Well, I suppose we should have seen it coming.

Spank Rock & the Rub got cancelled at the last minute. Or, so they said. Instead of rapid-fire funk and ghetto breaks, our ears were assaulted with pumping house. We were informed by an extremely drunk employee of the Marlin that the last-minute DJ showcase thrown together and taped to the door in no-frills centered, black-on-white lettering was the “Tampa Sound.” Whatever constitutes the “Tampa Sound,” it sounded like shit to me, so we hoofed it over to see what else we could run into.

The Chelsea and Chesterfield were not really our scene, and I think I was on point of giving up, when Ross remembered the Whitelaw- now if we could only find it. A couple blocks and a question or two later and we did, full of crazy mothers and some actually goddamn decent house. Glasses guy certainly approved:

So we stayed and danced ’til 5 (it was a strict 5 to boot, they cut the power on that right on the top of the hour. I suppose their guests have to sleep sometime). While it lasted it was a sweaty (very sweaty) and fitting end to a half-weeks worth of revelry. J Phlip finished out the night with one of the best house sets I’ve heard in a long long time- inventive, stylistically varied, and danceable as hell. As hard as I shook it this weekend, the Whitelaw was the funkiest. Even Ross busted out some P-Funk moves. Oh, did I mention that J (Jessica) Phlip is also absolutely gorgeous and totally my new DJ crush? Yeah, I did:

5 A.M. seemed to be the unofficial cutoff time for all the Hotel parties on the central side of South Beach, so we wandered around a bit more, discussing the whole crazy experience, made ourselves each a gin & juice, and slowly wound our way up Meridian to get some well-deserved rest.

[Mallory O’Donnell]

Our trip to Ultra for Day 2 was fraught with difficulty from the start- Ross was hanging some of his paintings for a show Sunday at Flavour in Coconut Grove, which is the kickoff for a new weekly party hosted by Miami’s G-Unit/Shadyville DJ Epps, who rocks on The Beat 103.5. At any rate, the hanging of the show on Saturday morning took a great deal longer than anticipated, so we headed off to ULTRA @ around 5, after stormclouds began a-brewing. Walking to the event from about twelve blocks away (and through a pile of people queuing for the Miami Heat game), we had to seek refuge from the onslaught of pounding rain. The sky looked to be clearing, though, so we kept on through it and made it to Bicentennial Park with high hopes and slightly damp clothing.

We had no freaking idea. The downpour began almost immediately. I was keen on seeing DJ Hell and then Tiefschwarz, who were scheduled to rock the Amnesia Electro/Techno stage starting about that time (we’d already missed Tiga, at least according to the schedule), so we headed right over there after skating through the V.I.P. (L.O.L.) entrance. Right as we got there, we felt the rain pick up and then saw everyone running away. That’s funny, we were thinking - where could they be running to in an open-air event? ANYWHERE, that’s where. The intensity of the storm was unendurable, buckets of water pounding down on the masses until everyone had to seek some form of cover. Someone out there will be able to appreciate the irony in our source of refuge - the Carl Cox & friends tent. If everything was going according to schedule, Danny Tenaglia was playing. Whoever it was, for the twenty minutes or so that we could endure the oppressive, stifling atmosphere of thousands of bodies completely pressed against each other, the music was like a hard-house version of Nazi marching band tunes. I like feeling compelled to dance, but my hackles get raised when its seems like I’m being ordered to. It looked something like this, although it really only approximates the painful crush of flesh:

Luckily, the rain slowed down, and though it took a long time to really go away (and even then, one couldn’t be sure), the worst was over. Only a couple of the stages were covered, so most of them had some delay in their schedules to work out. With tarps covering the stage and equipment (including the massive speakers), the DJs at the Electro-Techno stage finally got cracking - the DnB and House stages quickly picked up ravers as well. In fact, the House stage seemed the most attended of the evening apart from the Main Stage - at least during David Guetta and DJ Dan’s sets.

A long stroll around the whole site left us both in awe - the attendees of Ultra, despite a million other parties going on in closed spaces with no danger of getting drenched, really stuck it out to wait for their favorites get behind the wheels of steel. Whether they were holding out for Paul Van Dyk, BT, Cox, Richie Hawtin or whoever, they raved and raved and raved. Some raved a bit too hard - the night turned ghastly for us when we saw a woman who was dancing next to the fence at the Amnesia event suddenly collapse. Her boyfriend attempted to revive her and not really getting anywhere, so we contacted the nearest staff person. By the time we returned, she was obviously shaken but had motor control, so we stepped back and hoped for the best. Luckily, amongst the thousands of people there, this was the only incident that gave us fright - most everyone else seemed to be at least nominally in control of the situation.

Still, as the approach to midnight began in earnest, we left, somewhat shaken but thankfully not bruised. The Heat were losing as we walked past the arena, watching with some amusement as traffic was diverted around the massive congestion of the game and festival area. Not to say we walked blithely past, knowing we’d be dealing with it soon enough, but it felt good to come out of such intensity and see people who had absolutely no clue about the madness happening just a few hundred feet away. So we drove back to the beach in high hopes, looking forward to the party with Spank Rock and the Rub.

