultra longe was dead, maybe no sports that interested the ultra rich that night. It was at the Pallazzo, which looks like the back alley to the Venetian. In fact, that’s the way most cabbies described how to get there, lacking enough aesthetic differentiation to stand apart from its more notable Italian counterpart adjacent on the strip.

After leaving 40/40 for the janitorial staff, we headed to the Hard Rock, for a massive, pulsing free-for-all of top 40 hip-hop mashups. Shit was intense. The Dj’s spastic mixing tore up rap from the 80s to the 00s, lingering on the newer dirty south tracks. Our convoy was even fortunate enough to see a staff-performance “Crank Dat” on the stair landing above the dance floor.

Indeed, Soulja Boy’s “Tell Em” was the song of the trip, and while the CES delegates may have not ventured as far off the strip as Hard Rock, there was no shortage of maligned Supermans in unpressed Banana Republic khakis all up in the clubs of Las Vegas Blvd during the rest of our stay.

On Monday morning, the Keynote speech assembled the tech press corps in a conference room to hear two primary speeches that kicked off the conference. First up was Consumer Electronics Alliance President and CEO Gary Shapiro, who passionately- if not melodramatically- espoused the importance of free trade. Referencing great pro-trade US leaders like Roosevelt and Clinton, Shapiro waived a finger at the current US administration and several presidential candidates for their regressive isolationist policies. Rather intense for a 9am kick-off speech; this guy was supposed to be the window dressing for Panasonic prez Sakamoto’s keynote.

Sakamoto came on to warm applause, delivering a well-tempered speech with moderate pauses, direct hand motions and delicate head nods. He unveiled several new technologies under the umbrella of bringing the family together, showing what’s in store for the upcoming HD age: Huge TV’s! Wireless connectivity! Touch-sensitive walls! On a grand scale, this represented the bulk of the CES offerings as a whole.

A few highlights of CES, the parties, and the people:

• Microsoft’s Surface, a touch screen coffee table that recognizes and uploads your personal devices.
• Intel/BMW’s F1 demo in the parking lot. Well setup, heavily staffed, lots of hands-on tutorials and periodic tire burnout demonstrations.
• Sony’s Rolly, a baseball-sized party to go
• LSU wins. Ellsworth wins bets.
• The Playboy suite at the Palms? Or near the palms? Or something?
• Toni Braxton’s massive building wrap ad covering the Flamingo Hotel. Who would have thought she still had it?
• Missed: What may have been the unexpected highlight of CES, a leapord print taser with a built-in mp3 player.

A few pics to complement the story, with lots of blurry pics of gadgets that I may or may not have been allowed to shoot. Enjoy

Tuff Little Unit - Join The Future || Warp

Full CES review coming, but first witness the coolest hybrid of electronics and nature, a full mile away from the conference center at the circus-inspired Wynn hotel:

Yes, this is an actual giant puppet/robot frog that sings “What A Wonderful World,” and does a decent Armstrong lip-synch.

Sadly, my hotel had nothing near as interesting; aside from the $50 NY steak I had at the bar amongst prostitutes and VC honchos. To be fair, it was a fine steak…

Xenon - Xenon Galaxy || Xenon

Yeeeeeah…So we know it’s a little late. Blame Jesus and the lunar calendar for that. But we figured it would be a good would to kick off the new year.

So without further adu, we present you with…

SOAP’s TOP RELEASES OF 2007!

And now for the obligatory disclaimer: Instead of railing off 150 tracks like we did last year, we decided instead to focus on individual releases from similar sub-genres. This required a lot of recall and classification. Two things we’re not particularly good at. So take this list for what is is and feel free to let us know if you think we left anything out.

Makina Girgir - The Spell EP || Das Drehmoment - Das Drehmoment has slowly, but surely, become one of SOAPs favorite labels. For our money, nobody does electro-pop and wave music better. Makina Girgir is the embodiment of everything we love about Das Drehmoment. Squeaky-clean electro-pop, with a dark sense of humor. Every track on The Spell works as a single, but the cohesive tone of the EP is what makes it such a poignant a memorable release. Fit for the dance-floor or the living room, this is a truly beautiful record that is not to be missed.

Honorable Mention - Suicide Booth - Aura EP || Das Drehmoment

Glass Candy - Beat Box & Miss Broadway || Italians Do It Better - So we’re gonna cheat here and mention two releases by Glass Candy. Miss Broadway was without a doubt one of the best covers we’ve ever heard and really solidified Ida No’s position amongst modern day disco divas. Beat Box is just a solid all-around release. It’s pretty amazing how a song like Digital Versicolor, with it’s super-silly lyrics and super-simple melody, can convey such passion and sensuality. But isn’t that what Glass Candy is all about?

