There are some things that Miamians dread more than paying taxes and blue balls. To name a few: being passed over for Homestead Exemptions, bad arroz con pollo, power outages during hurricane season, and the onslaught of out-of-towners descending upon Winter Music Conference.
For music lovers, however, the pain-in-the-ass factor of traffic congestion, no parking spots, and coked-out revelers is outweighed by the sheer awesomeness of WMC's closing party - the Ultra Music Festival. UMF 2008 marks the festival's 10th year of existence. This commemoration is by no means insignificant. After the First and Second Great Waves of Electronica (marked by the likes of Swedish Egil and Paul Van Dyk, respectively) so many insipid, big record-contract DJs jumped on board that music reviewers were all but writing Electronica's Obits. In the immortal words of Eminem, " You don't know me, you're too old/Let go, it's over, nobody listens to techno."
He's wrong. Somebody listens to techno. At least 50,000 people people, to be exact - and this number keeps growing. UMF has changed locations from South Beach, to Bayfront Park, to Bicentennial Park - all to accommodate the swelling masses that keep back for more D and B, more juice, more of those crazy blips and bleeps and Things That Make Us Go Hmm.
This year, UMF's organizers have outdone themselves again. The lineup reads like a techno-head's wet dream. Tiesto, wunderkind from Holland, will be headlining on Friday night. Joining him will be Carl Cox, M.A.N.D.Y, James Zabiela, and Justice. I have heard many acid-house and break purists decry the increasing encroachment of trip-hop and jungle techstep in UMF's recent lineup. My take is exactly the opposite. Where Carl Cox and James Zabiela have stagnated in their ceaseless, tiresome repetitions of a formulaic sure-thing, pioneers like Danny Tenaglia and Rabbit in the Moon have branched out onto exciting new ground. To whit, luminaries such as Paul van Dyk, Layo and Bushwacka! and Goldie will also be rounding out the electronica spectrum with their own brand of genius.
The jewel of UMF's lineup, however, is arguably BT. Like Malibu housewives who all flock to the three plastic surgeons, run-of-the-mill DJs are also guilty of drawing from the same tired, ever-shrinking pool of samples and re-samples. Who hasn't heard every incarnation of Cystal Method's "Don't Hold Back" and "Block Rockin' Beats" on network TV? Yet, BT manages to rise above this sea of mediocrity, periodically churning out truly inspired, multi-textured tracks.
In fact, for 90's Clinton-era kids like us, BT's continued maturation as an artist and performer mirrors our own gradual learning curve about Life. When "Ima" dropped in 1996, I was a freshman kid at college, blasting "Blue Skies" through my headphones and crossing the quad to get to my Criminology classes. When Tori Amos crooned "let's go/let's go/let's go/to this magic wondershow," I'd look up into the face of another gray California winter, scowl, and wonder WHAT THE FVCK I was going to do with double degrees in Liberal Bvllsh1t Drivel.
Then, 2001 rolled around. At that time, I had graduated from living off-campus in a ratty apartment, to rooming with Tequila Chica in a 2 bedroom rathole in Santa Ana. In between margs with her and writing mindless corporate datasheets, I would put on "Emotional Technology" and indulge in my elaborate pre-date rituals. This included belting out "simply being LOOOVED LOOVED LOOOOOVED" and asking Tequila Chica obsessively if she thought that my cheap Maybelline mascara would melt during a candlelit dinner. And lo, the crashes. Those horrible dates were so perfectly underscored by the moodiness of "Emotional Technology." I drove home one night with "Dark Heart Dawning" on repeat, in disbelief that Mr. King of Persia "wanted me to be a good, self-respecting girl, and come home to meet his mother because we were on our fourth date already." In between BT's melancholy cellos and soaring celestial melodies, I made some sort of devil's pact with myself to always stay single. Because I NEVER wanted to be the girl that guys brought home to mama. (By the way, if you're reading this, Sepehr, you can suck it. And I want my Pulp Fiction DVD back).
BT didn't come out with another album until 2006, when "This Binary Universe" was released as a score to That Heniously-Directed Halle Barry Movie. Here was BT's departure from the usual frenetic, synthetic sound that accompanied his earlier work. "Cop Killing" is one of the most hauntingly beautiful melodies I have ever heard, with bassy piano chords and chilly woodwinds. His use of the violin, flamenco guitar, and reversed beats on "Girls Kiss" sounded like an homage to staying still, not the cynical, I'm-Here-Today-And-Gone-Tomorrow wanderlust. Ironically enough, it was at Mynt, one of those ridiculously hard-to-get-into clubs on South Beach, when I realized that I was in love with my now-husband, The Marmot. The DJ put on "Job Hunt," and the irreverent xylophones played out over the sweetly melodic score, it reminded me of a lullaby. Something mellow and innocent that gave me peace, a hush deep down inside as I fell asleep in his arms. I went home uncharacteristically early that night and did a lot of thinking. I came to the conclusion that man, how cool was it that as a BT fan, his music had grown up along with me?
