Martin Stein: Yep, I married a couple on the stage at Empire Ballroom during Sandra Collins' set. And while the marriage wasn't a scheduled part of the Vegas Music Conference, it can serve as a metaphor of sorts. Both were firsts. Both were happy occasions, cheered on by friends and out-of-towners. Both had more than their share of logistical difficulties. But while the marriage likely won't last a year, conference promoters have already started planning for next year.
(In the interest of disclosure, I've been ordained by the Universal Life Church. In the interest of nondisclosure, the newlyweds have asked that their names not be used.)
Xania Woodman: My blue Empire Ballroom wristband declared me a "Late Night Citizen," which is precisely what I became this weekend to take in as much of what the Vegas Music Conference was dishing out as possible. But ask denizens of the dark to venture forth during the daylight hours to attend panel discussions and production demos and you may find yourself, as I did, in a mostly empty meeting room with a blue-haired club chick wearing cat ears and fuzzy go-go boots and a few DJs sleeping behind their shades. Like me, they were doing their best to show interest in the educational portion of the conference, but really, we just came to hear some music.
Wednesday, September 20
MS: It started off well enough—the conference, not the marriage, though that went well enough, too. It was the first time out of the gate for organizers Daniel Bussius, Bo Karlen and Gino LoPinto in producing an event of this size with 100 electronic artists spread over multiple venues, dates and times.
The folks handing out credentials and passes at the Hard Rock were organized and professional. Trouble began to rear its pimply bottom when I headed across the street to the Alexis Park Resort to catch what should've been the middle of the demo sessions where emerging artists could get their discs critiqued by professionals. No one knew which room it was in and there were no signs up. When I found the room, it was empty except for three sound technicians still setting up equipment.
Things weren't much better that night at Simon Kitchen and Bar for the opening event, which saw DJ Buckley playing to a sparse crowd. By the time Empire Ballroom's late-night party got going, the crowd was less sparse, but while the dance floor was packed, the rest of the club was relatively empty. On the plus side, there were plenty of places to sit.
XW: The opening night party at Simon had me a bit worried, too. Enough space had been cleared in front of Buckley's rig for a gym-full of high-schoolers to dance. But what he got was a vacant dining room with a few photographers and writers comparing credentials while he pumped his fist in the air and danced with all the energy a hot, young DJ in a warm-up jacket can muster.
A testament to the open-all-night culture of the Vegas after-hours scene, we had to hit another club to kill time before Late Night Empire commenced because it simply wasn't late enough. Caught up in the happy drama of being a maid of honor at an impulsive wedding with Sandra Collins in the role of wedding DJ, I didn't pay any attention as the hours clicked by until I saw the sky turn a sickly mixture of blue and orange. I pulled out the vitamin B-12 capsules from my medicine cabinet and prayed.
Thursday, September 21
XW: Misery, thy name is morning. Red Bull was clearly the beverage of choice for the VJ & the Art of Video Music panel discussion. In a city that never sleeps, it seemed Vello Virkhaus and DJ Keoki were snoozing, but Mutaytor's Victor Solomon and a few others made it. Granted, some of them were either spinning or watching others spin until 8, 9 or 10 a.m. Slack cutting aside, I was miffed that although the printed info directed me to Alexis Park, the web directed me to the Hard Rock and VJCentral.com directed me to Afghanistan. The 11 a.m. class commenced at noon with the blue-haired Miss Kitty to my right, and a few aspiring VJs arguing about happy-hardcore raves and the price of the VMC ticket. "Welcome to the first panel of the first year of the Vegas Music Conference," said moderator Stefan G. of San Fran's Ruby Skye nightclub. "When it's a legend, you can say you were there in the beginning." The overall message of the VJ panel? If you're a VJ, you're going to be the lowest-paid performer in the club—but one day in the future, that might change. Maybe.
MS: I was experiencing déjà vu, standing in a hall at the Hard Rock. There should have been a line of people going into Body English to catch Starkillers and Paulo Ceballos. Instead, I was chatting with a security guard named Julie and wondering what happened. It turned out that low ticket sales caused the VMC event to be shifted over to Empire.
XW: After a long nap, it was back to Empire to hear San Diego's G*Roy on the patio. I was a bit less than thrilled at the prospect of hitting the same club night after night. I longed for Miami's Winter Music Conference, where there were so many different venues involved that you could party every night in a different club. But like Sander Kleinenberg says, "This is not Miami."
MS: Down Harmon and left onto the Strip to grandmother's house I went. Empire's numbers were moderately better than the previous night's. Fortune 421 Clothing's party in the gallery was kicking it with DJs G*Roy. Jason Herrick, Fortune's owner, said they were originally booked for the upstairs patio but shuffling from the canceled Body English event moved them to the back. But Herrick wasn't too upset after being comped five bottles.
Interstate's rep was even more optimistic, believing VMC would easily eclipse Miami in a few years. Most everyone I talked to was in a similar frame of mind: minor annoyance at confusion over schedules and bookings mixed with understanding that this was VMC's first year and such snags were to be expected. Lower-billed DJs were perhaps the happiest (excluding England's DJ Cristo, who fell victim to booking confusion and was ushered off Empire's stage the previous night after 25 minutes but comped a bottle of champagne). They were here in Vegas, surrounded by their heroes, booking agents and promoters from around the country and eager to press the flesh and their CDs.