[Mallory O’Donnell]

Friday night seemed the perfect night to stay confined to Miami Beach, so we went back across the causeway, refreshed and re-upped and spent the rest of the night walking up and down the strip (strips, really). The beach is a monster with mythic aspirations, crawling with every form of beauty and degeneracy staking out its own space from which to confront the mundane. It’s also the perfect place for Winter Music Conference to really sprawl out into the street as well - adding its own mix of nasty and nice to the cauldron.

When it comes to WMC on the beach, there seem to be two basic types of party- free / cheap ones that take over hotel lobbies and exclusive ones at the trendy-ass velvet-rope clubs (Nikki Beach, the Pearl, the Opium Garden, Cameo). When it comes to these latter parties, we quickly realized that a press pass or badge is more a hindrance than an advantage - after all, if we let you in, we can’t get away with insisting on a two-bottle charge (where a bottle costs $200).

At any rate, our first target was the Spectral Social @ the Clinton Hotel, featuring Matthew Dear, Ryan Elliot and Seth Troxler alternating, tag-teaming, corroborating and confounding each other to create an astonishingly seamless mix. I can’t think of a time I’ve ever seen more fun up in the DJ booth - the party seemed to emanate from the outrageous antics of the party-throwers, rather than the party-goers. The tracks thrown down by this six-limbed DJ defied the narrow view of Spectral as monochromatic minimalists with a bass fixation. The bass-heavy frenzy was there, all right, but there was plenty going on all across the (forgive me) spectrum. Extra points awarded for the girls who made up their own special dance, the Spectral Shimmy - cyclic rotations of the posterior to soak up extra bass and hand motions inspired by the rattling procession of the high end.

From gutter to glitter - the low-key fun of Spectral gave way to our misguided attempt to go to Opium Garden for the Tony Humphries / Todd Terry / Blaze event. After a few minutes of standing around behind the velvet rope and observing the ratio of exchange (2 girls : 1 guy in a group to gain admittance, plus the usual necessary fabulosities), plus hearing the complaints of non badge-holders, plus hearing one badge-holder complain that they’d been there for hours, we decided to skip out on the Studio 54-wannabee bullshit and head further down. The same policy (with less interesting potential rewards) seemed to be offered by Nikki Beach & the Pearl, so we did what sensible human beings do. We went back to the gutter.

Ocean, Collins and Washington offer a number of hotels with open-lounge, free-admission parties that rock until dawn (or close enough). One has to wonder what the actual tenants think of a bunch of freaks dancing on the stairway and in the lobby until 5 a.m.- or perhaps these rooms are only advertised amongst those for whom heavy, throbbing bass during their sleeping hours is something of a tonic. We did witness one middle-American family leaving their hotel room amidst typical beach insanity in the wee hours, tempting the headline : ‘4:15 A.M., South Beach : Wife Will Put Up With Bass No Longer’

The Chesterfield, Chelsea and Marlin Hotels all had parties with varying sounds and degrees of success, with a bit of patio and sidewalk overflow (well, except the Chelsea, which was dead). And while it wasn’t quite the dancing in the streets promised by Berlin’s Love Parade, there was definitely enough action to encourage me to think of coming back to the beach after today’s Ultra action. Plus, there is promise of Spank Rock & the Rub later tonight…

[Mallory O’Donnell]

If Winter Music Conference just consisted of the two-day Ultra Festival and some post-midnight events at the dozens of clubs here, it would still exert massive pull as a killer weekend for dance music. As it stands, one could completely ignore Ultra and still have a fantastic time- which is more a positive reflection of the variety of events going on throughout the city than a disparagement of Ultra, which really does offer a pretty nice festival atmosphere for a comparatively reasonable price.

Still, if you were wanting to see the Cure, which we were, there was only one thing to do - go to Ultra Day One. Plus Day Two, which we’ll depart for shortly, has an amazing line-up, including a baker’s dozen of acts we’d be skipping all across the city on various nights to see, perhaps at places where - like on Thursday - we’d be confronted with a hiked-up headliner door charge. Oh, and the list provided via the link above is just a teaser. Click on “Click Here for Additional Lineup” to view the mind-boggling complete list of artists.

Since every flyer we’d seen placed the Cure’s name atop everything else, and everyone we’ve spoken to seemed to rate them as the really desirable act to see this weekend, we assumed quite naturally that they would go on, umm, last. You know, like a headliner. As we pulled around the corner at 9-ish, however, I could hear a familiar pastyboy wailing over the traffic. OK, I figured as we disembarked from the cab, they must be playing a really long set and just got on. There was no end of flim-flam at the gate - first we were sent around the building to pick up a ticket no one so much as glanced at, then told no cameras were allowed despite watching the guy in front of us enter with his held right in his hand, then finally sent to the real real entrance for Press, otherwise known as walking into the exit rather than out of it, where we were waved through without being padded down or groped.

By the time we made it out to the main stage, an Ultra staffer had informed us that the Cure had been on for two hours and this was their last song. Well, they’d been on for two hours, but it was their fifth last song, as they played two encores. Initial impressions suggested a return to spartan gloom - no keyboard player, the band stripped down to a black-clad quartet, stomping through grim versions of “A Hundred Years” from Pornography and “A Forest.” After a brief, surely non drug-related interlude, the band returned to the stage and belted out three paisley-period nuggets. Husky, rocked-up versions of “Let’s Go to Bed” (including a tongue-incheek lyric change apropos of WMC - “if you think you’re tired now / wait until seven”)and “Close to Me” made way for a startling “Why Can’t I Be You.” Never one of my favorites, the thumping drums and synth-free arrangement here made ample room for the storming Motown beat to dominate the song to great effect.

