14th St Girl Hits the Music and the Sand

...really inadvertently, I might add. So lovely friend C (she of the Bob Marley-book-buying fame) and other lovely friend A decide to take a weekend in Miami and stay at my brother's place. We're thinking relaxing sojourn on the beach, maybe dinner outside and some laying around on the couches at the Shore Club. Well, we end up booking for the last weekend of the Winter Music Conference/Ultra and I get the listserv emails saying two old friends who go by the DJ names Skeletrik and Kerowack (not on their taxes) are playing there. Ooh, so maybe there'll be some cool music involved. At the near-last minute, C gets really sick and has to bail (and that's why we are totally lying to her and saying it rained the whole time), so then there were two. Well, there were almost none, as A got stuck at Dulles for hours and had to fly to West Palm and I sat on the runway for nearly five hours while that tin can of an airline United fixed the various mechanical problems and then put the plane in the air. So we get to the condo at 1130, dump our stuff and head downtown to Area 51 and PS 14 for the pre-Ultra parties. We're wavering between "dancing will be fun!" and "are we getting too old for this?"

So Area 51 pretty much goes down like this, from the birds-eye view of the DJ booth:

Skels: (British accent over the thumping din of drum and bass) "So do you know this DJ? His name is Goldman, he's quite famous."

Me (thinking) Who the hell picks the DJ name Goldman? My dentist is named Goldman! (out loud) "uh, no, but it's been a while since I was into this music" (and in that time, dorky obviously became cool). (and it's been a while since I've had a cleaning).

So about ten minutes go by and I see a flash of gold teeth and I realize it's GOLDIE from Massive Attack and the album of my youth, Inner City Life and I think this is the coolest thing ever because he's making music about five feet from me. And I'm thinking, if he comes over here, what am I going to ask him - have you ever wished you became a dentist instead, because your hearing must suck by now? Does Bjork talk like her lyrics and wear swan costumes to bed? Are you ever just tired of the beat? Do you regret the teeth? Do you know how many vivid moments of my teenage years involve your music as a soundtrack? But you can't ask Goldie these things, or at least I couldn't, especially because I was already looking like the statistical outlier in a way-too-floofy sundress at a drum and bass party, like I made a wrong turn from the garden show. BUT, on his way out after his set he totally brushed my arm, which was kinda cool and I'd love to say I'm never washing my arm again but I'd be completely lying, I've washed it like four times already.

So Skels partner and "talent" is this amazing beatboxer Killa Kela who's also an all-around musical guy. He performed at Area 51 and he just blew our socks off, it was incredible. And the crowd absolutely loved it, which was a recurring theme the rest of the weekend. Plus, he's a very funny guy who's constantly singing or in the midst of some kind of musical expression, and of course being as nosy as I am, I asked a hundred questions about the creative process, how things come to him, how he thinks up his beats, and naturally, what it's like dating Patsy Kensit - another memory from my youth because she was married to the musical Jesus of our time (according to him) Liam Gallagher, unibrow and all. Evidently dating Patsy Kensit is really just like dating anybody else except every so often you show up on the front page of the Sun. Bub of course later noted that she was incredibly hot in Lethal Weapon 2, South African twang and all.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we dropped in on the Kerowack party and didn't get to see Kerowack, unfortunately because I've really wanted to - they're coming out with an album soon and I actually heard one of their singles from the BBC playlist on a flight (or maybe it was on my computer, but what I mainly remember was that I wasn't actually looking for it, it came to me).

So, moving on to Ultra, which was of course the only day it really poured, we go supposedly for "an hour" to listen to Kela and end up staying five because of all the rain delays. Some photos:

As one can tell, we had unfettered access, which was absolutely necessary because there's no way I would've been cavorting with all the drunk, muddy kiddos rolling in the rain, snob that I am. But the strangest thing was watching the crowd going nutty and then watching all the DJs and musicians and producers and sound guys on this side of the fence - it was like we were at a chess match. People were barely bobbing their heads to the beat, and I realized it's just a job, whether you're spinning records or beatboxing or you're an accountant. Oh, except for Roger Sanchez, who was another composer of the soundtrack to my younger days (and of course skels notes that "he's pretty cheesy") who we walked by at Ultra and was way too into his own music. Give me my collected and bored and glimmering-toothed Goldie any day.

And then there was the Cuban food, and the disco nap from 11-230AM, and the after party, which because of fire marshall issues was just not fun. And then, of course, the diner, which was way more fun as I tried to persuade Kela (sleeping in the booth over there) to eat another helping of pancakes and Skels rightfully convinced him he would regret it tomorrow.

Not to mention the sun, the sand, and the alternately beautiful and sublime cheesiness that is Miami:

Big shouts to A who is without a doubt an incredible travel partner - easygoing, amenable, tons of stamina, and a similar love of guacamole and chips. Okay, must run and toss Miami clothes out of suitcase and San Francisco clothes in - leaving tomorrow afternoon to help Bub pack his apartment and move home to NYC!

All photos courtesy of 14th St girl's bird's eye view - including the one of her again dressed completely inappropriately for a music festival, she looked like she was going to a square dance. Her good friend A persuaded her to at least lose the pigtails.