Friday, September 22
MS: A second try for the emerging artists listening room at Alexis. This time around, all of the rooms were closed. No matter, Industry Radio was throwing a rocking cocktail lounge in the foyer with DJs, models in torn half-shirts, a bar and a stripper pole. From there it was over to the Hard Rock for a party sponsored by EventVibe.com. Swedish Egil, a pioneer for getting electronica on the air in LA, was on the decks, go-go dancers were go-going around the pool and even Cristo was happier, having nailed down a one-hour set at Ice that night.
XW: "I make the beat go boom, papi." Fifty-three-year-old veteran DJ and producer Swedish Egil sang along to the breathless, electronic Latina voice in Ice's main room. DJ detritus—CDs, stickers, fliers—were everywhere and the club was pleasantly packed. It took a few hours but soon it was balls-to-the-wall on the dance floor. A rare treat, Ice's Green Room was open and I met the much-abused DJ Cristo, who managed a sincere hello despite his troublesome VMC experience thus far.
MS: At Ice, Aloha Films was shooting footage for an upcoming DVD while another fashion company prepared to send its models out to the stripper poles. New York trance master Victor Dinaire was filling the arena's dance floor with his opening set, there were girls dancing on what used to be the Vegas Pin-Ups' stage, and some ladies who had just arrived from Seattle were grooving in a back room to Cristo and were smiling so widely they could barely speak.
The night later found me at Empire, where a huge line waited outside the club. By 5 a.m., every room and the patio were full with no signs of the crowd—or party—abating. Double-bookings and empty listening rooms aside, one lesson was clear: Start your music conference on a weekend.
XW: Those I spoke to so far agreed that the talent had been superb, a cherry-picked bushel of top-notch DJs. What was lacking, they agreed, was organization, a cohesive bond between managers, DJs and venues which should theoretically be provided by the event coordinator. I applaud the ambition as well as the DJs, and would love to see the event enjoy a successful return in 2007.
Saturday, September 23
MS: The much-ballyhooed Wet Grooves party was indistinguishable from any other busy Saturday at the Hard Rock's pool, save for the DJ lineup and signs proclaiming it to be Miami's infamous blow-out. Seb Fontaine was spinning by the time I showed up at 3:14 p.m. It turned out that the Vertical Smiles girls (a name that kept me from Googling for background lest I face the wrath of our Human Resources department) were just go-go dancers. I was told Skittles, our favorite local dancer, was gyrating around but I couldn't spot her. Donald Glaude ascended to the booth to cheers and requests for autographs while I sipped on a giant margarita and wondered when my body would finally give out.
XW: By Saturday, I was as much in need of Rehab as anyone, but alas, that was still a day off. This time, my wristband read "Hard Rock Penthouse" but I cooled my heels in the shade by the pool watching as local VIP hosts trolled the Wet Grooves party for some last minute table bookings. They would tell you this weekend had not attracted much of a bottle-buying crowd.
Donald Glaude was on the decks, with Smooth C to follow. Glaude whipped his hair around, dropping the beat with all seriousness as a half-naked, half-Rehab-sized gathering danced on towels in front of his altar. Miss Kitty even wore her ears to the pool.
I napped until 9 p.m. and eased gently into the night with a heavy, hardcore house set by The Crystal Method which left my eardrums numb, the bass nearly altering my heart rhythm. "Me no likey hard house," Martin texted, standing right next to me but with no chance of being heard.
MS: At Ice that night, it finally felt like the VMC had found its groove. The club was packed with people who were decidedly un-Vegas. Women were dressed in dresses that either came from second-hand stores or were saved from past stints as bridesmaids. Guys weren't much better, with plaid shirts thrown over ratty tees. While grunge has died out on the West Coast, it's apparently still prospering in New York and Miami. It was also the largest crowd I'd ever seen at a Vegas club, and I don't mean that in the raw numbers sense. For the 266th time this year, I was happy to be living where I do. The best news of the night was hearing that an outfit called 451 Degrees was taping the goings-on to use to promote next year's VMC. My confidence that VMC 2007 will have the bugs ironed out is as wide as the obese blonde house-head who threatened to crush me as she spun out of control.
XW: My faith in VMC was restored when I saw the hordes who turned out for the Saturday night after-hours thrown by Spundae at Empire Ballroom. I was entirely stunned to find out that when I'm completely sober, I dance!
Too tired to squeeze one more lemon garnish, I turned to Pepsi and danced for hours to the sounds of Keith Evan on the Patio and then Charles Feelgood's set in the Ballroom. Not worrying about taking notes, I actually noticed old friends in the club and made new ones. The opening DJ trainwrecks Deep Dish's "Party All The Time" into Bob Sinclar's "World Hold On" and I couldn't care less. Nodding yes and nodding no, the crowd was armed with earplugs, promo stickers, water bottles and demo CDs. "Welcome to this ritual gathering," the next song said, "we've only just begun."