By this time, however, it became clear who the real headliner was going to be, with festivalgoers unleashing snarky comments and chanting for “Tiesto!” during the last couple numbers. Sounds like our cue to leave…

After a cursory glance around the festival grounds and the (lame) V.I.P. area, we met up with some friends and surveyed the carnage from a geodesic dome-sporting hill near the entrance. With two stages not even in use until Day 2, the place was still jam-packed. Fire-dancers and glow-sticks added to the confusion - was this ‘91 or ‘07? I though big raves were dead in America. Oh, right, just big raves that don’t cost a couplea Ben Franks.

Four things we took away from Ultra:

1) If you’ve pre-bought any kind of ticket or pass, it will always be twice as confusing as just going up to the gate and paying whatever ungodly amount of money they want.

2) If you spend more than five minutes exhorting the crowd before actually starting to play your music, you’re a cheerleader, not a bloody DJ.

3) If there is someone on the top and at the beginning of every single piece of internet or print information about a certain event, it does not mean they are the headliner.

4) Not having to hear “Friday I’m in Love” is the only positive result of being screwed by thing #3.

[Mallory O’Donnell]

Om Party @ Y Ultra Lounge, Thursday Night:

First of all, the Y Ultra Lounge is huge. It’s actually three clubs (plus a restaurant through a fenced-off lobby): Y Ultra Lounge (why? because we love you…). Tottem and Tottem Gardens. Trying to find friends was a mistake. The only thing to do was ride the butter churn into the next room, and over the course of a an hour we began to establish a rough map of this labyrinth. Or so we thought - attempting to leave actually led us into the largest areas of the club, especially the great Tottem Gardens, which have a great Tiki Party vibe and plenty of space. Not to mention close access to the $3 hot dogs and $6 burgers. I’m sure the drink prices were out-of-hand, but I didn’t ask. Luckily, the crowd was thick as stew and the music was excellent. To be fair, I was a bit wary- while I love some of the artists on Om, their roster is large and diverse enough that some of it (like most any larger label) has slipped through the wack crack. Two artists, both new to me, that played during the time we were there hooked us in and wouldn’t let go.

First up was Bassnectar (yeah, I know). As we entered, chunky electro breaks slapped us right across the cheeks with bold, up-front basslines and pounding drums. A whip of hair thrashes over the DJ deck as a wiry figure bounces infectiously to the beat of his own drum. Bassnectar looks like somebody you might buy windowpane from outside the Phish concert (fittingly, he broke through at Burning Man). He sounds like someone from his own damn planet though - raw, bass-dominated tracks that draw from dub, electro, hip-hop, jungle, you name it, all re-edited and tweaked by himself, then burned to CDr. As a pan-cultural purveyor of bust-your-shit-open beats, Bassnectar delivered with enthusiastic elan.

As we attempted to exit, we found ourselves in the fab Tottem Gardens - man-made streams, bridges, white fabric tents and the lingering aroma of hash competing with the heady scent of grilled pork. Edging through the crowd towards the dj booth, we were lulled in by a really suave and sensuous jazzy house record, only to find out that the bossa-style guitar draped over the beats was being played by an actual human being. It took a few shouted times to get his name right, but the name is Chuck Love (not Josh Love as I bemusedly first heard). Anyone who thinks so-called “deep house” is a dinosaur ought to check the man out. Over soulful, funky beats, he sings and plays guitar, flute, trumpet, and melodica (pictured above), Chuck Love makes some seriously funky and uplifting shit. The live-instrumentation is far from a gimmick- that and his boundless energy and positivity make him an artist worth watching, someone who brings the crowd somewhere and keeps them there. I’ll accept and endorse Om despite a million crap compilations if they keep unearthing gems like Chuck Love. Who, of course, was followed by Collette. Who I predicted would be entertaining for precisely five minutes. I was about two minutes off:

The only genuine disappointment of the evening was the one which cut into my most anticipated event -the Get Physical showcase at Studio A. Well, not so much cut into as decimated - by the time (4 am) we’d made it down to 11th St., the entry price (this event was not WMC-affiliated) had gone from $10 to $20 to $40. As much as I’d really love to see a four hour M.A.N.D.Y. DJ set and the last fifteen minutes of a live Booka Shade concert, $40 is $40.

So instead we get an impressionistic shot of the very beginnings of sunrise:

[Mallory O’Donnell]

Last night’s Chromeo bash at Circa28 got off to a slow start, the bottom floor getting tighter and tighter while they waited an eternity to open the top floor. Luckily, we arrived about five minutes before the cutoff time for free admission. Some Snap!/”Party All the Time”/Dee-Lite typea jams were mixed together, apparently while wearing rubber mittens as both hipster and random weirdo body counts began to rise. Those two girls arrived fairly early, so at least someone was dancing. You know the two.

