silverbull

I love it when danny t is on the mic, once in a while tedd patterson will say something to the crowd like "move bitches" lol. Um as for talking on the mic i heard larry levan use to speak at the paradise garage alot as well.

and also www.njguido.com

You do realize the article was about how they werent wanted or needed at SOUNDFACTORY,where it was all about dancing till you couldnt walk anymore, and not just standing and thinking because your in a costume your important and dont really contribute anything to a party where its music and dance driven. I liked the movie as well but would never want to be part of that scene or a scene like that. Im all about dancing and being around dancers all night long.

I think theres alot of good points in this article that was written in 1992. Shows the DIFFERENCE between certain cultures within the house music scene. Heres the story: THIS STORY IS FROM 1992: Tod couldn’t understand it. How could there be a place none of his friends went to? How could a New York club not want a piece of their freak glamour? This is the Club Kids we’re talking about, capital C, capital K, more K dahling? Fierce and pierced nightlife royalty, proud fucked-up misfits on a hundred talk shows. Wigs, drama, platforms. Pink leather Manga costumes that took weeks. The cabbie up there gave them a hard time for how they looked. Tod caught him in the mirror, chewing on some lame comment. ‘That metal in your face go rusty in the tub?’ Probably couldn’t speak English if he wanted, dumb towel-head. Those backwards glances though: guilty sex thoughts. You think we’re freaks but you’d love to fuck us. Katie was pissed. She wanted to go to the Project X party, so she was sulking, plastic collar turned up and her face pressed against the cab door. "This’ll be great" he promised. "No-one else there does gender-fuck — we’ll rule." "Everyone’s at USA, moron." moaned Katie. He ignored her. She’d be fine once the eX kicked in. Jesus, we’re the ones who make the effort, he thought. We give our lives to look this great. Limelight, USA, all the best clubs want us —pay us to be there. How could Sound Factory be different? He’d always assumed it was one of those places no-one cared about. Filled with welfare cases who don’t know any better. It was after-hours and it just sounded a little… ghetto. No liquor for a start, and only ever one DJ. Michael Alig said it sucked. But fuck it, he’d give it a chance. It was in an English fashion magazine. They said it was the total happening place. Madonna went one time, and dance label people flew over from London to visit. Michael just went on the wrong night, or — most likely — was too fucked up to remember. Tod felt like a pioneer. If Sound Factory was a cool club after all, he’d be there to claim it. With no other Club Kids, it’d be a cinch to be astounding. You had to really work to shine on a night in the Slimelight Chapel — with at least 20 kids doing their maniac worst. Imagine a place with no competition. They said everyone here wore street clothes or did simple-elegant. Boy, would they lap him up. He’d heard there were a few drag queens, but the old-fashioned kind, the ones who just wanted to pass. And Tod was ready to deliver: 12-inch platform sneakers, custom-made by that cute place on Second Avenue, Nikes with fifteen layers of soles in three-colour zig-zags. His Pat Field fetish pants with the lace-up legs, plus a studded belt and a collar from a piece of rubber he’d begged off the old Polack shoe guy. Hair back-combed to perfection in carrot orange. And he still had "AIDS RISK" razored into his chest from last week’s ‘Viral Spiral’ party. Beat that. Fabulous. And with her peep-hole dress, Katie was just as hot. Even in that stinking mood she’d draw stares. "This is the only line," said the clueless Puerto Rican doorman, laughing at something. "Eighteen American dollars." Katie tried to leave. Tod bit his lip and reminded himself how they would set the place on fire. Against all these dull black kids, are you kidding? Once they found the promoters they’d get their gold cards, drinks tickets, their own list. He saw the envy on the doorman’s face; saw him whisper something to a security guard, probably figuring how much these pants cost. "You like them?" said Tod, "Patricia Field." "Yeah, um, have a good time," said the boy, cracking a strange smile.Freddie felt the twist in his chest. However many times he lined up against that warehouse wall, it always made his heart sprint. This was the most secret place he knew. This was like leaving the world. Freddie and Hollis — Sergeant Hollis — were brothers. With their dark-skinned Asiatic features that’s stating the obvious, but they were also brothers — maybe even twins. Freddie was the kind of guy whose non-stop joking tested every friendship to destruction. Right now he worked in a Christopher Street coffee bar, tempting customers with pinpoint accuracy. He could take you through most of Manhattan and some of Brooklyn showing you the places he’d been fired