* 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

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

*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***

Sweet!… Got it working…

SOAP is proud to present Visual Proof, our new photo section. Here we will post pics of… well… whatever. If you go anywhere or attend any cool events (especially music related), let us know and perhaps we can put your photo series up for the world to see.

To start things off, I’ve posted a bunch of cheesy tourist pics of my trip to Italy (clicking on the image will take you to the gallery). Titles and comments to be added shortly.

Steve Poindexter - Computer Maddness || Square Roots