Luckily, insanity arrived early in the form of a red-haired girl wearing a home-made outfit that was not some much tasteless as beyond taste. As she and her polymorphous pervert friend set up their gear, Ross went over to take a shot and ask what we should expect.

“Some crazy shit.”

Truth in advertising, my friend. Finesse & Runway is the name, and they are in fact some crazy shit. My ears immediately perked up as I purchased the second and last drink of the evening (at $6 for a beer, we were paying about half of what the customary price would be later on), hearing heavy bursts of glam, synthpop and noise firing up together from the corner.

Finesse & Runway are a total performance act, quite down-to-earth and almost businesslike offstage. Onstage, it’s constant explosion time- drum machine and pedal-driven loops provide a constant whirring psychedelic casio tone poem imbued with the spirit of freestyle, Soft Cell, cabaret, Black Sabbath, stoner rock, Ween, avante-garde and disco-pop. Meanwhile, both Dino “Runway” Felipe (pictured above) and Melba “Finesse” Payes (pictured below) sing and play hand percussion- maraca and tambourine, respectively. And they both move. And not just hips, like with yer indie rockers. These people use their whole bodies. Living-room brawls, private cigarette soliloquoys and teenage girls singing along to Debbie Deb are suggested and just as quickly discarded as Finesse & Runway not so much perform as take over a corner of a club in order to assault you with a panorama of youth culture mashed up, cropped, screwed, whatever. So like, performance art with wack-ass awesome beats.

Whatever it was, it sounded completely new, leaving me feeling like I’d seen an early Stooges show or the like. But apparently, they’ve a three-year old album out, which we’re on the hunt for today. There’s also a decent interview here.

Figuring nothing else we’d hear there could top this, we headed downtown…

[Mallory O’Donnell]

Day one (well, since grabbing the magic pass) @ WMC starts at the Delano on South Beach, where Giant Step are throwing a poolside gala featuring Jazzanova, Kruder & Dorfmeister, a shitload of beds ringing the pool, and $12 vodka tonics in plastic cups. The well-heeled and the frankly bizarre cavorting in a Roman stylee to jazzy house and broken beat? Normally, I’d be down, but what’s the point of a free, private, invite-only party with drinks as expensive as the entry prices to even freakier bashes across town?

So, next up is leaving the beach for a plethora of events in the downtown club umbrella, starting with this one:

It’s been suggested by the committee that Chromeo, regardless of their actual music (which we like), have one distinct advantage over other bands–they’ve picked a bad-ass name, and one which looks particularly good in a Gothic/Latin font on silver hot pants stretched tight across a girl’s ass.

My co-conspirator and Dr. Gonzo to my Raoul Duke, Ross has been and will be providing the photographic and medicinal assistance for this venture.

Stay tuned…

[Mallory O’Donnell]

It’s been more than a week since I attended this year’s Sonar festival in Barcelona, and despite all that’s happened since in my non-musical life (and believe me, it’s been quite a lot), I find that I am still unravelling the tangled threads of Sonar, still searching for the plot in a three-day two-night onslaught of sounds, lights, and colors. Perhaps I shot too high for my first festival, perhaps they’re all that insane—or, maybe, just maybe the madness of far too much to do and far too little time to do it in is exactly what makes sense in this crazy lifestyle.In a way, my experiences at Sonar 2006 are exactly representative of how I feel about dance and electronic music in a larger sense—the scene is so vast, so multinational, so without a center of gravity, that one almost has to be either dilettantish or uber-precise in ones tastes. There is simply no way to know even the basics of what is going on in all these disparate genres and subgenres, just as there is no way you are going to feel as though you haven’t missed something during such an amazing three days.Sure, you can catch the minimal set on the lawn at Sonar Village, shoot up to the record fair to check out new twelves and reissued classics, watch a film on the seminal figures of Detroit techno, and then boogie down in the Sonar Dome to a Spanish reggae soundsystem, but in that time you’ve neglected Schnieder TM, an amazing performance by the Modified Toy Orchestra, your last chance to see the spectacular exhibit of avant-garde sleeve design in the MACBA building, and that dude selling hash, who totally just left. And I’m only talking about Sonar Day, here—the Night events make the Day look like a piece of cake.

So it is with a heavy heart that I admit to not having seen the bulk of Isolee’s set, or the first half of Miss Kittin’s. I will forever be scorned by those I gave a hard sell to on the Knife’s new album that I missed their (quite rare, I discovered) live show due to a rather unfortunate misunderstanding about the limited capacity of the Auditori. But while I did fail to do everything I had set out to do, I also discovered a number of enchanting new prospects—from the great sounds made by local Spanish and Catalan artists I never would have heard back in the States, to the overwhelming potency of Marco Passarani and Jolly Music—combining like Voltron to form Pigna People.

Hence the conclusion to this rather drawn-out analogy—part of what drew me to electronic music in the mid-90’s and continues to do so today is it is so very unlike rock, soul, reggae et. al. Rather than seek a coherent engagement with its roots, it draws upon the bedrock of its sound without particularizing it—broken fragments and twisted corridors of sound and beats refashioned by DJs, producers, laptops, and pulsating cones. An oscillator knob turned, a mouse clicked, and the next variation of waveforms and microgenres is born. Yet, this is precisely what makes it so damn confusing and impossible to fully grasp—not only is it vast, wide, multifarious—it is expanding at an exponential rate, constantly. And just as one is unable to not miss some of what goes on mid-June each year in Barcelona, one can never quite feel comfortable with their grasp on the “electronic music scene” (if such a thing can truly be said to exist), as a whole.

