According to the September issue of Out magazine, circuit parties, the weekend-long dance marathons for gays, DJs, dance addicts, etc., are dying if not dead. Two of the biggies, the Saint at Large’s White Party and Hotlanta, are among the casualties. These meth-fueled bacchanalia, where inevitably a few end up in the hospital (one died at a party on Fire Island), will be missed by many—if for nothing other than the production values.
They were an acquired taste. The drill was to take drugs at midnight, dance until the sun rose, then sleep and wake up and do it all again. For two summers I lived in Fire Island Pines across the street (O.K., wooden sidewalk) from circuit DJ legend Susan Morabito, whose private house warmup before her turn at the big tables took place when I was going home at 2 or 3 a.m. She went on at four.
The music at these parties was always the best, featuring not only the best DJs in the world but outrageous decorations and staging hard to find. While I’m pleased to say the Saint was before my time, I must cop to having seen (and hung out with) dance music legend Sylvester twice before he died. Either you know about Sylvester or you don’t, and among those who know, you either saw him perform or you didn’t. Martha Wash and the Weather Girls (of “It’s Raining Men”) were his backup singers. He was giant in every way: six and a half feet plus twelve inches of hair, a multioctave voice matched only by the pipes of Chaka or Aretha, and a stage show of go-go boys, laser beams, and bass speakers 10 feet tall. Something always fell from the ceiling. He and his singers were all proudly obese, and my entrée to his world were carefully packed cakes and pastries from Patisserie Lanciani. There was always fried chicken backstage, and if you stood too close to the stage, you could see bits projectiling out into the crowd during the first few numbers.
One party Out reported to have stood the test of time was the annual White Party in Miami Beach, whose 23rd incarnation I attended for the first time this past Thanksgiving weekend. Held at Vizcaya Museum and Gardens, the weekend of various events raises about $400,000 per year for the Care Resource AIDS charity. I was suitably impressed on arrival.For the first time I was inspired to take pictures (which, if the spaced-out PR boys I diligently bothered don’t replace before this gets published, you may be seeing here). [They didn't, so you are. —Ed.]
Boy, there was a lot of ground to cover. A mini Venice complete with titled Doge columns. A 10-acre garden of fountains and jardinière that led to a casino and jazz club. The obligatory dancenasium the size of a football field. A silent auction (largely ignored by the stoned masses).
But, just as in Iraq, after the shock and awe wore off, what I really saw was a giant party with no new ideas. White tulle hung on wires between trees looked used. Tommy Bahama, the sportswear company that I associate with my mother’s crowd in Naples, apparently has a rum and dominated the sponsor signing.
Cyndi Lauper was the lead act. I’m a fan (that one album was classic), but her tired “Joisey” accent [She’s from Queens. —Ed.] and uninspired banter between songs sent me flailing for a taxi.
Out is right. The circuit is busted. A lovely lady named Chavanda from Care Resource nicely said I could pick up my photograph of the Vizcaya property later rather than waiting with the crazed masses. When I go to pick it up, I’m hoping they haven't seen this article yet. And I'm also hoping they start coming up with some new ideas.
They were an acquired taste. The drill was to take drugs at midnight, dance until the sun rose, then sleep and wake up and do it all again. For two summers I lived in Fire Island Pines across the street (O.K., wooden sidewalk) from circuit DJ legend Susan Morabito, whose private house warmup before her turn at the big tables took place when I was going home at 2 or 3 a.m. She went on at four.
The music at these parties was always the best, featuring not only the best DJs in the world but outrageous decorations and staging hard to find. While I’m pleased to say the Saint was before my time, I must cop to having seen (and hung out with) dance music legend Sylvester twice before he died. Either you know about Sylvester or you don’t, and among those who know, you either saw him perform or you didn’t. Martha Wash and the Weather Girls (of “It’s Raining Men”) were his backup singers. He was giant in every way: six and a half feet plus twelve inches of hair, a multioctave voice matched only by the pipes of Chaka or Aretha, and a stage show of go-go boys, laser beams, and bass speakers 10 feet tall. Something always fell from the ceiling. He and his singers were all proudly obese, and my entrée to his world were carefully packed cakes and pastries from Patisserie Lanciani. There was always fried chicken backstage, and if you stood too close to the stage, you could see bits projectiling out into the crowd during the first few numbers.
One party Out reported to have stood the test of time was the annual White Party in Miami Beach, whose 23rd incarnation I attended for the first time this past Thanksgiving weekend. Held at Vizcaya Museum and Gardens, the weekend of various events raises about $400,000 per year for the Care Resource AIDS charity. I was suitably impressed on arrival.For the first time I was inspired to take pictures (which, if the spaced-out PR boys I diligently bothered don’t replace before this gets published, you may be seeing here). [They didn't, so you are. —Ed.]
Boy, there was a lot of ground to cover. A mini Venice complete with titled Doge columns. A 10-acre garden of fountains and jardinière that led to a casino and jazz club. The obligatory dancenasium the size of a football field. A silent auction (largely ignored by the stoned masses).
But, just as in Iraq, after the shock and awe wore off, what I really saw was a giant party with no new ideas. White tulle hung on wires between trees looked used. Tommy Bahama, the sportswear company that I associate with my mother’s crowd in Naples, apparently has a rum and dominated the sponsor signing.
Cyndi Lauper was the lead act. I’m a fan (that one album was classic), but her tired “Joisey” accent [She’s from Queens. —Ed.] and uninspired banter between songs sent me flailing for a taxi.
Out is right. The circuit is busted. A lovely lady named Chavanda from Care Resource nicely said I could pick up my photograph of the Vizcaya property later rather than waiting with the crazed masses. When I go to pick it up, I’m hoping they haven't seen this article yet. And I'm also hoping they start coming up with some new ideas.
Ted's camera phone captures the Vizcaya Museum's pool.
Photo: Ted Kruckel
The view of the Vizcaya Museum from my camera phone. Cyndi Lauper is somewhere in there.
Photo: Ted Kruckel
The Venice-inspired pool.
Photo: Ted Kruckel