from. His brother, Sergeant Hollis, was a sergeant. He was such a stomp-your-face-in-the-dirt kind of sergeant that no-one in the whole US Army suspected he was a fag, and the few who did were so respectful — or just plain scared —they wouldn’t dream of making it an issue. It had been strong glue to grow up black and gay in the same family, but these days they didn’t spend much time together. Too often Hollis found himself boring Freddie with the same lectures their mother had used to inspire him into the military. Saturday nights, however, were the exception — for the simple reason that both Hollis and Freddie could dance. In fact, as they turned on back-heels, double dropped on double beats, flourished on the eight bar and bounced flawlessly in and out of the rhythm, what these brothers could do was more like fine-art sculpture. Compared to the doggish wagging of the average dancer, their moves were the slinky curl and flick of a cat’s tail. You would see them, bang centre under the eight-foot mirrorball, their hands shooting together into the air, elbows synched at the same loose angle, their faces wearing sledgehammer smiles, turning, clapping, spinning, pounding and dripping their way through their seven-hour weekly work-out. A circle would open up and a ring of faces would catch their grins, offering applause for their more intense creations and a whoop or a wagged finger when needed — the queens’ sign for ‘Ovah!’ Sometimes there would be three, maybe four bodies cued up and dancing inside their circle — when other astonishing movers had hopped in and locked onto their waves and angles. Their more complex choreography would amaze for a couple of bars and then amuse, as the steps collapsed in a laughing heap around their ears. Often they’d work up a call-and-response routine, with Hollis scribbling a challenge to Freddie, all twists and dips and Motown half-steps, ending with an arms-folded ‘follow that!’, and Freddie, keeping a straight face as he shot the reply back across the next few bars, giggling into a floppy ‘I-messed-up’ hug with his brother even though he’d got the moves exactly down. In their shorts, with sweat-towels tucked in the waistbands, with their happiness spreading in great dancefloor circles, with the hand-held spotlight tuned in on them from the Goddess of Light, and occasionally from Junior’s booth itself, these two big baby brothers would get to work sparking up the party. Seen as a whole, the floor was a collection of similar islands of excitement, each a dynamo pushing up the energy level of the place. One queen, always dressed in a Catholic schoolgirl’s miniskirt, made a speciality of vertical take-off: jumping up or landing on the last crash of an eight, or just bouncing like a wiffle-ball to the 4:4. Another would be lost in marathon sessions of tribal stamping, like some witchdoctor dancing with the demons till he pissed blood. There were the voguers, the runway queens, the banjee boys and a thousand amazing others, all lost in the steady explosion of the club. Tonight, Freddie is in a particular groove. They’ve done some legendary eX and instead of the normal sound system arrangement, the music is starting inside his head and flowing from his body, through the other dancers, into the speakers and up on high into Junior’s decks. Every flip of an elbow, every slip and kick of his feet, controls a different part of the track. The drop of his chest is the kick-drum, his feet work the snare, the bounce of his neck and shoulders is the hi-hat, the slide of his skinny hips works the bassline, and the bubbling synths and strings come direct from his fingers. The snatch of vocals, a diva yelping ‘Feel So Right’, is really Freddie belting out the words himself. When the energy of the song starts to level, he uses his shoulders sideways to bring in some tom-toms, ready to fire it up again with a second drum-line. He’ll use this fresh rhythm to work up a new track, adding elements bit by bit as his body parts let go driving the previous song. Freddie has the music lifting, with Junior tuned in to his signals and layering track over silver track in an ever-rising climax, when Hollis comes back from the bar with a couple of apples. Hollis taps him on the shoulder — Whosh: an extra cymbal crash — and passes him the fruit. Then he checks out Freddie’s moves, stretches the circle and jumps back into the music. For a while the brothers drift off into solos. But this new track is an unrelenting groove and as the music gets more intense, they get back and work together, driving the club into a burning, unending trance. Now the music, the dancers, the dark world inside the club, is moving like a single muscle. Like an engine at top cruising speed, even though the energy is at a peak, the motion of the dancefloor is completely smooth. A hypnotic Wild Pitch track builds imperceptibly, a perfect moment captured and looped into a monster. No-one is on the sidelines. Everyone is locked in, with their moves stripped right down to the raw basics. They can dance like this for hours, days… forever if they have to. Then suddenly: ‘Oooch!’