A story about "CLUB KIDS" goin to SOUNDFACTORY (27th street),long read

[silverbull]

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,"

[thejerzeygirl]

Haha nice... i love that movie Party Monster - the NY scene mustve been crazy back then

[silverbull]

Haha nice... i love that movie Party Monster - the NY scene mustve been crazy back then

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.

[thejerzeygirl]

Yeah I agree with you... i'm just saying it must've been interesting to see the club culture and everything actually be like that... like going to Crobar or Pacha and having the Club Kids be apart of that scene - everything would be changed. Everything today is still very music & dance driven..

[starscream]

Love it Gabe and sooo true if you were fuckin up the vibe we would let you know you were!!trust i got schooled more than once at Factory.i was a whiteboy from the burbs lol.but once they saw i could dance for a whiteboy it was all good.I had some AWESOME people take me under their wing!!Great read !!

[dclubber]

Dancers, people who dress up, people who wear crazy outfits. and even guidos, all make for a good club scene imo. You cant have just one type.

[djmadness]

I can't tell you how many times I got my ass handed to me as well as handed people thier asses in the circles at Factory back in the day. The article is a complete assesment of the real world of true house lovers. I was involved in both worlds back then, I spun at Limelite and danced there as well as Factory and many other spots. So I experienced both worlds, and they are two totally different places.

Unfortunatelyit's not like that anymore for the exception of a few spots that get very little publicity.

Great read Bull, brings back memories

[abrooksbro]

sounds totally lame

[starscream]

sounds totally lame

if it sounds totally lame you wernt there

[djquick83]

Junior needs to stay home and collect his social security.

[crystelbella21]

if u want some good old stories about clubland back in the day

try here: http://motherboards.infopop.cc/groupee/forums/a/frm/f/7106060101

[computerjockey]

'92, eh? That's when I was going to Simon's and Keoki (the 'club kid' DJ from NYC) would come down to FL quite often. We would read those 'project x' magazines and laugh our asses off because the club kids in NYC thought they were the shite. Granted they did have some amusing stories going on but c'mon, who could compare a club where it's just about going crazy to the music to a club where it's just about standing around. A decade and some time later mother nature has slapped me in the face because I'm now becoming good friends with some of those same club kids that were around back then. The interesting thing will be to see what happens when Michael Alig gets out of jail (I hear it's happening soon). There's a crowd that feels like that's going to be a party of the year but I can tell you now, I'm one of the crowd that feels pouring draino down someone's mouth isn't what I would consider to be "cool"... Michael better not think he's coming back with a clean slate because there are still a few of us from back then that haven't forgotten what he's done and I'm sorry, killing someone over money you owe them for drugs doesn't put you want me to get out my 'welcome back' banner.

[moe03]

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 was part of the Disco 2000/ Michael Alig scene back at the evil LimeLight. Let me tell you, it wasn't all drugs and costumes although it was also a big part if you wanted to delve into those waters. Between 3-4 AM till the LimeLight closed, only the hardcore peeps would remain and Keoki or Prozac would take us into another world. The lights would dim, the tourists would filter out, and the dancers would remain. Let me tell you, my friends and I wouldn't want to leave. Back then, Limelight would close normal hours-between 6-8AM.

If you could look past the hoople surrounding that particular scene, you'd know that some serious dancing went down my friend. Trust me. I know. I was there.

Still get chills from the wild times there and the relentless music.

[nomembername]

wow awesome pic starscream

[maxpetersky]

I honestly didn't understand why those people who were dancing felt that freaks disrespected them by not dancing. I don't really give a shit if someone stands around or dresses weird. Some people I know go to clubs like they would go to bars - to drink with their friends and listen to music.

I would understand if those kids walked pointlessly across the main dance floor and pushed people in all directions (like many idiots do @ Crobar) or acted obnoxiously in some other way. But they didn't really do that, right?

[computerjockey]

I honestly didn't understand why those people who were dancing felt that freaks disrespected them by not dancing. I don't really give a shit if someone stands around or dresses weird. Some people I know go to clubs like they would go to bars - to drink with their friends and listen to music.

I would understand if those kids walked pointlessly across the main dance floor and pushed people in all directions (like many idiots do @ Crobar) or acted obnoxiously in some other way. But they didn't really do that, right?

I don't know what they did in NYC... Who said anything about disrespecting the others by not dancing? All I know is the energy in a room where the music is the main factor, and everyone just can't get enough of it, can't be matched by a group of drag queens/club kids just standing around. But you didn't hear it from me!!!! These kids I'm speaking of (and NO, i'm not raggin on them) are now my newest best friends...

[moe03]

Hey computer Jockey, are you the real Zorro?!

[computerjockey]

Hey computer Jockey, are you the real Zorro?!

no, according to the comments i was getting in the first 10 minutes i was 'robin' but thankfully that comparison stopped quick enough.

[starscream]

wow awesome pic starscream

least i got a pic noname, noface and lastly a nobody...now walk away.

[vladexodus]

whats the differance between party monster (2003) and (1998) Not sure which one to rent.

[silverbull]

whats the differance between party monster (2003) and (1998) Not sure which one to rent.

If you want some real HOUSE MUSIC HISTORY check these out:

PUMP UP THE VOLUME (1,2,3)

pt1: http://www.music-101.com/images/pictures/pumpupthevolume.ram

pt2: http://www.music-101.com/images/pictures/pumpupthevolume2.ram

pt3: http://www.music-101.com/images/pictures/pumpupthevolume3.ram

[vladexodus]

Cool..now which one is better 98 or 03 version?

[silverbull]

I believe the 98 one is an actual documentray of that scene, and the 03 is bascially a movie.

[thumperxl]

I was part of that scene also and I dont seem to remember a bunch of people standing around in their fancy costumes with there thumbs stuck up there ass. I remember people dancing, sure there were some outrageous looking people doing there thing but man people got down. Not just one person going off in the circle jerk(thats what i call the circle where everyone watches 1 person dance) but the whole f'in place. The chicks in the cages down to the clerks in the coatroom. Twilo and Mazzo(amsterdam) were the only 2 other clubs where I've seen such unity on the dancefloor.(and some raves)

[chris817]

'92, eh? That's when I was going to Simon's and Keoki (the 'club kid' DJ from NYC) would come down to FL quite often. We would read those 'project x' magazines and laugh our asses off because the club kids in NYC thought they were the shite. Granted they did have some amusing stories going on but c'mon, who could compare a club where it's just about going crazy to the music to a club where it's just about standing around. A decade and some time later mother nature has slapped me in the face because I'm now becoming good friends with some of those same club kids that were around back then. The interesting thing will be to see what happens when Michael Alig gets out of jail (I hear it's happening soon). There's a crowd that feels like that's going to be a party of the year but I can tell you now, I'm one of the crowd that feels pouring draino down someone's mouth isn't what I would consider to be "cool"... Michael better not think he's coming back with a clean slate because there are still a few of us from back then that haven't forgotten what he's done and I'm sorry, killing someone over money you owe them for drugs doesn't put you want me to get out my 'welcome back' banner.

Even if he does get out of jail there is no way he will be in a club for a long time.. His ass will be on probation.. One slip up and he is \back upstate.. He will have nothing to do with clubs or parties