Maybe it took the tension and exhaustion of Sonar to drive this point home for me, but I couldn’t be happier about it. I don’t want all the answers, a canon of artists and recordings, a library of quintessential moments and “best songs ever.” I want a pile of 12″’s and burned CDs in the wrong cases, a rubbish bin filled with colored wristbands and the memory of being covered in sweat and in the arms of my new best friend I met three hours ago while a constant 4/4 hi-hat clicks somewhere inside my inner ear. Dammit, I want that blissful uncertainty that can only come from loving a song to death and having absolutely no clue what the hell it is. That is the reason festivals and raves and dance music exist—to give us something to hear and something to miss while we’re having the time of our lives, to give us a reason to be grateful and a reason to come back next year.

(For some additional thoughts on Sonar 2006, check out some of my blog entries
here.)
[Mallory O’Donnell]

MOVEMENT: DEMF 2006: THE 3-DAY PAXA HAU-TO GUIDE TO BECOMING A PAXA-HO
as reported by enemy.combatant

A quick history: The Detroit Electronic Music Festival was first held in 2000 following a concept that was developed by Carl Craig and Derrick May. This event is the pinnacle for Detroit in the watchful eyes of the global electronic community. DEMF represents Detroit’s selection and taste, or at least that was its intention in the past. It has been an event that was initially looked at with esteem and pride, and represented a lot of things to many different Detroit artists involved in its creation. However, since shortly after its inception as the largest free electronic music festival, it has become a clusterfuck of corporate-endorsed sponsorship and control.I was ecstatic to have been given the opportunity to cover this event, not only because this was so important to the electronic music community of Detroit, but because a new organization was “stepping up to the plate because they did not want to see the City of Detroit lose out on such a great opportunity.” I respected this ethical statement, and now not only did I want to cover this event, but I wanted to make sure it succeeded. I really thought that with those words spoken, new DEMF promoters Paxahau would hold themselves up to a different standard than past promoters, and might even bring the festival back to its roots of free admission, so all the people of Detroit could enjoy the electronic music that we have come to know and love. I know some members of Paxahau personally, and had extremely high hopes that this event would receive proper representation. I even immediately contacted one of my buddies who DJ’d for Paxahau at various events and asked him how I could help out. He told me to send my info to an e-mail address, and that they would be making volunteer lists at a later date. Since this was two-plus months prior to the traditionally scheduled festival opening day, I really had no worries…until the third week began to approach the second week and I still had no information from Paxahau regarding volunteer lists, schedules, duties; no media information; and not even a final roster, let alone a schedule with set times on it. I was starting to worry.

I finally received word that there would be a volunteer sign-up being conducted at Hart Plaza on May 13, 2006. I made it down to Detroit with extra volunteers to boot, and was not going to let the fact that it was pouring freezing rain, there was no parking or validation, or that I had just traveled an hour to an hour an a half for a mandatory pre-meeting for volunteers affect my attitude or mood in any way. I knew Paxahau would be grateful that I had come all the way from where I was traveling from in the terrible weather conditions Michigan was having at that time, and that I would probably receive all the information and things that couldn’t be sent over the internet such as shirts, badges, etc. I arrived and went down the steps of Hart Plaza to the Underground Stage. There were 100+ people assembled near the Underground Stage, but it was for a hip-hop presentation. Humorously, I remembered DEMF 2001-2002; giant Trinitron screens were plastered all over the festival grounds that year that were constantly displaying a loop of Eminem walking down Woodward Ave. rapping, “It’s over / Nobody listens to techno.”After proceeding past this assembly, I saw the Paxahau Movement sign-up staff complete with a card table and two Paxahau members handling sign-ups, and a few people waiting to volunteer standing in line. I rubbed my eyes and squinted, and proceeded to ask the people in my party if they thought that it was the sign-up area ahead. We all agreed in a slightly strange way. I was the first in line of my party, and I waited for 30+ minutes before speaking to a Paxa-Rep even though there were only four people ahead of me. By the time I reached the card table I was happy that there were only a few people here for sign-up, but still hoped Eminem was dead wrong.I was asked what I do for a living, and in what areas I could help out. I explained that I am a studio engineer/musician. I was then asked if I would like to flyer. Puzzled, I also then explained that I would help out in any area, but that I was covering this event for a magazine, and needed to be able to move freely to cover the event. I was then told that I needed to write all this information down on a piece of paper (provided) and was told to give it to one of the two girls waiting at the card table a few feet away. At this point, I was asked for my ID, of which a digital pic was taken. With the organization level I was seeing so far, I immediately began worrying about identity theft. I then had a clipboard pushed in my direction with not so much as a hello or even a smile and was asked what shifts I could sign up for today. I explained once again, since the paper I had just written all this down on was not helping this individual, that I could work any shift or all shifts since I was expected to be there for the magazine anyway. I was then asked why I was even down here volunteering if this was the case. I explained that I thought I could help. I never got a response, only a shrug of the shoulders. I was then asked my T-shirt size, and was told I would receive one the day of the festival. I was then told in a very bossy way that I was expected to be ready to work every shift, and check in with my shift leaders for every shift. I was then told I could go, and didn’t even get so much as a good-bye. I felt somewhat frustrated at this point. All I wanted was a little pat on the head or any kind of slightly friendly gesture. It really might have helped morale since two days later, I was sent a barrage of e-mails from Paxahau asking to volunteer for airport runs and record lugging since their valet service was not covering this anymore.

