I’m a little late on this so please forgive me. I can’t stress how much mastery there is in this collaboration. Nile Rodgers is one of the greatest living guitarists of many generations. If you don’t think so, that’s adorable. The Martinez Brothers are stunningly good at what they do, and anyone who has seen them at a dank warehouse party in Brooklyn with a bunch of Europeans wearing sunglasses inside, can vouch for how stupendous they are. I did not see this collab coming, but fucking hell thanks for doing it. I could meander in dulcet tones about the composition or the harmonies, but really, stop what you’re reading and hit play. It’s Wednesday, the weekend is almost here, and with it, beats that sound like this.
Mixmag runs this great little weekly called The Lab, that showcases varsity talent from all over the globe. This one ups the traditional weekly podcast in that it’s a live-stream fresh from the decks. This gives the viewer (you) a unique opportunity to watch DJs geek out on music up close and personal. Apparently Mixmag has taken this and run with it, such that they’ve been able to compile this quick and dirty 85 seconds of DJs shaking what their mama gave them. It’s a nice touch, and it’s very heartening to know that Carl Cox can move when he wants to. Peep it for the lulz and check The Lab for additional illness.
The bass was impressive, so I was having trouble hearing what the Resolute staff member was saying. I had asked how much the price at the door was again, as I didn’t believe I’d heard it correctly the first time. There was no VIP at this event and I’d not gotten wind of it until right before, so I didn’t have time to get advance tickets (mandatory for the budget-conscious partier). He repeated himself, and I realized that yes, I was waiting on a line to eventually hand someone $40+ to stand in a room. A big room, with a huge skylight, and 3 stories of exposed brick, a room with nice speakers and bar, but still just a room. I had plenty of time to let this sink in, as the line didn’t really maintain any pretense of moving.
With the line soon poking out the door like nakedness in ill-fitting bathing clothes, I made it to the front, saw a somewhat maudlin door-girl casually request two weeks of metrocard rides, and haphazardly apply my wrist-band. The inertia of being away from the packed rectangle of stasis kicked on and I swung over to the token-based bar for a stiff drink. Or, a token, such that I could go wait on another line for said stiff drink. The “bread line” construct drifted through my mind as I meandered from the front of one line to the back of another, twice.