. Not ‘Owwww!!’ like the start of a devastating bassline, but ‘oooch!’; for an emergency interruption; the ‘unnnnh!!’ of something horribly out of synch. "What the fuck?" Like a key-clash between two records, or a missed mix with its rolling double-thump, this tremendous, awful noise brings them actual pain. Somewhere in the music, there’s an off-beat ‘clack’ which is threatening their breathing. It’s the ‘clack’ of rigid hips, bowed shoulders, unbending knees. For Freddie and Hollis it’s like you just slipped some pebbles in their shoes. "Damn." "Jesus." "Where?" "Over there." "Not that freak. Fuck!" Clack-clack-clack through the crowd: a noise like teeth on glass. When Hollis looks towards it he sees a single figure. All the other dancers are living inside the rhythm of the music — riding it, creating it — so they disappear like objects in an unblinking eye. There’s only one person left visible on the floor because he is so ridiculously off-beat. He is no-beat, beatless, a non-beat person, banging a pair of wooden sticks together. And he’s the nastiest freak you ever saw. Hollis, as required by his standing orders, takes charge. Marching up to him: "If it sounded good they would have put it on the record." The freak is one of those overdone techno weirdos, a stick insect on enormous platform shoes, a bleach-white face with orange hair and black soot round his eyes. He’s so completely out of place the dancefloor has isolated him in a circle. Unlike the rings of smiles that grow round Hollis and Freddie, this one is made from people’s backs. If you come here, you come to dance. If you can’t dance, looking sick won’t save you. The freak tries to ignore Hollis’s instruction." "I’m not sure he likes my blocks," he bleats to his companion, a girl who thinks wearing a dress that lets her grey titties hang free is a great contribution to the party. Hollis didn’t notice her before, he was so incensed with this guy’s clacking. "He’s only jealous," she says. "You have a beautiful horse-tail here," grabbing at Hollis’s towel. He’s ready to slap her. The freak seems to think the problem is solved and resumes his noisy chopping; the freakette starts moving in spazzy punky whirls, motioning happily for Hollis to join in. Instead he cups his hand to her ear. "It’s nothing personal but your boyfriend is bringing me down beating out that bad rhythm." She smiles a stupid love-me grin and tries to grab Hollis by the hands for a dance. Balanced up in the clouds, stick insect is defiantly batting his blocks, his rhythm even worse for being called into question. All over the floor, dancers are turning to look. Faces turn to scowls and the energy slides until it’s barely above subsistence level. It is a unanimous decision, voted on by ecstasy telepathy, that these plastic shock-troopers are completely, well, wrong. Hollis, now joined by his brother, just stands shaking at these idiot monsters. Freakette looks at her tits as if to say, "aren’t I weird enough for you?" Finally Millie, 250 pounds of uptown drag perfection, homes in on the drama. She snatches the freak’s wrist to stop his racket, her teen-Maybelline realness hiding some tough mechanic’s muscles, "Excuse me," she says politely, considering the problem. Still gripping his hand: "Does your mama… or-whatever-nasty-astronaut-Robbie-the-robot-bitch-that-laid-the-egg-your-ugly-ass-hatched-from…" (A smile from Freddie, Hollis is stone.) "Does she know you’re here disrespecting a lot of decent people’s church time?" Millie is almost level with the seven foot clown’s face; he doesn’t even struggle. "I should have you whipped," she says pointing at the door as a great parting of the crowd makes their exit from the dancefloor as easy as possible. "And I can!" The freaks walk. Order is reclaimed. It’s going to take some time to build it back, but it’s a long night. There’s the odd petulant clack from the bleachers, then Junior teases in a new favourite to wipe things clean, and relieved, the floor starts its climb back up to a long, steady peak. The dancers welcome the fresh song with squeals. "Here we go!" Soon two thousand people are moving together again, pouring all their energy into this huge intimate room. After strutting to the bar and back, raising no interest outside of a few banjee giggles, the club kids head back where they belong: a night of the wrong drugs at a club which keeps the lights on. They’ll repair their faces and someone will take pictures. Their visit has been a warning from the future. One day, New York will fall to their fuck-you influence, to the candy ravers, the Israeli smokers and the pale dead muscle of the Chelsea boys. Tonight though, all is right. This is still Sound Factory: the legend, the big secret. The last great underground club. As sunlight edges the city’s spires, inside there’s warmth and bass and darkness. "What a shit-hole!" says Tod, flapping in the cold air for a cab up to Times Square. "Fucking ****** queens,"

