by Suzan Revah

When you’re as much of a dance floor whore as I am, it’s fun to be able to report back on a virgin circuit experience. Not only had I never been to Winter Party before, I’d never been to Miami before. I went in with no expectations, and came away utterly satisfied. That being said, I experienced the Miami circuit more than I experienced Winter Party specifically. Given that I had just about 48 hours in which to do so, I went more wide than deep, which gave me a good feel for the Miami vibe, if not for Winter Party itself.

I didn’t make it into town in time for Rising Tide party with Rosabel, nor for the Winter Party pool party with the Perry Twins, which was unfortunate. Word on the dance floor a few nights later was that Rosabel rocked their set, and apparently the weather was perfect for the pool party. I’m sure the Perry Twins were perfect for the pool party, too, having seen them do their matchy-matchy disco choreography at the White Party Palm Springs pool party.

Instead, I arrived just in time for the Rough Waters “leather dance event” at Sea Monster in Fort Lauderdale, with leather-crowd favorite Ted Eiel at the decks. Turnout was good, and everyone was decked out in enough gear to make a San Franciscan feel right at home. Teddy was turning out the chunky beats and the vibe was friendly. Only the smokers on the dance floor weren’t.

From there I made an unexpected stop at the Atlantis Sail-Away party at Manor, featuring DJ Manny Lehman. Though the venue was odd, with an attached café and quite a crowd of people who seemed to have no idea there was a circuit party taking place on site, the scene was upbeat. The boys that were still there when I arrived didn’t quite seem like they were among the Atlantis set, but then again neither did Manny’s music, which had a distinctly Latin flavor to it. I enjoyed it, and felt I got a good taste of why Manny earned the nickname “Latin from Manhattan.”

The next day I had the pleasure of brunching at DJ Frank Wild’s Miami bungalow before heading into the weekend’s main event, the Beach Party. Getting orientation from a Miami dance floor veteran set a great tone for the day, and despite a complete (yet completely typical) cluster fuck at the ticketing gate trying to get my media pass, my feet hit the sand at about 1:30.

That left me plenty of time to enjoy the day, or so I thought. A few hours in, the weather was just a little too brisk and breezy, and the beats were more than a little too hard and disjointed for a beach party. I felt the event flew by too quickly and perhaps never really hit its stride. DJ Brett Henrichsen had the mood dialed up just right in his opening set, but Brazilian headliner Ana Paula took the crowd somewhere it never wanted to go, with a distinct lack of happy vocals and several noticeable drops that the crowd didn’t recover from well. Several times, she came out from behind the DJ booth and seemed to be doing some Offer Nissim-style crowd-conducting, but I found myself wishing she had stayed behind the decks to dig deeper into her collection for something more beach-appropriate. I kept wondering, how does a BRAZILIAN not know what people want to dance to on the beach during a sunny day? It makes no sense.

The other thing that made no sense was the controversy created by Peter Rauhofer and his event, which competed with Sunday night’s “official” Winter Party event. Lots of people at the beach party expressed a sense of shame about choosing Peter Rauhofer and Offer Nissim at Mansion over Orbit with Tracy Young opening for Boris, especially when planes kept flying by the beach party advertising the competing event (tacky!), but after the Ana Paula disaster it seemed appropriate to choose the double-headliner situation, even though I didn’t want to miss Tracy Young.

The party at Mansion was hot. The club reminded me of Alegria NYC and Cro-Bar more than anything, and it was packed from the time I got there, just past midnight, through to closing at 5am. But Offer Nissim was a no-show, and I have to wonder what behind-the-scenes drama led to that disappointment. Rauhofer, who took over the decks well after 2am, didn’t play the darkest set I’ve ever heard from him, so I didn’t feel as disappointed as I might have otherwise. There were anthems and some church music. They were stripped spare, but kept the crowd energized, even through several more unfortunate drops that seemed to rip a hole through an otherwise dynamic and fun dance floor.

