princess tamtam's alter-ego le house militánt brought a new listening experience with 'cultural insurgency' from wbrc, brooklyn college radio, online and on television. given the state of current events around the world along with past organizing efforts with underground hip hop scenes in california and the midwest, princess tamtam aka le house militánt challenged the assumed depoliticized and colorblind facade of music, art and other forms of cultural creativity and work towards these expressivities consciously transformed into cultural organizing tools.
cultural industry tactics, gendered and racialized selectiveness, cultural consumption and capitalization on and of so-called marginalized 'others', proactive cultural organizing and activism, and particular invisibilities, discrepancies and silences were vocalized and made known. this was not simply music and idle chatter. 'cultural insurgency' engaged listeners to rise up and act.
'cultural insurgency:
music/consciousness/activism'
mondays from 5 00 pm to 6 00 pm
on the radio at wbcr 1090 am brooklyn college radio
on line by clicking
here
on bcat brooklyn community access television
cablevision channel 70 or timewarner channel 5
station hotline at 1 718 859 6314
Diva Delight is enthused that TamTam's
article
'The
Oppositional Lives of Black, Lesbian, Drag King Gladys Bentley'
was featured in this award-winning anthology. Like
many initial supporters and creators of house music and club culture, this
anthology centers the experiences and lives of black gay men, lesbians,
bisexual and transgendered communities. Congratulations to the
editor, Delroy Constantine-Simms! Please read the edited press release
as follows.
BLACK BRITISH WRITER WINS TOP GAY AND LESBIAN BOOK AWARD
Black British Delroy Constantine-Simms controversial book
'The Greatest Taboo: Homosexuality In Black Communities'
has won the Lambda Literary Award for best Non Fiction Anthology 2001 at
the 14th Annual Lambda Literary Awards for excellence in gay, lesbian,
bisexual and transgender literature.
The winners were announced at a celebrity packed gala event at
the Tribeca Rooftop in New York City May, 2002. Margaret Cho was
also honored with the Lambda Literary Foundation's Bridge Builder Award.
Performance poet Emanuel Xavier presided as emcee.
"I had no idea that the book was going to be
nominated let alone win, but I am glad that it has. I didn't expect to win
but at least the book and the contributions of all the authors have been
given the acknowledgement and recognition they
deserve. Without
their efforts this book would not have been
possible," said Constantine-Simms. He also went on
to state "The black and mainstream press in the USA and especially
Britain have given this book more press coverage than I expected."
When asked what other projects he had up his sleeve Constantine-Said " I am
currently finishing of The Greatest Taboo Volume Two with Kheven Lagrone:
which should be out at the end of the year. This book will be a lot more
controversial than the last edition. I am also in the latter stages of my
pet project " Hitler Forgotten Victims: The Black Experience In Nazi
Germany, I have already been approached by media organisations who want to
use the manuscript for a film that is being looked at by two well known New
York based African-American film-makers"
The non-profit Lambda Literary Foundation is the only national organization
dedicated to the recognition and promotion of gay and lesbian literature.
The Lambda Literary Foundation is headquartered in Washington, DC. Visit our
Web site at www.lambdalit.org or call
us at 202-682-0952.
'Creations of
Fantasies/Constructions of Identities:
The Oppositional Lives of Gladys Bentley'
Excerpt from Carmen Mitchell/Princess TamTam
"For many years I lived a personal hell. Like the great number of lost souls, I inhabited that half-shadow no-man’s land which exists between the boundaries of the two sexes. Throughout the world there have been thousands of us furtive humans who have created for ourselves a fantasy as old as civilization itself: a fantasy which enables us, if only temporarily, to turn our back on the hard realism of life."
-Gladys Bentley
Gladys Bentley begins her autobiographical article entitled "I Am A Woman Again," with a harrowing Dante-esque account of an unspoken, but conspicuous, homosexuality written in a 1950 Ebony Magazine (92-98), a publication for upwardly-mobile African Americans Bentley emerged as a prominent and sensational lesbian, drag king/male impersonator and recording artist during the intense cultural and political period known as the Harlem Renaissance. Through the coercion and constraints of ‘hard realism,’ or what I would term a form of western dominant hegemony that privileges white, heterosexual, male-centered experiences, Bentley continuously reconfigured and publicly changed her multiple identities.
