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[whitespace] Where there is house, there is love

By C. Silo

Sometimes, in clubland, miss things must leave their snobberies behind and brave places they normally wouldn't. Release is a perfect example. To miss Marques Wyatt on the turntables is like admitting that you don't truly love house music--and that you don't have the guts to work it in front of people who think that Millbrae is Paris' missing arrondissement.

Oh, lovies, if you can ignore the hordes of salivating, shirtless straight men, you can certainly have a wonderful time at Release--just don't wear anything that suggests you might be of the female persuasion. Really, though, if you're half as fierce as you claim to be, you could have a fabulous time in the gutter--just as long as the sound system is loud enough.

So, after four hours of working my thing on the main dance floor (it's not all about the VIP room, baby), I came to the realization that shaking it to gorgeous house music is the only effective way to eliminate Republicans, homophobes, racists and misogynists from the collective clubber reality. Where there is house, there is love--even if you can't see it amid the sweaty clouds of horny straight guys and their unrelenting hairy eyeballs. Surely Miss Thing can see beyond. ...

Surprisingly, no one tried to grab my ass at DJ Sep's Dub Mission last Sunday night. Well, it wasn't that they didn't want to--they were just too stoned to find my delicate ass in the thick wafts of ganja smoke. Jazzman Marcus Shelby, on the other hand, has perfect eyesight and was able to locate my tight caboose amid the rasta-man chaos. But in quintessential dub style, he was very laid back in his approach, so I let his fingers do the reggae reverb up and down my spine. That's right, girl, the body can be strummed like a sexy stand-up bass--just as long as the player knows his skill.

DJ Tom Thump demonstrated his skill the other night at my favorite hang out: 111 Minna Street Gallery. Ranging from rare groove to drum 'n' bass to diva-style house, Mister Thump's music had the gallery pumping so hard that owner Ei-Ming Jung had no choice but to feel it openly on the dance floor. With the stoney assistance of Mister Charles Uzzell Edwards, the divine groove-machine Kate Duyn and I were able to physically interpret Supreme Goddess Chaka Khan's 1974 promise to Rufus: "I got something that sho' nuff will set your stuff on fire." We all got that thing, honey--especially if Humboldt is feelin' mighty green.

Aside from the naked guy who jumped in the pool--along with his fearsome dangling willy--Backflip's Ambient Brunch was on fire last Sunday with the deep daddy sounds of DJ Cheb i Sebbah. Putting a new spin on the term "old school," Mister Sebbah played African, Asian and Middle Eastern beats to a crowd of drunken, open-minded souls. Lest we forget the roots of all this crazy dance music, Mister Sebbah is around to educate the children: house music wasn't created by white guys with computers--it was created by our non-European brothers and sisters whose ancestors were grooving to heavy beats when the original Egyptian Lover sailed down the Nile with her fat sound system and a cooler full of Veuve-Clicquot. After all, with all that eyeliner and those golden chokers, there can be no doubt that Miss Nefertiti was the true disco mother. Get it.


Small things often come in small packages: c_silo@hotmail.com

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From the June 7, 1999 issue of the Metropolitan.

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