Nimoy - Untitled || Bunker - In 2007 we were reminded that electro can be unique, inspiring, and soulful. For us, Nimoy’s untitled Bunker release was the harbinger of this re-realization. Haunting but not dark, lush but not overwhelming, just the way we like it. Electro for electro’s sake.

Honorable Mentions - ERP - Vox Atomaton || Frustrated Funk & Duracel - Hole In Head EP || SD

Aeroplane - Aeroplane & Caramellas || Eskimo - Aeroplane has mastered the art of seduction. We’ve known this ever since we heard their self-titled track on the Lindstrom & Prins Thomas Essential Mix. What we didn’t know was that the EP would contain a B-side that was (arguably) even better then the aforementioned A. Aeroplane’s electronics just sound so, er, organic - a perfect blend between the natural and the synthesized.

Burial - Untrue || Hyperdub - We’re not going to pretend that we’re dub-step experts. In fact, we wouldn’t be surprised if Untrue is shunned by the dub-step community, as is the common fan-boy reaction when a piece of the underground becomes slightly popular. But the fact remains that Untrue is truly (pardon the pun) an inspirational album. We won’t waste your time trying to explain exactly why Untrue is so amazing. The appeal of the record is about as mysterious and unique as the producer himself. Give it a listen or read one of the 29032189438 other reviews floating around the blogosphere. If you’re not moved by this record your probably dead, deaf, or in denial. Brace yourself dub-step fan-boy, we’re gonna be hearing a lot more Archangel in the near future.

Honorable Mention - Boxcutter - Glyphic || Planet Mu

Newworldaquarium - The Dead Bears || NWAQ - There’s something so familiar yet so unique about Newworldaquarium’s music. Beautiful, atmospheric, slow-motion techno of the highest caliber. What separates this release from others in the same vein is its funky undertones. It seems that every track has some element that keeps it from running too deep. Top notch production.

November Növelet - Magic || Galakthorrö - We were a little late on November Növelet’s latest release, but it didn’t take us long to realize that Magic was indeed a worthy successor to 1999’s From Heaven On Earth. Dark and monotone female vocals can easily be dismissed as cliche, but Mrs. Arafna pulls it off and deserves a spot amongst the Beta Evers and Nancy Fortunes of this world. Beautifully haunting or hauntingly beautiful. You decide.

Stereo - No More || CBS Disques

Saturday

Few things compare to 80-degree weather in December, and we elected to lay in someone else’s lawn chair/umbrella combo until my lack of melanin forced me to take cover. For art, we stopped by the containers. Sandwiched in between the rows of long, skinny exhibition spaces was a skate park with a large bar and a stage for eclectic performances. No one was really skating or performing, and the DJ was playing overly energetic big beat early 90’s stuff to kids playing on the half pipe. The art was more interesting, if only in the novelty of its arrangement, one after another, feet from the ocean. Texture seemed to be a prominent theme throughout the exhibitions, with yearn, threads and tape draped throughout interiors, and walls with patterns vibrant to the touch.

We left for the Y-3 party in the design district, where a large projection in their event space played video art from Shigeko Kubota, John Baldessari, Lawrence Weiner and Joan Jonas. The design district was packed. Design Miami was across the street. ESPO had a store up around the corner at a Deitch pop-up, but the air conditioning was really hot, and Grolsch beer just isn’t the same when one is not properly acclimated.

I should mention that at this point that we were approaching critical mass of roving trend photography. There must have been at least 15 different photographers encountered in the past 24 hours, all shooting pictures for websites for people who like to look at fashionable people. One of the better ones is StyleSightings, who captured the entire weekend here.

Photography, outfits, and scenes kept their momentum surging towards Saturday’s main thing, the Colette party, which, for the many people stuck on the outside of the velvet rope, meant staring at a very French door girl with a clip board while they waited in the rain. Despite my prowess for French, my one-liner about being this really famous New York dj who plays with all these people blah blah blah wasn’t enough to get me in. Thankfully, our group was more resourceful than I, and after breaking into little groups, we made it in.

The club looked like it had the night before-loud music, beautiful people- but something was different.

Wait for it….

wait….

Ok. As it turned out, the club had been double booked for the evening, the night’s early engagement a birthday party for a Staten Island gangster and his bottle popping, table dancing entourage that seemed to be running further and further beyond its due time. The club was literally wall to wall with gold chains and sunglasses; the irony was sweeter than the mini bottles of white zinfandel that we snuck in. Thankfully, Andrew+Andrew were dj’ing, wearing matching ray-ban, which pretty much had the whole place going nuts, peanut butter jelly style.

