In spite of a national security alert, our Super Mayor insists life is “normal.” Customarily, we like to bust moves, so—just for Giuli—we map a retreat away from the papers and into 2step, music of bouncy basslines and flitty vocals. Our search for impervious escape leads to Tues-tep, a new party at FUN (130 Madison Street, 964-0303). Unusually strong smoke in the winds from ground zero ushers us into the club grimacing. It is a fog rolling in on our vision of antebellum bliss. The inside of Fun, typically brimming with yuppies on a networking binge, is virtually empty. In spite of ourselves, we are drawn in (dare we say it is the empty-warehouse-after-party ambience formerly crowded Fun has always begged for?). Maybe we’re desperate. Nü skool breaks (not 2step) skit off wall projections of skate and B-boy videos (nice!). Still: “Where’s the bubbly? Where’s the ragga flavor? This is fuckin’ breaks!” we whine. The night’s promoter, Tina, who steps away from a solo dance routine to earnestly recommend a cocktail, distracts us. Her crooked strut convinces us to try the red devil ($10). Oh, but it is a satanic, hoofed liquid beast! Vodka! Triple sec! Sloe gin! Amaretto! Rose’s lime juice! Orange juice! Sour mix! “Shaken, not stirred!” grins bartender Adrian, The Corruptor. His handiwork has us in a rage of giggles, as 2step DJ Greg Poole (out casing the competition) blabs, “Mary-Kate and Ashley is actually a really funny show.” We share drunken eye contact with Tina, Demon Enchantress, throwing up peace signs and double winks, sucking off our ruby elixirs. Fully conquered, we swig departing comp shots of the vile brew. RDs, you should know, have a 12-hour high and a nasty comedown.
Wednesday, the RD is still leavening brain cells. One of us tries to bail out on Wikkid!, a GUERNICA (25 Avenue B, 674-0984) weekly, with a cowardly voice mail. But journalistic duty calls, so we meet, this time for a 2step event where 2step is spun. Guernica’s sepulchral, stankass bartendress makes a hobbling red devil ($9), so we share the ambrosial vanilla chanty (Stoli Vanil, triple sec, OJ, and pineapple, $9). Home spinner Greg Poole macks on DJ DB’s robotic mixing with a bangin’ set. MC I-Dris hovers above the crowd of wiggas, chapeau-crowned gay boys, and tarty fashion girls, rallying us into a sea of sexiness. In spite of it all, we withdraw, both recovering from and yearning for the infernal rouge of yesternight.
Thursday’s sun sets on our spent selves, in Adrian-made RD withdrawal, unexcitedly descending the ASTOR LOUNGE (316 Bowery, 253-8644) stairwell for Hatch, an über-trendy Japanese weekly. The cozy dancefloor is plastered with waifs in photo-shoot-only attire and assorted eccentrics who apparently took a rhythm vaccine with their Cipro. We quickly appreciate the niche—high-speed, aggressively funky 2step—but its monotone grows tiresome. Downing inoffensive drinks (Kir Royale, $7), we shuffle to a remix of Jill Scott . . . until we see the secondary source (after RD shakes) of our vague discontent—speakers facing each other!
Time for an exit into chemical air, gingerly rushing home so that the female half of our weary duo can drop a deuce at the crib. Another week down, here near ground zero. ‘Til Tuesday, Adrian!
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on October 16, 2001