A world without thumbs The story starts a long time ago on an unrecognizable street in the heart of Chelsea – the ‘alternative’ area of this great city. A club called TWILO situated West 27th pretty ordinary looking, just a simple black tent with TWILO written in bold white letters on the outside. A parking garage located right opposite the entrance, and on the cross street, a couple of deli’s and gas stations. Monday through Thursday that one street was like the thousands of other small alleys around this city, nothing exceptional. Yet every Friday and Saturday night this quiet location seemed to take on an entirely new entity. Hoards of people, pouring out of the subway, pouring out of their Porsches, their BMW’s, their Mercedes, their Limousines all-waiting patiently in line, small smiles on the faces of the regulars, and looks of anxious anticipation on the faces of the newcomers, not knowing what to expect. The quickening of the pulse as you approached the front of the line, presenting your ID with your birth-date on it to the bouncers, and proceeding through the doors with a feeling that you had to feel to believe. Passing through the familiar metal detectors, walking up to the cash machine and being charged $5 for it’s use J to withdraw the money to pay the cover charge to get into TWILO. It is at this point that you hear the faint strains of the beautiful bass wafting from the Phazon sound system, famous for it’s clarity and depth. After paying and handing the small ticket to the bouncer, you walk up the stairs and leave your coat at a coat check the size of some other clubs around the city. Back down the stairs into the lounge area outside the dance floor, looking around, seeing familiar faces, watching the huge grins as recognition dawns. Walking through the arches straight onto the dance floor, watching the crowd in a frenzy bouncing to the music that is pumping so loud now, that you can hardly hear yourself think. The energy so thick, it can be cut with a knife, the love so deep it does your heart good just to take a walk through the dance floor, and a respect in the air that catches you in it’s grip and holds you as your eyes turn upwards in awe as the DJ on the platform a little bit higher than the main dance floor spins his tunes, expressing himself in a way that only very few know how to do. I miss it.