Born on August 12, 1907 in Philadelphia to a Trinidad born mother and an American born father, Gladys Bentley was the oldest of four siblings. As noted in her essay, Bentley transformed from an unwanted female child to the desired male-identified tomboy, from an ‘in-between’ sexed lesbian to a female-sexed woman, and from a Black raunchy nightclub performer to ardent Black church-going wife. Indeed, Bentley lived a number of lives that were both resistant and complacent in a society that validated the normative operating structures of the church, family and marriage which in turn placed heterosexuality, whiteness, maleness, and middle and upper-class identities as the preferred signifiers in the categorization of others.
This work situates the experiences and identities of Gladys Bentley as potential trajectories toward understanding the multiple subject identities of a Black lesbian woman which are similar in their construction, actualization, and subsequent pathologicalization and regulation in dominant western culture. An interrogation will be made regarding the constructions of race, gender, and sexuality as identities for Gladys Bentley and the ways in which she acted upon these realized identities by publicly asserting herself through Blues and drag performance. To end, we explore the fluctuation of Bentley’s identities as a probable result of the pathology and regulation of lesbianism and Blackness.
Entire article published In "The Greatest Taboo: Homosexuality in Black Communities" Delroy Constantine-Simms (Editor), Henry Louis Gates Jr. (Forward), Alyson Publications, January 2001. Winner of the Lambda Literary Award for Best Non Fiction Anthology, 2001
dairy
of a shelter virgin, sept 2001
Like a jealous lover, I roamed the streets of New York City at 4:00 a.m. in the morning. I was so close yet so far away. My frenzied search almost brought me to the brink of delirium. It made my head swirl with thoughts of being ravished by the insistent rhythms and constant thrusts of glorious house beats. As I continued to stumble blindly throughout Lower Manhattan, tears welled up in my tired red eyes. I demanded that questionable strangers tell me the whereabouts of Six Hubert Street: The Shelter at Club Vinyl. I knew the surroundings by day having worked in the area several years ago down on Varick Street and by visiting the other house party establishment, Body ‘N’ Soul. But now, I was disoriented by the nighttime glow and grew weary in my lonely trek. There was no taxi cab in sight. I was lost and groped with the fact that I would never, ever experience the Shelter at Club Vinyl. A failure, I was shaking and I nearly burst into tears, ready to pound my fists on the dirty cold concrete.
No. I could not give up. I knew I was close.
I gradually collected my sanity and filled my lungs with the bittersweet city air. A stubborn persistence forced my feet to move and my eyes to dry. Now with a clear mind, I slowly recognized the familiar territory of the area. Silly. I simply did not go far enough. I came to the front of a gray building with a yellow door. There was no line, just two people getting some fresh air outside of what seemed to be the Shelter’s alternate entrance. But I wanted affirmation. Innocently, I asked if this was the Shelter and if it was still open. The earthy brother and sister at the door lovingly nodded yes, realizing that I didn’t know any better for I was a Shelter ‘virgin’. I heard stories of this mystical house Mecca placed within the dominion of the Warehouse, Paradise Garage, the Loft, Music Box, Zanzibar and other sacred dance floors in the modern history of clubbing pilgrimages. Was it all true? I struggled to control my trembling body, full nervous excitement, as I entered the dark walkway and tiptoed up to the pay booth. I emptied the last of my small purse change and handed over the $17 (!) entrance fee. Just enough left to catch the train back to Penn station. As I entered the Shelter’s space, my amateur eyes narrowed in on the dance floor. Yes, I had finally discovered a glorious sea of black and brown bodies swaying effortlessly to his majesty, DJ Timmy Regisford. Indeed, house music was my first lover and these were my dancing voyeurs.
