Mozart vs. Frankie Knuckles; we know who wins.
Given Santa Fe's efficient, well-oiled gossip machine, I assume you've already heard the rumors that Swig is up for sale. I recently had a very brief, awkward, and not altogether convincing phone conversation with Swig owner Robert Hall trying to distill truth from fiction, during which he told me, "Swig has not sold. Swig is not on the market." So there you go. We'll see what happens.
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On the market or not, the twin sagas of Swig and the Paramount bring up some issues about dance music. House music, specifically, and its relationship to Santa Fe. And before we explore that a bit, a disclaimer: I really can't stand house. It's not that I didn't try, people. I tried and tried. I downloaded the Paul Oakenfold. I bought the Felix da Housecat mixes. I befriended club owners, interviewed folks who were a part of house's origins, switched from beer to cosmos, dated a DJ. I licked an unknown powdery substance out of a baggie at a certain nightclub in town, hoping to see if the drugs helped; I dry-humped friends and strangers on the dance floor; I made out with gay guys (again, both friends and strangers). But nothing helped-I just cannot drum up any sort of fondness for house music.
Which is a nice way of saying I think it sucks. Maybe it's the often cheesy lifestyle that goes along with it. Or the fact that it's the musical equivalent of a strobe light. Or the repetitive
thump…thump…thump…
, the driving bass that sounds like a cat throwing up into a cheap karaoke microphone. The repetition, the relentless, unstoppable dark bass force just before the tinny higher end parts kick in, is what actually draws people in, what they argue is house music's most appealing quality. I'd rather get hit in the head with a hammer.
But, like it or not, for 20 years, house has kicked the funky ass of disco (of which it is a derivative) as the pre-eminent soundtrack for a night out on the floor. To be honest, early house, despite its more rudimentary feel, was inventive and exciting and, well,
interesting
. One of the early innovators of house, Frankie Knuckles, practically invented the art of remixing, and his vitality, his love of music, his invigorating and deft touch was clear at his gig, two decades later, at the Paramount's Last Dance.
Still, trends come and go, and despite its longevity, I still consider house a trend. It has all the marks, specifically that it is often (though not always) associated with drugs. Think about it: The popularity of protest songs in the '60s went with pot. Psychedelic rock of the same era-acid. Seventies disco? Coke. House? X. Now, none of these genres ever completely died out, of course, but their popularity inevitably waned as the next new thing came along. And when that next thing occurred, it wasn't just hipness that carried it. It was novelty, innovation, a fire fueled by equal parts genuine creativity, pharmaceuticals and celebrities. And, most importantly, fueled by the concept that something was happening.
And rightly so-in each of these cases, including that of house, something was indeed happening, important and significant, either at the time or in retrospect. And in each case, the genre died out as something newer, faster, smarter, or just different started, uh, happening. The new thing makes the demise of the old thing a little easier to swallow, which is helpful, because at some point, you just have to accept it. It's the nature of popular music to be transitory, sometimes even momentary; this doesn't diminish its significance-in fact, it adds to it, to its dynamism and reflection of modern life, to its constant pace of renewal and creativity. There's just as much substance to pop music as to, say, classical, only with the former it's not meant to last. And it's OK to grieve it, but at some point, ya gotta let go.
The problem is, when it comes to house, of the seven stages of grief, Santa Fe is still stuck in number one: denial. An acquaintance of mine recently checked out Pachanga, and noted, "I've never seen people dancing so badly, and so
earnestly
, to such bad music." So I checked it out myself, and sure enough, that pretty much sums it up. (Now, before you fire off your angry e-mail, keep in mind I am a self-admitted earnest, bad dancer. I am also learning to DJ and readily admit it is much more difficult than it looks, and I'm not so hot at it, though I tend to stay as far away from house as I can.) Nonetheless, that
thump…thump…thump…
cat was barfing in my brain, and I knew…this was
bad…bad…bad
. And it's one reason why going anywhere in Santa Fe where there's dance music is not the most fun part of my job (that's also a nice way of saying it sucks).
Most DJs I know have amazing, extensive music collections. They have illegal downloads of obscure German disco, French electronica CDs, English bubblegum pop on vinyl, wiry Brooklyn electroclash, insane Jewish hip-hop concept albums, kooky bootlegged Indian rap-all of it eminently danceable, all of it cool, all of it charged with energy. But they never play it. "People won't dance to it. It's too different. They want to hear what they know."
But what if what you know is what you've heard for the past 10, 15, 20 years? I know it's hard. I know there's an element of loss when a genre gets bloated, or loses its significance, or starts to plain ol' suck. It's tough to let it all go. Maybe people just want something to last for a change. Maybe we can't let go because it's all so transitory-just when we get our heels dug in, everything changes. Where's the permanence? Where's the music that will last?
Well, it's called Mozart. If you want something lasting-which is perfectly admirable-you might end up firing up the Bose, checking out the Berlin Philharmonic and staying at home. Unless, of course, we could just figure out how to remix
Don Giovanni….
