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There are few places you can go to get a homemade pulled pork taco and wash it down with a Pineapple Pepper Modelo in the same place, so thank god for Flatbush. I love its blend of cultural foods, the out-of-place colonial mansions towering over the sunburnt streets, the ghettoblasters playing DJ Khaled from old ladies’ purses. What I hated about Flatbush was how far it was from any party I wanted to go to.
My boyfriend and I thought we were geniuses for booking a cheap Airbnb there for our vacation, but everyone we told gave us a worried look, followed by a “Well, I’m sure it won’t be so bad”.
Pro Tip: listen to your friends, transiting from Flatbush to anywhere else IS that bad.
On our first night of debauchery, we chose Happyfun Hideaway, an HOUR transit ride from our little apartment. It was like the environment had embodied our deflated, jetlagged attitude. Rain poured down onto the subway platform from a gaping hole in the ceiling, the smell of burnt spliff hung heavy in the air and the brisk wind whipped us from all angles. We were cold, tired and frankly bored of eavesdropping on the animated squabbles passengers were having on the phone. While it did threaten to kill our buzz, it only built our excitement to get through these quests and reward ourselves with partying.
I could hear the angels singing as we stepped off the B54 bus, which we had to transfer onto from the Q-Line, to see a proper, pretty pink wooden door standing before us. Walking into this spot was a stark contrast from the bitter cold, the first thing I noticed was the warmth of rainbow-coloured lights on my skin. We were welcomed into this tropical ‘hideaway’ with faux garland roses dripping from the ceiling.
As we aimed for the bar, the soft sounds of deep house pulsated as we moved deeper into the space.
The way patrons moved seamlessly from the bar to the not-so-packed dancefloor reminded me of my favourite Toronto wine bar, Little Jerry. I love spots like that where the surroundings are so lush it makes for equally gorgeous conversations.
Case in point, we bonded with two university students over how adorable the plastic poodle figurines on the bar were. That was enough to get us started on a conversation spanning avoiding exes in public and our favourite films. “Are you guys horror movie junkies?”, the one with the mane of curly black hair asked, a.k.a the question to my heart. “My all-time favourite has to be Midsommar, I LOVE to watch a man suffer” she gushed as her friend spilled her gin and tonic on the bar. It was inspiring that the first New Yorkers we befriended were film majors at The New School. It just proved that every New Yorker you meet being fascinating is not just a myth, it’s to be believed.
I loved being able to get drunk and have my pretentiousness encouraged, these two listened intently as I talked about Ingrid Bergman’s Persona being “the homoerotic horror film to end all homoerotic horror films”. We Instagram-followed each other goodbye before making our way to the crown jewel of the night, Bossa Nova Civic Club. We walked a breezy four minutes north to the club that’s a complete aesthetic opposite of HH.
Unlike the Hansel-and-Gretel-Candy-House doorway of the former, the entry to BNCC was non-descript, dark and surrounded by smokers rocking low low low-rise denim. I remember feeling giddy by the way I couldn’t gauge the vibe through visuals, only from the violent thumping heard from outside. Upon entry, there were no florals, or pretty paintings on the walls, just a packed dark hallway, strawberry vape clouds and slick, wet checkered floors.
Past the ticket station was an old-fashioned jazz club type of space lit by sparse, weak yellow fluorescent lamps. The Naugahyde barstools and linoleum bar counter reminded me of the diners I went to in high school. And yet the low lighting, sardine-packed space and concrete flooring reminded me of my early nightlife days; clubbing at dive-y, unfashionable venues like Dancecave and Gracie’s. That electrified me, to be in this space that dared to strip away any frills and be so no-bullshit about its presence. It had the grungy character of a battered keychain or a combat boot. I was intrigued by the allure of going back to basics aesthetically but without having to hear suburban crowd-pleasing songs like Usher’s ‘Yeah’ or, god forbid, ‘Teenage Dirtbag’.
Also worth noting: they have the BEST pour of rum and coke I’ve ever been served. When I told the bartender that we don’t get it this good in Canada she yelled back “EVERYTHING IS BIGGER IN NEW YORK”.