I arrived at about 11:15 AM on the first day. I would have made it there much earlier even though the festival didn’t start until 12 noon, but there was no volunteer or media parking, and I had to lug all my equipment quite a long way, and absolutely no one I spoke to, including security, knew where the media entrance was, or the volunteer entrance for that matter. I finally found it, and immediately walked up to the press table. I was greeted by a sneering, short, bald man. I told him the magazine I was with, and he seemed to be looking me over a few times. I asked him if he needed to see my ID, since his assistant had walked over and whispered that someone else from Stylus had already checked in. Instead, he gave me a lanyard, and his assistant outfitted me with a yellow plastic wristband. I was then free to roam. I found it very interesting that I was not searched or that my identity was not checked in any way. Not that George W. was manning the decks this year for his N.W.O worldwide Uber-Freedom mix, but I thought that there would definitely be more attention paid to the safety of all artists attending this year.I checked in at the media center after taking 20-30 minutes to find it since, once again, nobody knew where anything was. The people at the press table said, “It’s downstairs, you can’t miss it.” I was finally helped by one of the filmmakers from the film High Tech Soul, who was very helpful and friendly. Once arriving at the media center, I saw the organization level did not exceed that of the volunteer situation. I was told that I could interview anyone I wanted, and that I should try to catch artists after they perform. (I later discovered this was quite challenging to do since most artists arrived right in time for their set, and disappeared shortly after.) I went upstairs to check in at the volunteer table, and ran into a friend and his wife who lived near me. He told me that he and his wife just each had been given two tickets to the min2max (named for the new comp on Richie Hawtin’s M-nus label) after-party that night, two tickets to the Perlon after-party tomorrow, two tickets to another after-party Monday, two 1-day passes for the festival, two 3-day passes for the festival, plus a bunch of T-shirts, and other items.I was immediately delighted, anticipating that finally I was going to see some appreciation from Paxahau. I might even receive more than the 12 after-party tickets and 8 festival tickets my friends just received since I brought three extra people down to volunteer for them. At least in my mind, and after I made it up to the volunteer table I saw that this was simply not the case. The person in charge of this table was right off the bat upset that I had a press pass. He immediately began questioning me and asking me why I was volunteering since I already had a free three-day pass into the festival. I explained I was just trying to help, but he looked about as clueless as he did originally when I made this exact same statement to him previously on the morning of volunteer sign-up. I was then asked what size shirt I needed. I didn’t bother making a comment about why I was dragged here in freezing rain on volunteer sign-up morning and not asked that question then. I thought that end was already predetermined. I guess not. I received my shirt, and then stood there for a minute. This person then consulted with one of the previous volunteer sign-up girls who then came over to me and very snottily ordered me over to the Real Detroit stage to see if they needed any help. I walked off toward the Real Detroit Stage without a thank you, a good-bye, or a damn ticket. I knew I shouldn’t be disappointed; my expectations of a reward were what was causing my disappointment, but instead I received a slight dose of what seemed to be the real spirit of the Movement—a genuine Paxa-bowel Movement right on my head. I didn’t feel so bad, though, because I volunteered for it.

I walked by the Real Detroit stage on the way to the Beatport stage. It could fit maybe 35-50 people in there comfortably. This stage was scaled down to about 20% of its size at past festivals. It was supposed to be the stage that represented real Detroit artists. I guess Paxahau thought only 35-50 people would care about about this stage and the Detroit artists; there seemed to be a lack of them this year.

I hit up the Beatport Stage where John Johr from Paxahau was opening. I stayed for about 30 minutes of it before leaving. His set was unemotional and uninspiring, and left me with no emotion other that the Amityville Horror slogan, “GET OUT.” Fellefell followed Johr up without missing a beat, literally picking up off Johr’s closing record while it was still spinning and absolutely killing it. I did not leave this area until I had to take off for the Pyramid stage to check out Sean O’Neal a.k.a Someone Else. I was going to break off for a quick second to see Ezekiel Honig , but knew that if I did, I would not be back to hear FelleFell’s closing, since Honig definitely has a way of mesmerizing his listeners.

They seemed to be having a lot of trouble with sound on this stage. I was hoping this would be cleared up, since Dan Bell was playing next—the last time I had the pleasure of seeing him was at the last Paxahau party he played at (with Thomas Brinkmann) where the sound broke down at least three times while he was playing. They continued having problems with this stage through the next few sets. I checked out the beginning of Dan Bell’s set before making it back to the Beatport tent to peek in on Marc Houle. Marc Houle was really throwing down, and I did not want to leave, but my stomach told a different story so I gathered up some of my friends, and headed to Oslo, the local techno/sushi joint. (Oslo is a great spot. They have the best sushi in Detroit, and the best electronic musicians DJing and performing live in the basement bar. Highly recommended.)