Empty plastic water bottles were scattered to the sides of the clean wooden floors, made worn by dancing feet over the years. Huge warehouse factory fans were strategically placed to cool the sweating bodies with damp locks, sweated out afros, and soaked head wraps. The surroundings spoke of a bold nakedness as time drew near to the eventual close of the Shelter at Club Vinyl. From my limited and distanced knowledge, this space was an underground dance Mecca beloved by many. Surprisingly large for a deep house venue, the Shelter at Club Vinyl was said to hold up to five hundred people but is rumored to be replaced with a trendy trance night to the dismay of deep house lovers who lived, loved, and danced in this home. Likewise, I was told that with these last nights of the Shelter, the floor was unusually crowded with former family returning to bid farewell to their dance motherland along with a tidbit more ivory bodies interspersed with the chocolate, mocha latte, and ebony dancers.
The sacred domain of the Shelter disallowed smoking and alcohol. House seemed to be the only opiate of these dancing masses. Yes. The essence of each single body dripped of pure carnal sensuality. I was intoxicated by a fantasmic display of collective debauchery on the dancefloor. Dancers crying out loud. Others displayed tears mingled with sweat on their faces. Several orgasmically screamed with lyrical anguish. While some, despite being complete strangers, blissfully threw themselves against one another with utter abandon. Immediately, I was overcome by excitement as I rushed to the floor and abruptly forced myself between two dancing bodies who, in turn, ecstatically welcomed my company. In an attempt to be naughty, I donned a red wrap dress: simple enough to dance in yet stylish enough to entice. But soon my ‘evening wear’ became too much as I practically ripped it off in the heat of a dancefloor moment. Then I remembered. I unknowingly came prepared as if I were a Shelter regular with a change of clothes in my large bag: an old tee-shirt, baggy capri’s and a pair of black panties.
I came to understand that meeting my friend at 5:00 a.m. was a normal time given that Regisford peaked the crowd after 7:00 a.m., the arrival of a crisp Sunday morning. However, I remained unsure if I would actually come across her in the packed club overflowing with bodies and heat. I perched myself on the podium to scan the dancing masses and blindly assisted another house sister in placing her duffel bag with a change of clothes onto the podium. Cautiously, both of us thought to actually look at each other. It was my friend! We miraculously found one another in the haze of the crowded dancefloor! Hugs were exchanged over our unheard squeals of excited dialogue. Overwhelmed by the music, we regulated our communication through dancing and movement for several endless hours. Our bodies melodically devoured recent house scorchers such as Blaze’s ‘How Deep is Your Love’ and vocal anthems of the past few years. In addition to his emphasis on classics, Regisford unleashed a number of fresh records that delighted the masses. He fed us, the ravenous crowd, a musical concoction for our insatiable palettes. Timmy continually toyed and tweaked songs that maniacally tantalized the crowd who themselves acted as if a Sunday church congregation singing and violently catching the spirit. Others dreamily moved to the beat with closed mouths and eyes, while some boldly vocalized each worded syllable to one another and to Timmy. He testified with hands in the air as he performed with all powers vested unto him.
A kitty kat of a girl on stage enacted her own brand of power moves complete with imaginative crotch grabbing and packed pistols simulations. A back flipping brother, small in bodily proportion, was a twirling top just released from a birthday package to the delight of the children of dance. An ebony ballerina dancer with a long, swirling skirt. An Asian sista primping to and fro in black high heels. An African fairy fluttered to every beat assorted by Regisford. An ivory child with long, brown hair and flower shaped bell-bottoms skipped around as if a funktified prairie girl. Mocha gay pimp boys with sunglasses, jewelry, and studded belts playfully propositioned a prized soul sista with a generous afro and painted on pants. Then a big brotha, like a male griot, broke out his secret concoction: Baby powder. Industrial size. He wisely squirted the white fragrant sand before us and soon, drops of slick, wet sweat from the dancers' bodies stained this rush of pearly whiteness scattered upon the dance floor.