In general, I didn’t experience the attitude I thought might come with Miami. I encountered way more cunty in New York City, and the “body fascism” I was warned about in Miami never felt oppressive. The boys were diverse and beautiful, and there was an interesting thug aesthetic, but there was also plenty of genuine smiles and dancing from the heart. I felt very welcome, and had a particularly great time with the Miami extension of the Brazilian pack I run with here at home. I also spent several hours bouncing to the beats with DJ Luke Johnstone, who had the night off for a change.

All in all, I’d recommend Winter Party Miami, to circuit newbies and veterans alike. Of course I heard many references to how “Miami ain’t like it used to be,” but there’s always someone longing for a bygone heyday, and I preferred to take Miami for what it’s worth right now. Winter Party production seemed a bit bloated, but professional, and in general the circuit scene seemed robust and lively. I’m ready to go back, and I’ve already got a date on the calendar, when I set sail on Atlantis’ Allure of the Seas in February 2011.

by Leif Wauters

I never thought a dance party could make someone cry so much, but that’s exactly what Sydney’s Toybox did to our friend Mike last Sunday due to joy overload. It was a similar reaction for other first-timers, my partner Mo included. Between magnificent music, a horny crowd, fun surprises, and the most ridiculously fantastic light show we’ve ever seen, overload was unavoidable.

After a relatively early night from Mardi Gras the night before, Mo and I woke around 10 AM to a text from our party companions, Steve and Mike, calling the troops to action for Toybox. We showered, donned some gay attire, forced down a bite and had a sunny trot over to Taylor Square where we would meet to share a cab across the Harbour Bridge to Sydney’s classic home of family amusement, Luna Park. We were greeted at the doors to the event by a stout, yet lovely, fairy then went through a thorough pat-down before being quickly ushered inside. Once again the threat of heavy security didn’t materialize and entrance to the party was a breeze, although a relatively removed but noticeable police presence could be felt throughout the night inside the event.

Steve and I had been blessed by the party before so we knew what was in store, and were really looking forward to the reactions from our company of Toybox virgins to the visual extravaganza that awaited. Seeing it through their eyes was akin to seeing your first fiery sunset and being shocked by it’s awesome beauty, and we were so glad we could share this event with our loved ones.

We entered the party past what would later become the outdoor chill/smoking arena where you could also grab a grilled sausage if eating became an absolute necessity. Strangely, the rather unappetizing food was directly next to the Tumble Bug ride patrons were encouraged in the FAQs to avoid riding if uncertain about retaining the contents of their stomaches. I hope many senseless boys didn’t fall pray to the combo. Thank God sizable frozen fruit bars were distributed at key moments during the party, quite seamlessly I might add, which was enough to calm our bellies until after the night was through.

The first room was a small dance area that would be the slightly slower-tempo escape from the fury of the main hall. It could hold a couple hundred at best, but was more of a pass through for smokers with a couple of “Toylet” options. It was also where a large barrel of chilled water remained filled and available on the bar for parched partiers to top up for free thanks to the Code of Practice for Dance Parties passed in 1997 that made providing chill rooms and free water requirements for getting their license. Awesome thinking, and so needed here in the states (not that many promoters making bank of each pricy, small bottle would agree). Even the purchased bottles of water at Toybox were twice the size of the meager offerings the night before for the same $4 price. Just the first of so many ways Toybox sets itself apart when it comes to looking after it’s guests.

We gathered our wits and stormed the doors to the main hall at half past noon, joining a few other early bodies there as well to stake out their turf and enjoy the building momentum and energy. I love getting to an event like this early. You can stretch your wings to a few dreamy early tracks, scope out the nooks and crannies, and attempt to count the lasers that would soon be scorching the room overhead. Although the early tracks were a soft start to the meat of the event, after a few measures from opening DJ Matt Bachl it was clear the music was already far superior to anything heard the night before. We were home and beyond excited for the ecstatic afternoon to come.

