Staple
The sign on the metal gate at Rawhide read “Closed Tonight.”
“Fuck,” I said. “I just fucking drove from mountain view and they’re cancelling Staple on me?!?“
The voice came from the Jeep behind me. “I guess we’re not at Rawhide tonight. Go to the 11:11 Lounge. We’re gonna move Staple there.” It was Fil Latorre, Staple resident. The owner of the Rawhide eighty-sixed the party for some reason.
Undaunted, the party translocated to 11:11, a mile and a half away. I zipped straight over there and was in the little coffee shop on Polk within fifteen minutes. I had some coffee, water, and gabbed with the counter boy, waiting patiently (for which I’m quite famous) for the crew to arrive.
The party got underway about eleven. Fil started spinning, people started dancing, and it got packed quickly. By the time Jenö got on the decks, it was so crowded that it was really impossible to move.
Jenö was incredible, though. The sounds he conjured up were insane. I made the best I could out of the three or four inches I had between me and the next person. Some time around 2:15, the crowd thinned out a little bit and I had a little more room, dancing very close face-to-face to an anonymous beauty, just taking in the deep house groove. By 3:30, I was sore and tired and had an hour drive to look forward to, so I departed.
I certainly hope next Staple is back at Rawhide or an equally large venue. Nothing sucks worse than having 200 people stuffed in the space where only 50 would normally fit.