I think love is in the air. Or maybe it’s just Spring. Outside, the wind is wildly having her way with every palm tree and every loose paper or plastic bag around, adhering all to my windshield.
Or maybe it’s the music and Tabu’s much-talked-about Human Locator technology. Personally, I think we’re all just trying to locate a human. In the dark, under the pyramids of light that cast the Soundbar and House Society logos on the concrete slab tables and the people who dance on them, they’re trying to locate someone by dancing, touching, flirting and moving on. In the domed and padded igloo room, the doorway now blocked off by a DJ rig, Keith Evan is spinning away but still has a second to meet eyes and trade smiles with these, his crew’s most loyal followers. Then quickly he’s back to the beat, but its all for them, six years of Soundbar all for them. Jet’s Steve Lockwood chuckled earlier in the night as he recalled his days handing out Soundbar fliers for $50 a week outside the House of Blues. Definitely some love there.
Maybe it’s the drinks. I’ve put myself in the hands of mohawked bartender Joe Meyer, who has steered me in the direction of Tabu’s signature tall drink, the Spanish Fly. And since I generally do whatever a hot bartender tells me, I’m enjoying the blend of Bacardi O, Cointreau, fresh lemon, pineapple, sugar and ginger beer. From the upper bar area, though separated from the dance floor by mere feet, it feels like there are two events going on. Up here, the usual suspects and other night-dwellers take advantage of the booths and benches, soaking in the constant groove and those familiar vocal house voices who tell us “when the music takes control/feel the base/close your eyes.” Even the bouncer is clapping.
Down in the thick of the dancing, every available inch is inhabited by someone moving in time and in their own way. When the baton changes hands to Doc Martin at 1 a.m. they press even closer. Girls with handbags, men with manbags, suits even—nothing can preclude one from getting down tonight! The ladies strut and stomp, turning on a dime as if working a catwalk. The crowd is worldly and diverse, some ladies in subdued dress, with tunics and belts over designer jeans or micro-shorts; others have gone all-out and the men have certainly noticed.
A tall, slender girl takes control of the table. Drink in-hand, she quickly finds the beat, or maybe she just brought it with her. Her girlfriends join her, and together they flirt and play with each other and the crowd. Clubs the world over pray for nights like this, organic enjoyment as the DJ leads the way to a musical climax. When I look back, the guys have taken control of the table. In a flowing linen shirt, with dreads pulled up in a pseudo-bun and a smile as wide as the Strip, a man presses a conical drum between his knees. He waits for just the right moment and then pounds away with enviable force.
On a break, he pops his tanned face through the wooden slats of the room divider and calls me out for sitting down, writing. “Rich I.,” he informs me, then compliments my smile and is therefore instantly let off the hook. His face puckers up: “Are you one of those girls who only communicates via text?” I lie, but only a bit. “No.” He once again lights the room with his smile and returns to his drumming, I to my typing.
Yes, I do think love is in the air. Or maybe that’s just cigarette smoke.