I made it back to the festival in time to catch the beginning of James Holden’s set. I was very happy about the extra time that seemed to be allotted to many of the DJs this year, who were playing two-hour sets or longer. I stayed for the first hour of Holden’s set who hands-down represented why he is the CEO of Border Community, and why more people need to check that label out. At about five minutes until nine I made it to the Main Stage area to finally park it, and listen to the concrete stylings of Kooky Scientist (aka Fred Gianelli) followed by Robert Hood.

The sound was atrocious for this stage except for the main floor. I cannot see why they did not take more time with the acoustic design for this stage, since this would be the stage that most people remembered from the festival. My party ended up leaving about 20 minutes before the end of Hood’s set toward the min2Max after-party to which I had tickets waiting at the door for me (via a friend). Hood would have been much better if he would have played in Kooky Scientist’s spot since Hood’s set was not anywhere near that of an opening night closer. Everyone would have benefited by having the Cranky Scientist close the night because Giannelli was absolutely and completely on point.

Gaiser and Troy Pierce fucking leveled the Masonic Temple, of course, leaving no room for closer Hawtin, who seemed plagued with sound problems. Something to keep in mind, future Paxahau event attendees—the price of a small can of pop or an even-smaller bottle of water jumps from $3 to $4 after 2 a.m. according to the Paxa-concessioner who sold them of a cooler in the coat room. I am not sure why the price of alcohol didn’t go up, but maybe that concession was run by Budweiser. I was told that the price increase is customary, and is a standard practice at all Paxahau parties.

I didn’t attend much this day since the only two people I wanted to see for that day were playing on different stages at the exact same time—Niko Marks and Mark Broom. I was really unsure about the J-Dilla tribute, even though it had a lot of top-notch performers taking the stage. I couldn’t help wondering if this was just a cheap attempt by Paxahau to cash in on Jay-Dee’s death. Still, the tribute seemed as though it held the most promise for the day, other than a Planet of the Drums drum ‘n’ bass set which were the major showcases for the day. But I was wrong—after leaving the festival, I headed down to Foran’s Irish Pub which was recently renovated and had been hosting a slew of off-the-cuff, slammin’ DJ sets of late. I had just seen DJ Psycho, an underdog from Flint, Michigan, throw down a wicked booty set the day before, and soon realized that for the next two days, this was the place to be. Especially if you weren’t fond of the blazing heat, which just seemed to get hotter and hotter since the tents this year had gotten smaller and smaller.

I couldn’t wait for this day to start. It started slow, as I had to wait at the press gate for a new wristband. I had cut mine off the previous night, and was now being scolded by the sneering, short, bald guy. I asked him if they just expected me to sleep in it, and he remarked a rather loud, “YES!” It was at this point that I remarked that I was not told to keep my wristband. I was not a patient in a hospital or a prisoner at Guantanamo Bay, and I don’t wear wristbands to sleep. I also remarked that I thought they would have changed colors on wristbands anyway for security purposes. He looked at me like I was crazy. I guess security is a pretty crazy concept for some people.Carl Craig was opening this day with a three-hour set. I couldn’t believe this guy was going to play this festival again after his bad experiences in the past. True perseverance—Carl played an amazing set.I got a quick bite before making it over to the Beatport Stage where I watched Mikkel Metal perform, and spoke to him briefly afterwards. He was very happy to finally be invited to perform at the festival this year. I asked him what he thought about scheduling this year at the festival, including the fact that instead of spreading all the Kompakt artists out over the course of the weekend for maximum exposure and visibility, everybody was crammed into the Beatport tent on the final day. Mikkel rolled his eyes and chuckled. He explained he was not a promoter so he shouldn’t say much about this, especially if he was expected to be invited back. He did, however, comment that most of the DJs and artists performing were doing after-parties to pay for expenses. I explained that I couldn’t see one reason why anyone wasn’t paid enough, considering how expensive single tickets and a three-day pass cost, as well as the extra 13% surcharge Paxahau was charging on all credit card orders. Mikkel chuckled once again, and explained that wasn’t the problem with him, but he could see how it might be a problem with others.

I cut our little conversation short since I needed to be at the Real Detroit Stage to see Kill Memory Crash. Mikkel told me before leaving to be careful so I didn’t get grouped in with the subversives. We both laughed, and I was off to Kill Memory Crash. I had missed the first 20 minutes of their performance, but the last 40 more than made up for it. I can honestly say I don’t think there was a stage big enough for their sound, and for some reason they were placed in the smallest tent. Go figure.

After they finished I spoke briefly with Adam of Kill Memory Crash before heading over to the Main Stage to see Adam Beyer finish off his blazing set. Beyer was followed by Derrick May, who dropped classic after classic. I didn’t stay for May’s whole set as I wanted to speak with Clark Warner, but realized upon entering the way-too-overcrowded Beatport tent that this just wasn’t going to be possible. I stayed for the finish of his set, and the start of Mr. Jeremy P. Caulfield’s live performance, which was more than promising. Then I dashed out to see Nitzer Ebb, who where absolutely hammering down songs like there was no tomorrow. They were followed up by Richie Hawtin, who seemed much less plagued with sound problems this shake around.

