The lines, the DJs, the beach, the clubs, the bikinis--WMC whips up a fresh-baked batch of goodness every time. Reporter Chrissi Mark gives us the rundown of the most memorable moments she can, well, remember.
Jack Bauer and Pool Parties at the Shelborne 
The weather dampened my enthusiasm for repeat Shelborne pool parties, but thanks to an industry friend with a clutch balcony room, I had a bird’s eye view of the crowd who was already getting loose and bearing skin by day two of the Conference. The marquee décor this year was a massive mesh drape on the DJ booth. It had patches of olive green, black and brown fabric and once I realized (read: was told) it was camouflage I began hearing an array of suspected themes from the Iraq war to fashion trends to 24. I couldn’t help thinking the latter was most apropos for the sleepless week, and I was ready to jump into WMC with blazing guns.
The Club World Awards at Opium Garden
My event, the one I’d been losing sleep over before WMC, was the Club World Awards. Perhaps I’m not the best to tell it (it’s a shameless plug, but check out www.clubworldawards.com) because the show was a total whirlwind to me. I was assisting CWA mastermind Kerri Mason, and buzzed around fielding the last minute concerns and glitches. And once it got rolling with James Zabiela and Nic Fanciulli presenting the first award, nothing could stop the ceremony’s momentum. Cameras flashed, club industry guests enjoyed free bottles of Bacardi, and press crowded the podium. Mid-show a barefoot Tracey K climbed up on an impromptu stage (subwoofer stack) to sing live vocals to the Fish Go Deep club hit “The Cure & The Cause.” Her voice was pitch perfect, and the stellar performance got presenters Tila Tequila and Danny Tenaglia dancing.
Ferry Corsten was a gracious closer, presenting the final award for Best Superclub to Pacha New York. As guests prepared to leave, the saucy Alan T grabbed the mic and sang “Happy Birthday” to a somehow unembarrassed DJ Boris. Though it was all a little hazy from my vantage, the praiseful chatter at the culmination tells me it was a huge success.
Second Sun at Nikki Beach
Among the murkier memories was a Second Sun performance at Nikki Beach. Antoine stood on the stage rocking a moderate gathering, but with grimy beds, sand in my shoes, the sound lost to wind and $11 Redbull vodkas I tired quickly.
Danny Tenaglia at Twilo
Sometime around 10:30am at Danny Tenaglia’s party at Twilo, a runway broke out. A bearded Anthony Lamont vogued in white 7” platform patent leather boots before lifting birthday boy Eric Ortense (of Studio Mezmor) in the center of the circle. Miami door diva Alan T twirled a 70-pound, perhaps 70-year-old devotee before feigning tonguing Anthony’s spread eagle. Sure it’s nothing new to the ‘Danny crowd,’ but the party was even better than last year’s at the Pawn Shop. And I’m not just saying that because in ‘06 I had to cut out early to catch my return flight. Tenaglia himself said it. Twilo felt like home. It didn’t take a discerning ear to tell the sound system was amazing.
The club was warm, too: a single environment with minimal seating and a dance studio-formatted wooden floor. And by early morning the crowd was an intimate group that filled the room without hyper-crowding it, with the sole purpose to dance and to smile. An accidental elbowing on the dance floor was met with apologies and grins, not sweaty rebuttals. Rather than wait 20 minutes for an $8 bottle of water, bartenders would pour a cup of tap without you even asking.
And then there was Danny. Cheerfully perched in his booth praising and thanking the crowd. “No Grammy, no nothing could compete with this feeling,” he told us. “I feel love in this room.” Aside from thanking loyal fans by name at the party’s close he clued in us younger and/or rookie folk on his inspiration from the legendary Larry Levan. He’d introduce a track as a Garage classic and communicated the vibe of Levan’s Paradise Garage parties we’ve only read about. In homage to another dance music forefather Tenaglia, played Giogio Moroder and stopped the music at track’s end to let the crowd applaud.
AM Only at Nocturnal
At a crowded Nocturnal a roster of some 30 DJs spun from booths on the lower level (main floor and mezzanine), glass lounge (separate room on mezzanine level), and terrace. An eclectic crowd of trance heads, house heads and what I heard referred to as “just f*cking weirdos” came through the club. Despite a body-to-body crowd, the air on the terrace was refreshing before dawn when I saw the Scumfrog in dark aviator shades and a two-tone feathered wig (think Farah Fawcett as a redneck tranny). On tip toes I asked him how his conference was going. “I’m not taking off these glasses,” he replied with a smirk. “I need sleep. Badly.”
Ultra Music Festival
By far the dirtiest (literally) event of WMC. Intermittent downpours during Ultra left me hiding in a bush and almost losing a flip-flop in the Carl Cox and Friends swamp tent. But UMF devotees cannot be deterred. Can’t we assume the well-endowed girl I saw topless was merely determined to change into a dry shirt? Others embraced the water and splashed around a puddle dancing to David Guetta, as he played remixed 90s dance hits before heading off for his F*** Me I’m Famous party at Cameo. Over on the main stage Rabbit in the Moon’s Bunny was sampling Madonna, which I interpreted as my personal grand exit theme.