Around 8:00 a.m., the lights rose while the dance floor swayed and the music continued. No. This was not the end of the dance. The lights remained on for the next hour or so. To my wide-eyed astonishment, every body, every soul, and every movement was for glorious voyeurship. Initially apprehensive and self-conscious, it was like making love for the first time in the morning glow. But the nervousness of the light disappeared as we unabashedly ogled one another dancing into the early dawn. Each part of our bodies were on display. It was a nude awakening in discovering the beauty of sweat, of tear-stained cheeks, of faces drawn up in painful ecstasy, of hearty breasts and undulating hips, flailing arms and sweaty groins, of half-clothed bodies, of hot skin beaded with sweat, of odorous healthy funk. In a dancing orgy, we were musically held captive, tied and bound to the dance floor…the heavy heat….the pounding vibration…the sweet smell of sweat…gyrating bodies... everywhere…Yes. These were the last days of the Shelter at Club Vinyl and this sense of urgency compelled us to achieve a capitulating and orgasmic catharsis until we were exhausted with happiness and drunk with the music that ruptured our souls…
Following this collective release on the dance floor and Regisford’s subsequent answer to the cries of the dancers’ wanton encore, the music sadly ended. The silence was replaced by moans of both happiness and sorrow. In the afterglow of the Shelter, some dancers spread themselves out on the worn, wooden floors to stretch like yawning kittens spoiled by a plethora of good love and good music. Afterwards, as if victorious soccer players, they charged to the bathroom with duffel bags and energy bars in tow to change out of sweat-drenched clothes. I, for one, met a number of house heads from cyberspace and was overjoyed to put faces with names. Shamelessly, we clasped each others damp, cooling bodies in an embrace. To connect at this moment of sweaty, raw nakedness was simply beautiful. Nothing else mattered. I realized that I experienced what I have been searching for. I did it. I endured the demands placed before me on this musical rite of passage from dusk to dawn. As I exited the club, the bright sun caught my squinting eyes. But somehow I was not tired. Because house music was my lover, I could have danced forever in the space and the aura of the Shelter at Club Vinyl.
xoxo, princess tamtam
Note: Thinking now, it is almost like it was a sacred musical sign that told me to go to the Shelter that weekend and not wait to return two weeks later for the official closing party on September 15. I was finally forced to remember and document a time before September 11, the day terrorism struck New York City and American soil. A time of happiness and pleasure and musical dancing bliss at the Shelter in NYC.
Writing and the Textual Documentation of House
There are numerous books on hip-hop, house music’s close and more popular cousin that are frequently cited throughout discourses on popular music and culture. However, there is a trickle of full-length books on contemporary electronic dance music. Kai Fikentscher's You Better Work!: Music, Dance, and Marginality in Underground Dance Clubs of New York City (University Press of New England, 2000) and Hillegonda C. Rietveld's This Is Our House: House Music, Cultural Spaces and Technologies (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998) are two notable books from European authors involved in house music scenes of the United States. Aside from these works, other texts on electronic dance music posit an emphasis on the DJ as the record playing cultural hero in the house and techno music scenes of the United Kingdom and America. The DJ holds a crucial role in house and other electronic dance musics. However, the African American female performer, commonly known as a house diva, is another seminal, though complex, figure in house music scenes in the United States and abroad.
How does Princess TamTam's identity as a Black woman inform the focus of Diva Delight? Does it even matter? These inquiries entertain some dilemmas in ethnographic studies and methodological approaches to cultural texts and practices. At the same time, these questions work to challenge so-called objectivist studies within traditional academic discourses. The processes of writing and on-line internet meanderings are important ways to help ensure the preservation of house music and club culture since house is centered around a music text whose main form of consumption is audibly had on the dancefloor versus the more accessible media expressions of video and mainstream commercial radio readily afforded to mainstream hip hop, contemporary r and b, and modern rock. Diva Delight's written interest in house music aligns itself to previous works on popular culture, ethnicity, sexuality, and gender and utilize house music and house divas as crucial lenses to explore the convergence of race, gender, class and sexuality in cultural practices.