At this point, Z and I are hyped and roused from our drowsiness, an energy the dancefloor easily matched. Underneath an intense strobe light, we sifted through the faux fog with flailing arms and banging heads. I often have experiences where you either go to a club where it’s all about dressing well or dancing intensely. The raging crowd at BNCC came to do both and to do it enthusiastically. I danced with a group of girls who dressed as they had just left a photoshoot for Marc Jacobs’ Heaven line; clad in bleached-out hoodies, mini miniskirts, frilly bandeaus and leg warmers. It’s a luxurious opportunity to look good while dancing to a good track, and it’s one I won’t take for granted in the future.
The drum and bass selection that DJ DB and DJ Dara played was so good I had to pull out my trusty tool: the Shazam. At Bambi’s, at Hyperclub, at the fucking grocery store I. Am. Shazaming. There are so many ways to make monuments out of your memories through photographs but a lot of my dearest ones are stored in sound. A single song has the power to take me on an odyssey back through iconic moments in my life, and Shazam tucks them all into a little playlist in the palm of my hand. So yes, I was that bitch holding my phone up in the air to catch a sample of the sexy sounds pouring out of the speakers. I recommend you listen to the deliciously stylish jazzy cut ‘Brown Paper Bag’ by Roni Size. It’s not only great to dance to but it’s perfect feeling-myself-music for when you’re trying stuff on in a fitting room.
Z and I are huge fans of Laurel Halo’s ambient work, specifically her recent masterpiece Atlas. The witchy and airy quality of this album was a perfect companion when he edited his upcoming short film and I worked on collage art. Her music encapsulates the sensation of silently observing ethereal beauty, like staring up at the full moon in the deep of the woods. In that respect, it’s fair to say that neither of us expected her to play a hard techno set at Market Hotel.
By this point, we’d gotten used to trekking to Bushwick for a good night out and were getting used to the neighbourhood’s seductive mystique. There’s an excitement in the air about ticketed raves in New York that’s larger than in Toronto. I remember feeling this excitement for Pep Rally raves, riffing off the restless energy of the people in line and the fear of not getting in. In Bushwick I felt no fear, everyone around us moved with this easy calmness. I loved their attitude, it seemed to suggest that if this spot didn’t work out there would be something down the road that probably would.
Market Hotel is a great symbol of Bushwick’s effortlessly cool mystique. This was the prettiest club I’ve ever been to thus far. Up the flight of stairs, past the crowded coat room, we stepped into a high-ceiling atrium filled with pink mist. Visually, it was something out of Gaspar Noe’s neon opus ‘Enter the Void’ and moved at the pace of the film’s frenetic jumpcutting. The energy of Laurel shrouded in hyperpigmented mist, the hypnotized crowd moving in sync with each other: it all made me feel light with euphoria. The Four Loko I chugged might also be partly to blame for this. I realized the hard way why it’s banned in Canada.
Halfway through my can, I felt like I could smell colours. Raving is a whole other ballpark on Four Loko, everything in your field of sight melts together, everyone is your friend, and every part of your body is screaming with joy it’s almost embarrassing. I feel like I talked to everyone surrounding me that night and yet all I can remember is the giddy laughter we shared. Personally, I think we NEED four Loko here, it could potentially broker world peace. She’s my friend now and it saddens me that I can’t go out with her every night. I guess I’ll have to start drinking vodka Red Bull’s in her absence but those are big shoes to fill.
What I can’t attribute to the Four Loko is that this was not your average queer-friendly space. The experience is so centred around the music that the paranoid perceivability I get in Toronto’s queer spaces was non-existent. The chance to show up and be seen as the most genuine version of yourself made me feel super sexy and confident.
This was arguably the most important nights, and one we centred our entire vacation around: seeing Kim Gordon at the Knockdown Center.
It’s located deep in Maspeth, an area where you can actually see the horizon line because of how bare it is. This venue is a 50,000-square-foot warehouse with a main space and a smaller room where openers Bill Nace and Circuit des Yeux played sets. The audience was relatively calm to start but the chaos started once Kim played the speaker-blowing ‘I’m A Man’.
At 70 years old, Kim still knows how to cast a spell on a crowd and get them to mosh intensely. I haven’t moshed in years, I was always too scared of getting hurt. But I felt commanded by the hypnotic chug of the track and Kim’s snarling voice like my mind had released my body out of its cage.