Sunday

The official last day of the fairs. Again, it was tough to leave the beach. We ended up seeing the main fair briefly, then headed over to the Standard, which recently changed their poolside cascading waterfall into from cold water to hot, basically permanently altering the lives of those fortunate enough to experience it.

Rumor had it Justice was playing a private party at the Shore Club. Unfortunately, it really was private, and i/we had no juice at the door, so we headed over to Rok Bar where the party was to continue. Here we saw, incredibly, Sam Keller and this incredible Samoan delight, at the same party!

Finally, Justice rolled through and I think took over for A Touch of Class to close out the closing party. Alas, I had neither the energy nor the patience to see Justice blow up the club and freak people out. Maybe if they were freaking out the “bottles of Cris” crowd from the night before, but it was all, finally, enough.

In all, a great time.  Enough art?  No, certainly not. But there’s always next year, in some form.  While the art world seems unsure as to Art Basel’s next steps, what Art Basel has spawned- the graffiti kids-cum-ironic designers-cum-gallery stars and the djs/trend hunters who love them- seem confident that some other hotshot party destination can sprout up somewhere to keep the party train alive.

Giorgio Moroder - Valley Of The Dolls || Casablanca

I spent last weekend in Miami, amidst people disposing of disposable income by day and night. As a non-buyer this year, whatever precious resources I didn’t exhaust on the beach between 8th and 9th or the Spa at the Standard, I left following in the clubs, lounges, and terraces where the bulk of the mingling took place.

Friday

What’s up with the sideways sleeting rain snow that seems to be the mode for New York winter fashion in 2007? Newark, potentially the icing on the cake of New Jersey’s existence, shone even brighter at the airport after three hours of delays. Luckily, the bartender coaxed my time-sensitive order of a small domestic beer into a double shot with a beer back, so remained iced until takeoff.

I arrived, miraculously, in time to head over to what would be my first of several nights at Le Baron, Andre’s celebrated international party train, which makes what seems like annual stops in Miami during Basel. South Beach politics unknown, this year’s event calendar iteration was held at RokBar- yes, one of the Tommy Lee certified ultra lounges with no ‘c’ and all ‘k’ ‘cause they’re really hardcore, a modest step down from last year’s parties at indoor/outdoor wonderfest Rain.

Anyways, on Friday, at least until 10, RokBar had an open Belvedere bar. We ran into a few people and headed over to The Florida Room, a basement cum-super lounge at the Delano designed by self-marketed revolutionizer Lenny Kravitz.

The door was really strict, as it was the preview party for Visionaire’s Sound Issue, and the club was still brand new. Persistence led to alternative entry, and after our group parceled back together inside for the free drinks, we happened to see Owen Wilson and Woody Harrelson wearing what looked like the entire Tommy Bahama catalog. Sadly, neither Lenny Kravitz nor the revolution was there.

Artefact - M.A.E. || Celluloid

*click on image to view full gallery

There was nothing overly exciting about the thought off seeing !!! for the first time at Webster Hall. While the raised stage worked well for the Hot Chip’s diverse instrumentation, and the vaulted ceilings complimented The Knife’s visual performance, one can only imagine !!!’s dirty homemade dance music finding its spiritual home in some damp, sticky, Brooklyn warehouse, far from security staff and merch booth and the convergence of music and capitalism. But maybe that was years ago. Maybe I missed my window.

Regardless, location is secondary to opportunity, so after equipping ourselves with a moderate blood alcohol level and leaving all things non-vital to heartbeat and buzz at coat check, we headed in.

The Field was on when we arrived, huddling over his laptop behind a white plastic card table in front of the crowd. Nearly inanimate, The Field gave considerable focus to his Ableton-driven set, but the subtle changes he delivered with every 8 count were drowned in the overwhelming bass line. While the acoustics at Webster Hall aren’t really suited to highlight the nuances of, say, a snare to a snare and high-hat combo, it’s hard to imagine the set would not have been any more entertaining in a darker, more intimate setting.

!!! bounded on stage, led by frontman and dirty word speaker Nic Offer. People often berate Nic’s vocals and song-writing, then follow their beratement with a “you’re missing the point” counterargument that !!! is meant to be fun and rowdy, and to leave introspection and a ‘deeper dive’ into lyrics for the James Murphy’s or the Colin Meloy’s. However, if disco, rap, and r&b can pass with similarly simple lyrics, then Nic’s guttural rhyming and grunts need neither improvement nor defense.

The show’s gravitas came from Shannon Funchess, who tag-teamed with Nic throughout the latter half of the set. While their duet on “Heart of Hearts” seemed to be the crowd pleaser, nothing eclipsed slurring along to “Bend over Beethoven” while punching everyone near me in my own self-contained bubble, the satellite to the drunken Brooklyn warehouse lost among the crowd.

***New WSOP tomorrow***