Writer and public intellectual bell hooks asserts that Black women must write themselves into history. Privileged knowledges of the West are disseminated in the form of written texts. Hence, it is the priority of Diva Delight to textually archive the ‘subjugated knowledges’ of ‘orature,’ or oral cultures centering around music and storytelling prevalent in house music and club culture. Likewise, the entrance of feminist and other critical theories challenge the severe borders between ‘participant’ and ‘observer’ by deconstructing notions of an objective science in the study of cultures. In the words of feminist ethnomusicologist Lila Abu-Lugod, "…we are always part of what we study and we always stand in definite relationship to it." Concurrently, researchers and writers who closely identify with particular communities may produce similar, conflicting and/or unexpected findings. These perspectives influence Diva Delight's documentation of house music and house divas within the context of lived experiences and identities.
4 oct 2001
remarks from a deephousepage.com post
'divas: true or myth'
i think that the aura of discrepancies, difference and the glorified 'mistakes' of some female celebrities make them prone to easy replication and personating that enables them to actively become part of the milieu of some gay cultures. in a sense, they become elevated beyond femaleness to the divine nature of divahood. her faults are her best attributes, like the marks of a saint. like some gay folks, she stands out and because of this she had an affiliation and comparative relationship to some children in the life. think: barbara's steisand's nose, cher's plastic surgery, diana ross's hair, dolly's titties, patti serving greens to her audience and even brittany 'madonna in training wannabe' spears.
although i faint at the idea of everyone and they mama's daddy trying to reap the attitudinal benefits of divaness, i have a feeling no one can stop the tide of particular subjectivities defining themselves or others as divas. like so many cultural forms and definitions of 'unconventional' communities (read: hip hop, grunge, yiddish), the aura of the diva within the realm of opera, gayness and 'opera fags' has been appropriated, and stifled I might add, by mainstream mass culture to mean just about anything with a woman attached to it.
i think divaness can transcend gender and sexuality, and at times, talent. (again, some may argue that talent is all subjective to particular audiences). also, if one were to reserve this term strictly for women then i would say that the diva is an outcast or a deviant because she is able to make humans feel and act a certain way. no other person, man or woman, has the ability to do this. one can say that the historical construction of divaness and the designation of one as a diva is a way to naming and defining something that cannot be held within the grasps of a patriarchal and normative heterosexual society. it is something that cannot be easily explained away. hence, these divas must be otherworldly and beyond the material body and limited conscious and subconscious grasp of humans.
the term diva (italian for goddess) is spirit-laden and reaches beyond corporeal humans. true, the popularization of this term was in musical environments like opera back in the day. divas and their actions inform the essence of music as a passionate form of communication, the only way to describe the feeling one gets when it comes to ones senses is something beyond human vocabulary, written text, or bodily expressions. the vocalized carrier of these sounds have the unyielding ability and awesome power of bestowing this rhythmic communication to earth beings.
another thing: although there are contestations over what a real diva is, that in itself lends to the notions of what is artificial, fake, and authentic. because this diva entity is otherworldly and something full of mystique, one can even make the analogy to if a popular higher power associated with the religions of christians, muslims, jews are real or just fake, false prophets. in other words, to me, there would be no divas if there was no human to believe that they needed them, that they wanted these divas to make them feel whole, that they utilized these divas to make them feel a part or apart of something, that these divas actions were used to help them communicate to other things and events in their lived experiences.
well, that might have not been the best of analogies but you might feel where I am coming from. okay, i might be going off on a limb but i just get worked up over this! there are just my thoughts and opinions.
and so i ramble...
btw, rereading my post makes me ask if any one saw the flick 'hedwig and the angry inch'?
very interesting reflections on drag, divaness, spirituality, fame, transgender stuff,
politics, global citizenry, buffet restaurants and everything else you can imagine.
i highly recommend it.
love, princess tamtam
15 sept 2001
race, ethnicity and religiosity in the
recent terrorist attacks on america
i know that we don't want to turn this into a race thing because so many different kinds
of folks were involved in these unfortunate attacks. i keep in mind again that within the
global context, even though this attack on the world trade centers happened on american
soil, the targets were the WORLD trade center. there were many international firms and
companies in these towers so families and loved ones all over the world took a blow.
likewise, the pentagon, the other terrorist target, is a symbol of american military might
as a global police force.