So, Z and I raged with the other animals, teeth bared, tongues wagging, perfectly appropriate for the chopped and screwed, industrial noise sound of ‘I Don’t Miss My Mind’. We lifted the guy next to us up so he could crowd surf, doesy-doe’d with strangers, headbanged into another dimension, and pushed and shoved with sweaty, stress-marked palms. A girl next to me dressed in a white button-up and carrying a tiny purse grabbed me by the cheeks and screamed “I FUCKING LOVE YOU” into my face before twirling me around. And in that moment, I fucking loved her too, I think I fucking loved all of these people. Where had they been all my life?
Before Kim erupted into the fan favourite ‘Air BnB’, a kid next to me gave me a big hug, introduced himself as Nick and mused with me over how this felt like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. “I fucking love this woman, It’s so fucking crazy how she’s got us all so riled up right now. I haven’t felt this kind of intensity since I saw Death Grips.” The best thing about that space was that it didn’t feel fucking pretentious to admit you’ve seen Death Grips live! I felt safe enough to say “I totally agree” without the fear it’d come off as music journalism elitism! Kim breaks down boundaries between the age groups AND the egos!
We followed the concert with a finale at BASEMENT, the club directly underneath the Knockdown Center. Z and I stressfully adjusted our outfits in the concert venue bathroom; we’d read that tonight’s event, ‘PORNOCEPTUAL’ had a strict fetish-wear dress code.
The best I could do was pull my tank top down to my tits and he exposed his jockstrap, we had to work with what we had. We were expecting vitriol when we got in line, but the bouncer just hummed the Jeopardy jingle as I struggled to pull my ID out of my wallet. I said to him, “Cmon man are you hitting me with the Jeopardy jingle?” expecting pushback, but he just grinned and hit me with “That’s not the Jeopardy jingle, THIS *adjusts tune* IS THE JEOPARDY JINGLE”. He disproved the...
...myth with ease. Turns out our outfits were just cunty enough to get us in.
After waiting in a serpentine line in the cold, we were ushered into a dark tunnel by staff who put stickers over our cameras. Once we got past security, we emerged into a huge cavern illuminated by dark red light; shining on the nearly-naked bodies around us. This was the metropolitan experience I’d been craving, a real rager of a rave at an iconic location. Z turned to me and said “This is almost exactly like Berghain”, the iconic rave club in Berlin with a strict dress code. That’s what made this feel even more like a full circle moment: for all my trying I’d never seen anything like this in Toronto, or ever. Period. This was it, ladies and gentlemen, the moment that I’d read about from every queer DJ, model, and rave bunny I follow on Twitter. This was the place to write home about.
Past coat check is the ‘BASEMENT’ space where DJs Jamaica Sux, Volvox and Lydo blasted deafening trance records to a crowd of harnessed gays. We stumbled upon the second room by chance, ‘STUDIO’, where Ariel Zetina, Bouffant and Curses played more melodic stuff (a fucking crazy Dutch house remix of We Can’t Be Friends, of course, had to play).
We trashed there for a good hour, shirts and inhibitions fully taken off, before we actually needed to use the bathroom for real. And yet, we stumbled upon BASEMENT’s third secret: the catacombs, a set of tunnels at the back of the club. As I’m taking my glasses out of my pocket, Z urges me to quickly put them back on. My cheeks burn as my eyes focus to see groups of people fucking and groups of people watching them fuck.
We stand there, enthralled before a voice calls to us to ‘come with me’ and grabs our hands. Giddy and dazzled, we’re led through the tunnels by a majestic, kimono-wearing black man named Clinton who works at BASEMENT. He explains to us that the catacombs are where people come to cum. He goes on to say, as we watch two muscle bears fuck, that “you guys really missed out, last week there was a line of dicks against this wall. I had to limbo under them to get through!”.
Throughout the catacombs and the dancefloors was this persistent sex-positive energy that felt genuine, like I’d never experienced in Toronto. Here I didn’t face the weird microaggressive racism or the judgmental leering from gays scanning the crowd for a better fuck.
I just felt bathed in a euphoric love from everyone I encountered, set to the best fucking house music I’ve ever heard in my life. That wave of positivity lifted us from our 12:30 am arrival up until we could see the colours of the morning break through the windows. It was surreal, I’d never pulled an all-nighter partying before in my life. To stumble out of there, hand in hand with my man at 8:30 am, was like wearing a badge of honour. Now I could go home, look myself in the mirror and say with absolute certainty that I am that bitch. Because only good-time girls go to BASEMENT and live to tell the tale.