Techno Tennis at Ice Palace
We didn’t pay to get in. No media pass. No table reservation. No cleavage. No friend at the door. But there was open bar, big name DJs (Paul Oakenfold, Oscar G. and Ralph Falcon), an open courtyard, swanky port-o-johns and a strange cocktail list. What the hell was going on? Techno Tennis defied all rational laws of WMC.
Borrowing from a European phenomena and promoting the upcoming Sony Ericsson Open, we expected to see tennis played with a glow in the dark ball over the sound of dance music. We wondered if people would be dancing or watching from seats, but we never would have expected the experience we got. First of all, we didn’t see any tennis. Ok, a much needed disco nap delayed our arrival until after 1am, but we assumed tennis would be played throughout the listed times of 11pm to 4am.
In the gymnasium-like facility we found a Euro-trash/hipster/candy-raver crowd going bananas to Paul Oakenfold. When we took a step back we noticed the floor was a black tennis-less court, with random video images on the walls and standing bleachers scattered with more dancers. In the next room the bar was out of beer and liquor but offered water and juices at no charge. Apparently we’d missed the cocktail specials which included a list of ecstasy/juice/alcohol concoctions. Was this for real? Or had we followed a white rabbit into this cultish-rave land of overt insinuation?
We took a moment to regroup in the courtyard full of what looked like high school cliques: the hipsters, the hippies, the pop kids. We could still hear Oscar G. playing The Police remix (Mark Knight & Dirty South vs The Police – “Black Spot On The Sun”) we’d been hearing all conference. When we went in the music pulled away from the vocal-heavy, light feeling to intense deep drums and emotionally dark sequences. I felt like wonderland had melted into a black hole and I needed more air.
Paul Van Dyk Album Listening Event at the Sagamore
A music writer friend let me tag along at the Sagamore where PvD’s album photography was on display inside the art-focused hotel. The soundtrack was, of course, his pop-tinged new album. Paul and his petite wife sauntered in well groomed and poised for photographs and interviews. For me, it was a half-hour respite from the insanity, but my positive associations may have been tainted by the mojitos and Cuban hors d'oeuvres.
IDMA After Party at the Wyndham
I admit it. I skipped the IDMAs [International Dance Music Awards]. Again. But I did make it to the “official” after party in the Wyndham’s Penthouse. Business card exchanges were rampant on both sides of the suite which was bridged by an impromptu club in front of the elevator shaft. As music pumped in the pathway, a handful of enthusiasts danced in the dark starry lighting. Honestly the other details are a bit sketchy as I joined the small crowd focused on a March Madness game on the ample television.
Sirius Live Broadcasts and Media Lounge at Cafeteria
The rooftop of Cafeteria was an oasis to soak up the limited rays with live broadcasts during the week. Sirius radio hosts were set up in one corner with rotating DJs spinning across in another. I remember watching Victor Calderone and Steve Aoki sitting on white vinyl benches being interviewed by journalists for radio, TV and print before a sudden rain shower sent everyone under the umbrellas.
Jonathan Peters is Dead
With downtown Miami turning from a Space monopoly to a 27th Street-like club hub, rumors seemed to diffuse from one party to another instantaneously. I heard more details about the fight that occurred while I was at Nocturnal when I left for another club on the block. And on Friday morning I’d heard JP just left his set at Space. Possible explanations started with he went home to shower, and as the chatter got shadier and a helicopter landed nearby I figured it was only a matter of time before someone would be telling us Jonathan Peters is dead and playing his record backwards for clues.
Beatport/Remix at the National
On the more business-appearing side of events I stopped by The National to check out the Beatport line-up, but after chatting with some DJs and watching them check out the gear what I remember most clearly, ironically perhaps, was the oxygen tent. I’d been reading about the stuff and noticing it popping up in the clubs down there, so I thought I’d give it a try. I plugged a blue tube into my nostrils and hooked the other end into a beaker of flavored boiling liquid like cherry or almond, which also had an accompanying effect like male aphrodisiac or stress relief. Fun process; undetectable effect.
Boris at Nocturnal
I decided to indulge in a flight change, extending my stay 20 hours to attend a proper WMC closing party. So I headed downtown to see Boris and “make it count.” As usual Boris kept my tired legs dancing, but the security staff somehow managed to steal the show in my mind. I waited an hour at the stairs to the terrace (compared to the less than 10 minutes I’d spent at the club’s entrance). They announced it was closed by the Fire Marshall one minute then let half a dozen people up the next minute. Although it wasn’t nearly as congested as I’d expected, I took refuge in the booth up there, but not before downing a couple of Patron-at-dawn shots. When Boris came up things got better. But then a trip to the bathroom became chaos when five security staff dashed out, knocking a Boris clan member off her wedges and darted to break up a bloody brawl that had broken out. My 5’4” frame and choice of sneakers over heels inhibited my getting better details, I’m not sure my investigative skills would have trumped the nausea of seeing blood spewing at dawn.