Redhook, Brooklyn. We’ve been trudging through the sleet for just under an hour, cursing ourselves and wondering if snow flakes will get in the way of us lighting another cigarette. Up ahead we can make out the visage of some non descript ware house at the edge of eternity, a derelict street made for howling dogs, except it’s too cold for dogs to be howling tonight. Pressing once, then twice the bouncer finally looks at us through the peep hole, considers us before hurling us in the ensuing vortex, a sordid diabolical hubris. It’s only as we open our eyes we understand that the reason the dogs aren’t howling outside is because they’re howling inside.
We’re surveying the scene with open glee, the glow lights, the amphibian look alike arena, the darlings in front of us immersed in a very die hard ritual, their wrist bones flinging wildly, their torsos swinging kindly and their cheek bones grazed by the hue of alternating violet lights.
We take a step to go forward but are surprised by the fact that one has to fight assiduously for such rights. The crowd is a fierce one, not in a negative sense but more in a primal sense. It’s a communal exorcism redolent of punk, hip hop, vogue, glam, house but with the tweak notched a few thousand decibels higher and the odometer trembling at a dizzying pace. Punk it isn’t but the spirit is, Mohawks and pierced ears aside the dress du jour at this rave is stovepipe jeans that barely fit, bright neon vests and slinky t shirts that make to caress the outline of your pumping heart line.
I’m looking for god and wondering if he exists, sweat pouring from my soul when the founder of YogiBogey Box Michael Salkinder finally approaches me, embracing me with gusto, the absence of sweat apparent. It’s a scene that is a very private one, only by invitation, and by now a monthly affair, from one obscure warehouse to another. (tonight we are somewhere in the never the lands of Redhook). Word of mouth, it’s a very progressive affair that for all effects is very counter culture but similarly embracing the highest forms of culture.
The talent playing tonight is essentially European based, imported from Denmark, Russia (where even a work visa had to be procured for the evening), a double deck dance floor brimmed to the core, swirling elbows, lost expression, grand surreal epiphanies, and the swagger of a bold crowd way ahead of the Meat packing pack.
We head to the front of the dance floor, the god we’ve been looking for jettisoning a high tech turntable, the type capable of answering all your prayers, if spiritual redemption at four am in the morning somewhere in the boon docks is your calling…
This is where it begins, elbows swiveling, heart beat approximating, check ignition, maintain position, control tower swinging, mascara gleaming, left elbow swinging, right knee fleeing, cheek bone drilling, ear drum filling, super bass blaring, god screaming, soul mates howling, head snapping, the milky way approaching, right elbow pouncing, left knee sliding, the e sliding, comets colliding, fists punching, eyelids crying, lips biting, this super fucking maestro in front of you howling and you his darling.
We break away, our heartbeats overt and trespassing the legal speed limit, the coral sea look alike in front of us a virtual underworld Atlantis. Floating, clutching, your oxygen tanks throbbing, the sea creatures clutching to the inside of your brain, the maestro going at it again. Break away, but are pulled back in by the next current that comes our way, our flippers forever lost in this Pandora’s vortex.
Deeper and deeper we go, the current a mind of it’s own, the dj the meanest guy I know, the smile on his face colliding, the under ground sand dunes sucking us in, Venus a way station way gone, Beethoven more punk than you could have imagined, your diver’s high vacillating, the sea horses rocking, the cover girls flocking, the macho boys shocking, and the smile on their face gratifying. You punch the air one more time for good measure, but God doesn’t care ‘cause he’s getting ready to play you one more tune.
The dj set as it was;
Daksinamurti (Germany)- 10-11:30
Progress (NYC)- 11:30-12:30
Onkle Dunkel (Denmark) -3:00-4:30
Transdriver (Russia) 4:30-6:00.