It was sad to see this stage as packed as it was when other tents weren’t full. I can definitely see how scheduling here was completely mismanaged—going on at the same time were the absolutely unreal performance from Kero (perhaps a couple hundred feet over in the Real Detroit tent), and one of the best DJ sets I have probably heard out of Frank Martiniq in the Beatport tent.

Overall, I had a good time at Movement: DEMF 2006. I got to see a lot of performers that I would not get the chance to see or speak with normally. But…I also think that it could have been promoted much, much better, and with three months of planning, there shouldn’t have been the level of confusion and disorganization there was surrounding this event. The pre-flyering was not straightforward, and there were no times posted until the very last minute. I did like the schedule booklets being handled by REAL DETROIT WEEKLY, a very nice presentation with lots of important, pertinent info and minimal advertising. I didn’t see the need for volunteers for the most part. If there was such a need, I didn’t really see it used efficiently. I mean, why else would you place a qualified studio engineer to put up flyers?I can say, however, that I was disappointed by the size of the tents, and the lack of decent audio fidelity on all of the stages and tents. I felt that with the amount Paxahau was charging for a three-day pass (including a surcharge), the sound quality should have been top-notch and unmatched. Paxahau has been known for throwing great parties in the past, but the last few events have caused me to reassess my position on them. I wonder if they’re are losing touch with their roots, like Detroit’s own Eminem, who would never even have got a MC gig at the Motor Lounge if it wasn’t for techno promoters. So Em, be glad some people still listen to techno. I was also very disappointed with the terrible scheduling, and the definite lack of Detroit artists. I just don’t understand how you can throw a musical festival to benefit the city of Detroit without more musical representation from Detroit artists. I mean, C’MON, how can you throw a electronic music festival for in Detroit without at least having someone from the Underground Resistance camp? And finally all I can say to the person handling scheduling this year is that next year it will work so much better if you take your head out your ass. Until next time…

Alan Braxe has sold over two million records that are aimed straight for the heart of the dancefloor, most of them copies of “Music Sounds Better with You,” one of the best ever tracks about dancing and a giant crossover record that even the people I know who despise dance music grudgingly admit to liking (it was #2 in the UK back in August 1998.) Almost unbelievably, before the beginning of this month Alan Braxe had never played a DJ set in public, apparently preferring to be known for his production work.

His doing so deserves an in-depth report. Unfortunately this ain’t it, but I’ll endeavour to get as many details down as possible. It’s not that I wasn’t paying attention, but more that I was paying attention in the wrong way (with every sinew and fibre of my body—but not many brain cells). Also, I was drunk. If I could just write “I danced and had a lot of fun,” I would.

The Key, in Kings Cross, is a club that I’d had an awful experience with previously when it, along with other clubs in the same complex, was part of a hellishly overcrowded, incompetently organized, and hateful in all ways Soulwax “warehouse party.” Tonight, though, it was fine: friendly bar staff, a honeycomb dance floor that made me worry when the giant bees would be returning, and so much dry ice that I felt I was in a dream sequence from Manhunter or Risky Business. The sound was crisp and clear and bumping, but not so loud that I had no voice the next day from YELLING.

Here’s how things end up being in London—Justice and the Ed Banger Records crew along with Mr. Oizo were playing on the same night. In the club next door! And they got a bigger turnout, which is a shame but to be expected in the real or imagined constant NOW of dance music. On the plus side (for me, if not Braxe), it meant that there weren’t any boggly-eyed pill casualties except for one mullethead who’d travelled all the way from Scotland to get mashed and forget everything by the next day. Even he was friendly enough in a I-am-gonna-give-you-a-high-five kind of way.

What made Braxe decide that now was the time to play out (and in London rather than his homebase of Paris), I don’t know. Maybe it was the chance to DJ with Vulture label mate Kris Menace, who did the heavy lifting, manning the decks for most of the evening whilst Braxe cued up re-edits on his laptop. Not that division of labour mattered. As a force, they were hands in the air exciting all night, starting as they meant to go on—hi-impact—with a pitched up “LFO,” “Body Language” and some Chicken Lips before moving into filter-disco. There was surprisingly little I knew except for Lifelike and Kris Menace’s “Discopolis” and a vocal-less, re-cut and stripped-to-the-bone “Music Sounds Better with You” that removed the anthemic whilst keeping the disco propulsion. It was like a suite of variations on the first three seconds of the track, ever spawning and replicating. Near the end, three hours later, there was a baffling mindwarp of an edit of “O Superman” by Laurie Anderson (was it chosen because it also reached a highest chart position of #2 in the UK?) I emailed my brother to find out what I’d forgotten but all he could add was that Braxe “looks like a typical man from the Tricolour French textbooks from school… (i.e. like a sex criminal).”

Then Cagedbaby stepped up and killed the vibe as easily as Braxe had killed EQs with a set of ‘roided-out Bloc Party remixes and tracks that instruct you to have fun just a little too emphatically. It didn’t really matter, though. The best was over with and I managed to get chucked out by the bouncers anyway. I stood in the cool morning light, ears still ringing, loose limbed, and sweaty because I hadn’t stopped moving all night.[Patrick McNally]