Our other friends began filtering in and most were accounted for by about 2 PM. We staked out a spot near stage right where our troop of furry, smelly bears could be our jubilant selves and scare away those weary of the arousing musk we’d built up from the night before. Although there were other hirsute guests, ours was a seasoned and aggressive bunch who had a love of dancing and the smell to prove it.

The music had been teetering on full-throttle for a while and the crowd was ready for anything when chrysalis exploded. The already gorgeous decor of spinning, mirrored columns and movable rigging draped with delicate sheer panels was set ablaze to a rampant version of “Sunshine on a Cloudy Day” by sixteen, count them – 16 – perfectly spaced, full-spectrum lasers. An emotional cheer overtook the music as we were greeted the beloved production of lighting genius you expect from Toybox. The newbies amongst us stared in amazement as the well-crafted and epic laser show began rolling over our heads. The music was already driving and delicious, the crowd eager, and the party a Gold-winning shot past Mardi Gras, but the sometimes star-bursts/sometimes aurora borealis was the overwhelming addition that caused our friend Mike to express his joy in tears over the next couple of hours. That and the occasional “WOW” spelled by three fingers forming W’s on each side of his open mouth that was gasping for reality that wouldn’t return many hours from then.

For the rest of the afternoon it was difficult to pull away for a smoke, drink, or bathroom break, but after a while we reminded ourselves that the music and lights would still be as fabulous when we returned and Mike would still be barely able to dance through his emotional epiphany that Toybox had bested the many epic events he had attended and helped produce over the years.

Leaving the floor and passing throughout the club was easy despite the sold-out crowd. However, each time we returned to our friends the crowd had encroached further, till some of us were battling elbows and rude neighbors in our increasingly crowded and inconsiderate neighborhood. Being beaten by boney boys and girls storming through or muscling into our space was the only downer of the night, and although it could in no way tarnish the party that was stellar in every other way, it took effort to navigate the negativity.

Just off the rear of the main dance floor was another busy bar, followed by the play room. As if the rest of the event wasn’t full of hi-jinx and nonsense, the rear chill room was furnished with kid’s furniture, stacks of oversized Logos, stuffed animals, and array of toys that would spoil a preschool. A silly adjunct to the serious dancing taking place a few feet away.

Back in the Big Top Arena there were a few areal performers through the night and a series of silly trinkets magically dispersed along the way to toy with with our minds and fill our pockets with mementos. But the real show was the driving, progressive, sometime camp (think “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” from Sound of Music at 142 bpm or more) soundtrack and cosmic, visual battle that took center stage ’til the encore was played by the second DJ, Steven Hales, just past 8 PM. Some of us joked that we wished it we were back at 3 PM again so we could revel longer in what I humbly feel is the best dance party on Earth, but my body would soon snap me out of that fantasy as sore legs, back and feet began to show themselves on the horizon.

Sadly, we couldn’t make the first wave of busses that would return us to Taylor Square, so rather than queuing with hundreds of others, we hopped the train, complimentary Toybox Spring Water bottles in hand, and deposited our friends along the way to some much deserved sleep that eventually overtook the lasers shooting beneath our eyelids. Cuddled next to my partner in the last dark of the day, we remembered the oath we and our friends took somewhere amidst the glorious madness, that we “pledge our allegiance to Toybox” and without hesitation look forward to the next epic installment.

But when it comes to Toybox, one thing is true – the party is so special because every piece is designed to be a perfect companion to the others. Their unparalleled lasers would be poorly paired with anything other than the unrelenting progressive sound they groom from their DJs, the trance-like journey is not the norm at most US or European events, trippy trinkets would be frowned upon at a leather event, and the playroom escape would be lost at a party laden with tribal tracks and attendees who take themselves too seriously. Toybox is a warm and exciting 8-hour dream that is greater than it’s symbiotic parts; expertly conceived and executed to the last detail with love. Endless thanks and accolades to Duncan and his massive team of playful producers and volunteers who continue to create a magical dance experience others should note and admire.