the loss of innocent lives is the main concern of this tragedy. i pray for all the loved
ones. i am not equating this or attempting to have a competition of tragic outcomes, but
another sad consequence of these terrorist attacks is the extreme racial, religious, and
ethnic hatred and/or suspicion of americans of the muslim faith and americans of middle
eastern descent (or anyone that might have any physical resemblance to what a middle
eastern person supposed looked like. whatever that means). these americans are more
visible because of their skin color, and the headdress and traditional clothes some might
wear.
like many other communities that found refuge and hope by coming to america (albeit
enslaved africans) these folks are our fellow americans too. the individuals
they detained at the nyc airport were actually released. they were stopped because they
most had dark skin, beards, male, and/or had accents. understandably, people are on pins
and needles and on the look out even more so but we cannot fall victim, again this time to
historical and cultural amnesia and enact another japanese internment like situation that
happened during wwii.
as an american in a globalized society, i feel our country has been riddled with racial
strife brought on by the consequences of racial categorization and classification from its
initial formation as a nation (ie..slavery, racial discrimination, jim crow, racial
profiling). hence, when i speak of this paradoxical awareness of being more american
outside of america, it is because when i am in my own country, because of the past sins of
slavery and the current throwbacks to racial discrimination enacted now, i have often felt
ashamed, weary or been questioned by others on my americanness and my patriotism.
but you know, this trying time has confirmed my americanness even more. nevertheless, i
have to resist falling blindly into the war thirsty rhetoric and reactive abruptness that
seems to taint this surge in our patriotic consciousness. but through all of this, in
addition to myself, i hope folks remain steadfast in believing in the incredible potential
of the united states as a modern democracy to forward world PEACE while at the same time
dialectically interrogating our current framework within an american democracy informed by
monetary interests, foreign and domestic policy AND one’s own political convictions
and beliefs.
like others, i tend to include the underlying matrixes of race, class, gender, sexuality,
geography, nationality, etc. in my attempts to comprehend this at a time when
national unity is important. hence, it is difficult to be colorblind and ignore the
racialization and religiosity of these terrorist incidents in america especially with the
mainstream media's previous and ongoing spectacularization of particular groups and
communities that molds so many of our fellow americans minds and our global family
member's minds.
much like the class conflicts in england, the religious conflicts in ireland, and
anti-gypsy sentiments and neo-nazism in germany, the usa has to contend with racial and
ethnic tensions with these terrorists attacks on its soil. although it's something that
might be unspoken, race and ethnicity and the consequences of their categorizations and
generalizations inevitably seeps into this cathartic national dialogue so many of us are
struggling to have.
it’s interesting how a national calamity forces all of our dirty laundry, if you
will, to be put in front of us to deal with.
love,
princess tamtam
21 jul 2001
mark farina and derrick carter
club nv, midtown atlanta
As a former California girl on my journey to become a southern belle, Mark Farina
previously enticed me with his Mushroom Jazz mentality (Om Records, 1996). He took
me on a luscious sedated path near the Pacific Ocean only to be delightfully lured into a
garden of funked-up house tracks in the haze of a Hotlanta Friday night. Recently
renovated and open to the public, Club NV’s atmosphere exuded unlimited space with
numerous secluded nooks, outdoor lounges, four bars with African drum-like stools and a
large dance floor on the upper and lower decks. Several illuminated paper lanterns,
like glowing red and yellow moons, invited guests to peep the dusky underworld of the
bottom level. The club’s main dance floor had a large dj booth that afforded the
respective turntablelist an excellent view of the audience.
The crowd was mainly young, alternative, and open. A few baby powder and towel types
here and there but the majority were grown-up rave kids with bank to pay the $25 ticket.
I encountered numerous kids from out of town and fresh from their travels via Ohio,
Tennessee, South Carolina, and Florida by way of Italy, just to name a few. The
night also included deep house djs, Kevin O and Kolie of Nomenclature Museum and Lush.
