Sweatstock 5 @ Sweat Records, Churchill’s
I never, ever miss a Sweatstock. Such a genuine event is rare in the Miami music scene, a place dominated by megaclubs and multi-million dollar laserlights and a bunch of weird designer drugs. Sweatstock is the antithesis to all of that. No bullshit, no ropes, no pretentions, no VIPs. Just a bunch of Miami’s most talented musicians, playing for free in a parking lot, creating the bona fide camaraderie that can only be brought about by enjoying good music together. This year, I met a woman by the food trucks. Before I even told her my name, she was braiding my hair and handing me a vodka-orange soda in a solo cup. We chatted about our relationships like a couple of old friends. Then someone grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward the stage. I got lost in the pit. It was roiling with sweat-drenched dancers, possessed by the band, ripping apart stuffed effigies and tossing them through the air like a bunch of crazed maniacs. “What the fuck is going on?” Oh, just Sweatstock. My favorite day of the year.
See the rest of the photos here.
I’ve found myself searching for flights to New York lately. It’s been a year since I’ve gone and I’m having withdrawals. It’s a dangerous place for me, really, like a hot drug dealer boyfriend. I left with bruises on my knees and a four day hangover. When I got home, I taped my subway map up on the wall, next to the photobooth strips we took in some bar in the East Village. I stared longingly at this makeshift altar for weeks, pining for my lost lover. I got over it, though. I don’t want to sell all my shit and live under the Brooklyn Bridge anymore. But the thought of going back still makes my insides burn, like reminiscing on great sex. It’s that feeling you get when you descend the subway steps, the anticipation of adventure, the unpredictability that comes with so many different people riding the same train together. Even being assaulted on the platform by a crazy homeless man didn’t ruin the magic for me, not one bit. All part of the charm. Brooklyn streets shining after the rain, smoking in secret warehouse basements, passing the flask around on the train, drunken taxi rides home, walking 100 blocks in one day, stopping at all the Irish pubs, rickshaw rides through the Village with Spiderman, underground Williamsburg raves, getting lost underneath the city. I’ll always love you, Nueva York. Til we meet again.
I caught Aussie producer Flume’s sold out show in downtown Miami last night. It was hot as hell, packed with fucked-up kids and raver bros. I dove into the mess like a soldier at war. If your pictures aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough. I think war photographer Robert Capa said that, right before he stepped on a land mine and died. EDM shows are probably as close as I’ll ever get to battle. And there’s something about a giant sweaty crowd that I can’t ever resist.