Friday, March 12, 2010

BoyBar

Time: 9:00pm to 2:00am
Where: The Cafe – 2369 Market Street, San Francisco map
http://www.guspresents.com

by Leif Wauters

You know the song “Things Can Only Get Better”? Well, that’s the best way to describe the Sydney Mardi Gras Party after a dismal 2010 edition.

After a couple of days in Brisbane with the in-laws, Morris and I were ready for an exciting night of stellar production, kickin’ music and world-class entertainment with our friends Steve, Mike, Matt and many others. We arrived early as to avoid the rush. Although we succeeded in that, we were strangely met head on by throngs of footy fans leaving a game directly next to Fox Studios. I’m sure the convergence was as odd to them as it was horny to us; all those worked up blokes. But there were no incidents that I saw and the prisoner exchange went well.

Slipping through the gates was an easy affair, despite the press that there would be packs of sniffer-dogs keen on the partiers’ demise. We passed only one that was so busy scanning the crotches of the rapid passer-bys I don’t know how it could have caught anyone. I think it was a ruse and they were looking more for peoples’ reactions to the dog than the dog’s reaction. Sneaky.

Once in we took a tour of the entire complex, starting with the RHI (Royal Hall of Industries). This is where the main DJs and performances were to be. This hall has historically been a spectacle of staging and lights, with the DJ perched above the crowd at the head of the long hall and a massive stage flanking the other end. This year, however, was quite a change-up. The DJ’s deck was still high above at one end, but the stage was a giant, Mayan-looking structure in the center of the dance-floor, biting off almost 10% of the space necessary for the approximately 10,000 people who would normally stock the room. It had three levels for dancers and an ambiguously ancient motif. Above it were four triangular panels that were raised and lowered during the night, the only moving rigging I could find, despite the promotion that moving lighting rigs were returning to the RHI this year. But the staging and rigging were only the beginning of the evening’s disappointments.

Continuing our tour we went on to the Horden where faster, progressive music and fantastic lasers are usually the norm. In the center, hung a unique mobile of inverted mirror balls. A series of columns lowered from the ceiling with satellite dish-looking bowls with mirrors inside. No doubt another creation by would-famous Sydney local Peter Glikshtern. Around the mirrored jewel coiled a giant banner promoting the History of the World, the theme for this year’s event and a canvas onto which they would project laser messages during the evening.

We quickly spun through the Dome – the dark, fetish space – that was yet to take off but was sure to be the site of some antics later, and then checked out the Forum that would be home to live music, before returning to the RHI to stake out a spot and enjoy the building energy as people arrived. Along the way there were a dozen or so hellos as we gathered up a few more mates before landing below the DJ booth.

I’m just going to come out and say it: Bimbo Jones sucked. I have serious doubts the DJ selection committee juried the talent at all this year and that they only hired them based of their names and stature as producers. As the opening DJ, not only did he fail to build and/or maintain the energy, but he’d dance in the booth with his hands in the air as if there was some strange, ambient drive to the drop-outs he was repeatedly throwing at us. There was a few recognizable songs, but certainly not the happy, hands-in-the-air tracks required for that point in the night. I’d ask what he was thinking, but I’d really rather not know. As if understanding the mind of a killer would somehow make me one as well, God forbid I come to understand and appreciate a bad DJ.

The first break in the music was a brief, yet uninspiring, welcome speech by the co-chairs of New Mardi Gras. It was soon followed by the first performance of the night by a gaggle of drag queens and dancers to a mash-up of “Let’s Get This Party Started” and “History Repeating”. It was a fine attempt, but demonstrated that the impact of the center stage was visually disappointing.

DJ Dan Murphy look over after that, but by then we needed a break from disappointing music and fled, along with many others, over to the Horden when Carl Cox was banging out fun, meaty tracks. They weren’t the epic sing-alongs you would expect in the RHI, but they were weaved together with skill and kept the bodies moving. The room was packed to the seated risers on three sides that were also full of people taking a break from dancing or who just wanted a better vantage point. While boogying in that room we made some new friends, ran into others, caught an aerial performance by The Amazing (and very furry) Ari, and reveled in the energy that was lacking along our other stops.

