Wednesday, June 27, 12:01 a.m.
Coming to you live from my quarterly hangover in the making, I settle into what will be a very long night at Moon, the second of two in just under a week. Arriving right at midnight, I ask N9NE Group Marketing Coordinator David Gutierrez to lead me straight to the new VIP room, now tricked out with its own sound and light system, independent of the one that DJ P is rocking out on in the main room. With the room’s front-entrance wall slid shut and the hulking body of a security guard planted in front, one is meant to travel down the hall past the elevators to the back door, sneakily tucked behind another security host. He’s also the guy who swaps out your glass for plastic before you head down the escalator to the Playboy Club. “Plasticize me!” I always say, and usually get at least a wan smile out of the gruff guy.
Moon is showing a new face with the addition of Tuesday nights. House music is the order of the night in the tiny VIP room, and Keith Evan, Carlos Sanchez and Scott Stubbs are holding it down at a small DJ rig in the middle. It’s a tad underpopulated at midnight, but that doesn’t last very long. Soon, the bar and dance floor are a sea of well-coiffed heads, teeming with DJs, VIP hosts, bartenders and promoters, as well as plenty of the slender, pretty things that those groups tend to attract. Complimentary Ketel One vodka is being doled out at the bar, and we line up obediently, like sailors receiving our tot of rum. The party feels appropriately intimate, and only shadows beyond the glass mosaic walls hint of DJ P’s mash-up party raging outside the doors. For now, this is the place to be on Tuesdays.
Sunday night, at the premiere of Moon’s new party, Clash, I stuck to the main room and the acid-rock-house sounds of Tommy Sunshine. The bearded and long-locked mountain man brooded behind his shades while throwing down all manner of tracks from the elevated DJ booth. He’s the man responsible for all the retouched, electronic and dance-y versions of your favorite indie and rock hits. If you don’t like synth music, spit, or the general idea of anarchy, don’t listen.
The Clash electro-rock party will reappear every other month or so, says N9NE’s corporate director of marketing Michael Fuller, and will alternate with Supersonic, the dedicated house night that will return on July 15 with Baby Anne, Darling Nikki, the Funkler (Fuller’s alter ego) and Chris Garcia.
Paired up with Sunshine are the Deadly Seven, an all-female troupe of hardcore singers/dancers with a love of chaos, electrical tape and vulgarity. They’ve been described to me as the Pussycat Dolls meets A Clockwork Orange, but I like to think of them as Rockettes for the new millennium. They stormed into the room flanked by their posse of riot-geared guards and a leather-masked gimp, and wreaked havoc on anyone in their path to the stage.
I had been Downtown prior to my arrival Sunday night and had been wondering, “Where have all the hipsters gone?” And then there they were, a few hundred strong, in all their mod, shaggy-haired, skinny-jeaned glory, rocking out at Moon to “We Are Your Friends” by Justice vs. Simian. I can’t tell who was using more hair product—the men or the women. I considered this important matter over a vodka and soda.
Every year it seems I find a new and better way to really tie one on, and though it’s rare, you’d think by now I’d be an expert at it. Not so. Slack-jawed in disbelief this morning, I groan, grumble about my pain helmet and piece the night back together using my text history. C’mon, admit it. You’ve been there. Vodka, my new frenemy, you have crossed the line. Stop the world, I wanna get off!
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently . E-mail her at [email protected] and visit thecircuitlv.com to sign up for Xania's free weekly newsletter.