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Libra Love

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Derek Jackson

Titantric=Large Happiness

By C. Silo

Fall equinox strikes the city with the exactitude of clockwork and leaves the air chilly and the sun anxious to go far west. Blue blackness claims the Libran sky, and the ruling planet Venus descends; she is the tablet of psychic codeine to ease the imminence of a sniffling winter in San Francisco, but her main mission is to infuse raw sex into the absence of light. In other words, for a good night out, call a Libra.

New Age drama races through my mind as I frantically pump out the astrology chart for Vick Void of Equestrian Myth (local Gothic hip-hop/performance-art band). Hmm, Neptune in Scorpio. Possibly a klepto. Hide the checkbook. He'll be here any minute. Hide the chart. OK, eyelashes in place and unguents all over. Working the tight pants but never mind the small hole. It's 11:15pm. Sun in Libra.

Eleven-thirty. He's half an hour late, and my doorbell ain't ringing. Starting to feel like an impatient and hateful Capricorn. Gotta watch that. Belligerent honking erupts from outside, which is a very bad sign--only other person I know who does that is my dad. Hope he doesn't also do that "point the fork when talking and eating" thing, too.

Sexy in a Robert Smith-meets-George Hamilton kind of way (Vick has a fabulous tan from a recent trip to Cabo), the hearty young "death-hopper" exhibits delicate manners as we cruise over to 111 Minna in his lowered Jetta. "Sorry for being late, but I was helping [bandmate] Tiffany Corpse rig up her electric triangle," he says. I excuse him but become instantly sensitive to a Burning Man vibe. "No, we would only go if they held it in Vienna, or something," he assures me.

We arrive just in time for the last few sets of Joaquina--a remarkably cheerful luau-style garage band. Suspended between laughter and punk-rock enthusiasm, the crowd is here to celebrate Libra, Alethia and Steen's combined birthday party. Minna proprietor Ei-Ming Jung hands me a cheap bottle of beer, and I suddenly get the nostalgic feeling of a college-era house party at which "bibacity" is the word and deafening is the tone. I lose sight of poor Vick, but as soon as the band hits the last note and DJ Al Simmons drops the first record, I instinctively know where to look: the middle of the dance floor. Undulating with an extreme lack of self-consciousness (you get the picture), Vick is doing his thing alongside Rock Steady Crew member Doze and the lovely Alethia.

Mortification stirs the hairs on the back of my neck, and I immediately pull him aside. "I'm feeling kind of one on one." Soon the evening begins to improve.

OK, so maybe I couldn't keep up with this particular Libra's love of the dance, but Vick did help establish a tone of sensual abandon for the rest of the weekend. Saturday afternoon, I found myself chilling under the autumn sun in the heart of the Tenderloin--at Backflip, that is, to the sounds of Paraffin, a decadent day-into-night party produced by Om Records' Kiri Eschelle.

Co-sponsored by local players in the electronic music scene--XLR8R Magazine, Mixman and the Betalounge--this (to be repeated one day, I hope) one-off attracted an impressive turnout of music lovers in groovy shades, esoteric trainers and party-till-you-drop attitudes. Early on, the awe-inspiring DJ Mark Farina spun a fine tapestry of sumptuous deep house, while Soulstice head-honcho Gabriel Rene worked the dance floor solo with an enviable sense of limber funk. "He thinks he's god's gift," whispered a disgruntled groupie beside me. With his mischievous gap-toothed grin and extraordinary musical skills, Gabriel (along with sister/Soulstice chanteuse Gina Rene) is indeed a gift to mere mortals: the band was recently signed to Dreamworks.

By the time New York DJs Ming and FS hit the turntables, I was feeling the need to become one with the sound system, but Gabriel was off seducing the press, chatting away with Andrew Smith and Tomas Palermo of XLR8R, and my other potential groove-machines, Scott Ketchum and Scott Wamsley of skinny.com, were too absorbed in snapping shots of chicks in halter tops and pedal pushers.

Then like a club-kid dream in baggy pants and a believable fake ID, the effervescent Shaun Rouse appeared and instantly became my partner in crime for the rest of the day. A dancer and choreographer who is co-producing Overtime (a dance performance at the Justice League, which opens Nov. 3) with dancer Kathryn Duyn, Shaun and I were able to reach a state of diva-booty nirvana just as the Runaways--the DJ duo from London--came on. And thanks to the anonymous sugar daddy whom I somehow procured, Shaun and I were able to quench our thirst on rum and cokes--don't hate me because I'm dutiful.

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From the November 2-15, 1998 issue of the Metropolitan.

Copyright © Metro Publishing Inc. Maintained by Boulevards New Media.




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