We returned to the RHI to hear the big number, George Michael. It took a while for him to come on and by the time it happened the room was packed! Once the muscled, police-looking dancers flooded the platforms we knew what was coming, but as the song “Outside” began, we were subjected to a drag-king replacement until half way through the number when George took over for the last 5 minutes. After wrapping up what would be his only number, he shouted for us to go “f*@k ourselves silly” and left the stage. So much build up for so little show. Sure, it was great to see him and he looks and sounds great, but one more number would have been really appreciated. Of well. I hope HE had fun.

We fled back to the Horden and returned just before Dan handed the reigns over to global super-star David Guetta who ushered in his set with the best performance of the night – Kelly Rowland singing “When Love Takes Over”. Mo and I had particular reason to enjoy this moment as the wedding theme of the performance mirrored the beginning our holiday. She worked up the crowd with love and energy, despite the occasional weak vocal moments. It was a hug-fest for sure, and the best moment of David’s otherwise dismal set. Yet another example of a producer making a lousy DJ. Can anyone remember Hex Hector’s moment two years before? I guess the New Mardi Gras committee has a short memory for the history of their own party, despite promoting the History of the World. We trudged through about 20 minutes of his rapidly declining music until we made a final switch to the Horden before calling it a night at 4 AM.

32 years of throwing what’s been touted as the greatest LGBT celebration on Earth, and the New Mardi Gras committee tossed out a generally abysmal year. I feel for my partner for whom this was his first, as he is now inclined to give it a skip in the future, not knowing the magic and power it can possess. I also relate to other veterans who were driven early from the event because their hopes of an upturn in the energy never materialized. Sure there were thousands of people there with huge smiles and acres of silliness to be had, but the RHI to me has been and always will be the heart of Sydney Mardi Gras, and this year it was barely beating.

by Leif Wauters

In the midst of Sydney Mardi Gras bedlam, bears have laid their paws on the week with a run of fun events that mark Bear Essentials 14. Wednesday night marked the traditionally crazed and sweaty Underbear party. There are lots of Underbear parties around the world. Bearracuda’s got ‘em, Lazy Bear has a version, but the Harbour City Bears put on the meanest – or friendliest as you want to see it – daddy of them all.

The Sydney clubbing landmark, Arq, used to be home to this furfest, but it’s now moved to another subterranean space down the road called the Oxford Art Factory. Mo and I arrived half past 10 PM to the smiling faces of friends we had yet to run into on our visit. As there’s no smoking in the club, it was funny to see guys milling about the sidewalk in loaner bathrobes so the could light up.

Down a long, spiral flight of stairs we arrived at the entrance to the “arrival room” where we were handed trash…erm…clothes bags for all but our skivvies. We squeezed our way through the rather unengaging front space to where the clothes check was. Well, it was more of a cross-roads between the front and main rooms and the bathrooms where the clothes check was. It was a pretty bad mash-up where it was hard to even grab some wall to change against. Add to that club security continuously clearing the doorways and stripping down was a bit of a challenge.

After dropping our duds, we pushed our way into the main room where local DJ stud-pup, Matt Effect, was already heating up the wall-to-wall kernels who were ready to pop! Watching Matt on stage dancing to his pumpin’ selections, it was hard to keep from moving as well. The only thing that kept Mo and I from kicking it up with our boogying brethren was all the socializing, as we were catching up with friends and familiar faces. Circling the handsome, choka dance-floor, we caught a couple of fun tracks with friends before escaping to the club’s crossroads for some air and an inevitable exit. Sadly we didn’t get to catch much of our friend Robbie’s Australian explosion as we had a full day on tap the next morning and needed to hang on to what wits we had.

All and all, it was successful installment of this not-to-be-missed dream-dance for bears, despite the inescapable challenges of the space. Note to selves – don’t plan to meet your in-laws for the first time the day after this frisky, belly ball. Hooray to the Harbour City Bears for churning out another sold-out year for this banner event.