The incestousness of Atlanta house scenes made me recognizable to at least three
heads I met several months back at MJQ, another club staple in an Atlanta house heads
diet. Of course, being the only black earth girl clothed in full African gear (head
wrap and medallions included) made me an easy target. Hence, my time at Club NV was
sprinkled with curiously naïve offers of dance floor backrubs, and wondrous inquires to
feel my African gele, or head wrap, from many unfamiliar with my kind of vibe.
Better yet, as one friend chuckled, they simply could have been on
‘e’ just squirming to touch and feel me!
Chicago-based Derrick Carter, Farina’s predecessor of the night, lashed our dancing
bodies with some hard soul house. One of the luminaries in the Who's Who in House
Music, this brotha's sound dripped of its local cousin, Detroit techno. And
rightfully so, given Chicago’s house sound and its close geographical proximity to
this other Midwest metropolis. Forgoing the limits of gender, Carter pronounced
himself through the sing-along house remixes ‘Hit ‘Em Up Style’ by Blue
Cantrell and Sunshine Anderson’s “Heard It All Before.” As one of the few
black girls in the crowd, my eyes searched the room for other sistas to share these
divas-of-the-world-unite anthems with despite the vocalist’s hurried attempt at
keeping pace with the intense biting rhythms. I found a light caramel sister with
Bantu knots and a peaches ‘n’ cream rave jane with loose cornrows. We
mouthed these words as if they were collective manifestos for women, for girls, for us,
the dancing divas. Together, we knew the gay white boys, nostalgia male ravers with
green laser beams, and black brothas with locks and baby powder enviously gazed at our
dancing neck rolls and prissy gal gesticulations to Carter’s set. Eventually,
the floor grew to a full frenzied mass as Derrick Carter abdicated the turntable throne to
Mark Farina.
And then, I experienced him in all of his musical grandeur. Like the historical
images of Napoleon Bonaparte that swirled through my head, Mark Farina possessed the aura
an enchanting musical dictator. Similar to the French tyrant, Farina was small in
bodily proportion, unassuming and invisible at times but always omnipresent on the dance
floor. Caught from the side view, I fancied Farina as Che Guevarra-esque with his
olive skin and dark hair brushing his shoulders. His small frame was steered by a
vigorous booty shake unlike some djs that privilege stoicism and blank genius over a
musically agitated body during the performance. Farina’s material body was
clearly unaware of its own programmatic mastery, technical prowess, and deft finger
manipulations. Unfortunately, a coup d'etat intercepted the sweet sounds of
Farina. The sound system shorted out and allowed unexpected silences to claim the
air. Not to be eclipsed by these technical snafus, Farina’s devoted dancers
raised their voices with cheers, ovations, and applause. It was as if they
inadvertently expressed thanks for those few seconds of leniency from the captivating
barrage of grooves they blissfully slaved their bodies over. As an aside, one house
head brotha quipped that if this were to happen at MJQ at 2:30 am on a Saturday night, the
respective crowd would be quickly heated with nerved disbelief and rebellious epithets!
When the system kicked back in seconds later, Farina, nonetheless, quelled his dancing
masses by a triumphant return to his house beats.
I was not surprised that I didn’t hear sounds similar to the smooth, down
tempo house
grooves that San Franciscan dj’s and producers pride themselves such as the
unyielding, seductive infamy of Miguel Migs and most Naked Music tracks. Given the
makeup of the audience, Farina musically negotiated a compromise and instead, attacked the
Atlanta crowd by whipping up some floor stomping tracks that coerced everyone into a
dancing stupor. Reminiscent of Castro, the Pope, and Evita of Argentina, our beloved
house champion, Mark Farina, provided his adoring crowd with the pomp and seamless control
as he blessed the balcony-like dj booth.
Jeremy McGuire, club acquaintance and friend of Club NV’s owner moaned, “His
hypnotic grooves had me under a spell.” True indeed. Our bodies were
ultimately intoxicated with the insistent rhythms on this Friday night. We were fed
by Derrick Carter and Mark Farina, musical powerhouses, whose grooves happily forced us to
forgo space and time through our willing submission to house music. And more power
to 'em.
love, princess tamtam