what was that comment about ERICK MORILLO being "INTERNATIONAL" and not DANNY TENAGLIA, how old are you and how long you been into this scene? Danny Tenaglia is a music legend and is respected the world over, dont go by any stupid dj magazines or websites top 100 polls. Heres some info for you out of the past 20yrs of the WINTER MUSIC CONFERENCE, 15yrs in a row DANNY TENAGLIAS party attracts a whos who of the industry worldwide to his parties.

Oh damn you called me a toolshed, how am i suppose to get over that, ANYHOW most of the best dancers are in the deephouse scene of course theres some exceptions as well,IMO: http://youtube.com/watch?v=HiKUjw_mwUs http://youtube.com/watch?v=6miFI8uGY4I http://youtube.com/watch?v=mJJ_LJEdMls New york city legend: SHANNON "WHICH WAY" SHA:

The future of dance music QUENTIN HARRIS and a blast from the past VICTOR ROSADO of PARADISE GARAGE fame, is def gonna be something to look forward too.

i hope now people will learn the history of techno and know its influences and who created it.

I dont get your sentence here, are you trying to imply something negative towards dance and gay culture as well? And just so you know DANCING is a culture that has been around for a long time.

TEDD PATTERSON@CIELO and PACHA for the CODE RED party is where its at tonite.

Good question, but it was some time at picotto and i didnt stay the whole time. But looks like im having a party that night anyhow a few blocks away at nest, so will have to swing by later on in the night anyhow b4 goin to work at 8am.

nevamind.

Im haivng my party tonite tony over at TUTS in teh lower east side its no cover all ngiht and expect some nice good ebats and some dancing goin on. The adress is 196 orchard street, hope you make it thru, if not ahve fun wherever you go.

No hating at all, im frineds with a lot of guidos and know a few from various parties. I dunno why people assume its hate.

Well whatever you do have fun and if you come thru to my party cool say wusup thats me in my pic. Upstairs party will go on till 4am while downstairs well thats another story with when it closes hehe.

Just you and the guy who got offended.

Lately when he has played ibiza he has been playing similar to nyc, iguess the transformation is complete, good for himand his new fans. His old fans will remember his "strictly rhythm" sound from yrs back though.

I use to use campers, diesel, my fake diesels that i called wiesels were the best i had for 2 yrs until they stopped makign them, now i use____________.

there black guidos,latin guidos,asian guidos,who said anyhting bout guidos being italian only.

As if we dont already know what i look like but hear ya go, i doubt this thread will go on for very long especillay since people are shy and like to hide behind their "internet" persona, bunch of pussies,lol:

Well i dont think my party that im doing tonite in the lower east side will exactly be a college crowd, but it will have a mix of peoples. Its a brand new lounge but expect some serious dancing nad letting loose. So if your interested come on down it will be free and could be your starting point of the night, heres all the info:

You do realize erick plays differently over seas than he does in nyc, at least in most places. Over seas he sticks with teh sound that made him and what i loved up until about 2002/2003 when i think his style completely changed. But morepower to him cause hes doing great for himself.

Holy shit didnt realize i posted 3 videos, and yeah i know the guy in the last video ahh i think i copied and pasted the email that was sent to me, and forgot to remove that one. SUp old t, not hating just bored.

There is a difference and i think these videos show them. HOUSE DANCING: GUIDO DANCING: http://youtube.com/watch?v=7l6sLQjVNRQ And this guy is somewhere in between http://youtube.com/watch?v=8t9eKnoHfxU I know some house dancers dont know what the guido shuffle is and i know some guidos dont know anything else other than thier dance. So thought i would share these videos for people on here who also dont know the difference.

Depends on what type of scene your looking for, music club wiht peopel dancing and chilling, or trendy bottles and modles places where danicng isnt the first priority. If your looking for a club scene to dance i suggest you check out CIELO for TEDD PATTERSON monthly party at cielo, great beats and great crowd, a good mixture of club heads, dancers, pretty people, trendy, djs/producers. Or for abigger room Experiecenm goto PACHA for the CODE RED party with djs LUCCA RICCI and JAIMY handiling business in the main room, ITS a mega club so im guessing you know what to expect. But if your looking for the chi then try home and cielo is very lovely inside. And if you guys and girls are out the night befor may i suggest a party imthrowing int he lwoer east side at a brand new lounge called TUTS heres all the info: