Chaka Khan Hacienda
Grows Up
Ree De La Vega ain’t new to this. The Chaka Khan Hacienda curator has been at it for years, close to two decades. There is no time for the celebrated planner to party. She commands attention. Her signature black bangs, shoulder length mane, black stunners, red jersey dress and legs for days, struts across the hardwood to surprise someone with a heartfelt hug. Earlier, the avid vinyl collector distributed wristbands at the entry gate of her own event. The sometimes model is a force to be reckoned. She knows how to throw the best get downs. A lesson many promoters dare to finesse from her playbook.
19:00
The line stretches forever. As far back as the eye views. Easily, one-hundred souls deep, their bodies hunched, their footwear treading gravel. Waiting. In all attire, or the lack thereof. This is the entertainment of people watching. Chains. Straps. Spikes. On kids. Youngsters of the final generation. “Giving” and “Yasss” are realtime buzzwords. Overhearing their sexcapades is priceless. Next to his tryst friend, gulfs a lanky fella wearing black faux leather and a white crop top reminiscing, “Last year, parties were held every Sunday, all summer.” Another friend with chopped blonde curls and mocha skin joins the party of five. “We never had these lines before,” a voice chimes from behind. “And forget paying to enter.” There is a long pause. Perhaps for a moment of silence. “And who brought a pay it forward ticket?” “Me!” The chimer’s friend responds emphatically. In view, the twink’s ass cheeks are exposed. They’re tanning in the illuminated lamp of the giant ball overhead. The heat. Ninety-one degree temperatures. Remembering the event began one hour later to avoid the bask. At 10 after 7 pm, the sun’s rays continue to burn. “I have diabetes,” says the pretty boi, barely of legal age, wearing his insulin patch on his right bicep. He sashays in short-shorts to the front of the line where he-actually-is granted entrance ahead everyone.
Growth
A half decade ago, Chaka Khan Hacienda was voted best day party by independent print publications. The Sunday Funday became a storied folklore on Ponce de León at the community restaurant 8arm. In four years, Hacienda had outgrown its roots at the then soon-to-be defunct eatery. Another casualty of big money meets gentriFUCKation. The weekly summer series relocated east to Dekalb County to that newly “Creative City.” Pullman Yards, the former rail car manufacturer that employed several hundred African American men in its heyday. By the mid 20th century, Pullman closed to become other enterprises, the most recent a film locale. Fast forward to this summer, Chaka Khan Hacienda is scaled back. Every third Sunday of the month reads the event’s prospectus online. This allows additional time for the preparation, planning, and execution of the event that so many have grown to freely cherish. Today, that love is shown via emptying pocketbooks and tapping digital wallets. As in Hacienda is no longer free. The newly charged admission fees-pay it forward tickets and donations-is due to the rising cost of producing such an event on a wide scale. Chaka Khan Hacienda might have 99 successes, and one of em’ is growth.
A Giant Rave
Electronic ticket; scanned. Wristband; got it. Once admitted. Behold! More lines. Dazzling bodies sparkling in the heat, patiently awaiting to order mojitos. Another line of ten deep anticipates their vegan street corn. Watch out! Trek the steel black stairs to the elevated bridge enclosed on the right side. Where shoulders bounce and heads bop to melodies. Areal views are sweeping-pink and yellow vendor tents, umbrella tops, several picnic tables where mouths munch on quesadillas de queso, and bocce ball courts. Ahead, the parking lot runs into several blue tennis courts. Nearby, a container houses the nucleus of the rave’s soundtrack. Where limbs rush the air and sneakers kick rocks to the four-on-the-floor. Home is the dance space.
19:45
You eye the expanse. Stand offishly. Searching. And roaming. Your vision bounces from the peripheral to the fore. For someone. For something.
All that is missing are carnival rides and this rave might mistakenly be a micro Coachella. Instead of a ferris wheel, erected front and center, reads PULLMAN spelled across the upper portholes on what appears to be an oversized brick barn. The structure is imposing. Almost menacing. The windows have eyes. Viewing the guests below.
Youthful Culture
Did these people spend all day dressing up? By the looks of this month’s themes, kiki and Pandam anyone? Yes. Leather, glitter, and vinyl platform boots. The kids arrive in groups. Oh, the groups. Banji boys clacking handheld fans. The Flossy Posse sipping salted rim margaritas. And adjacent the artist tent, a gang of furries. Every activity is performed in groups. A parade of bustiers, lace and fishnet leggings move to and fro, around and about. Eyes follow the meandering across the Yard. Sweat drops. Moisture builds in exposed and hidden crevices. Naked skin on display everywhere. Is that a penis?
Location
Enter the belly of the beast. AlcoHall is catchy and cleverly named. Yes. Feel the cool crisp blasting air. Savor a handcrafted mocktail. Dare to ride that raging mechanical bull. Otherwise, stepping indoors is useless. The party should be kept outdoors in the Yard. The issue. AlcoHall is not equipped for big room acoustics. The soundscape lacks warmth, a full and dynamic audio experience. There are not enough bodies to absorb the sound and shock. Instead, the decibels travel through a void before reverberating against wood columns and cross beams. A remix of Teedra Moses’ “Be Your Girl” should excite, not be abhorred. Perhaps the month prior, flesh filled every square inch of all four corners in the hall. This evening, half the venue sits empty. The rear vendor stalls sells food and drinks to customers called distracted and boredom. Bar stools and round tables are abandoned. Security relaxed, as one burly in blue chases unauthorized patrons without green wristbands. The other officer yawns. Perhaps, the half-empty, half-filled hall is for safety measures. Sold out! Reads the digital flyers and posts on socials. That yielded over 40 ticket scammers selling fakes. The Hall is where LA’s Bianca Oblivion headlines. “We’ll just stay outside,” a woman smartly stated earlier, in line, that evening.
Back in the Yard, the music sounds 10 X better. And minus the stifling humidity, the Yard feels 80 X better. The “look at me”exhibitionists with their brown and buff bods stand in groups chatting. There is freedom from monoculturalism. Look around, a flourishing of nationalities and ethnicities are present. Lebanon, Haiti, Palestine reads a t-shirt. Does that even exist? Apparently so at Chaka Khan Hacienda. The event that has 99 successes and one of em’ is multiculturalism.
20:00
Again, you eye the expanse. Cautiously. Searching. And roaming. For someone. For something. Perhaps for a song. When suddenly a raucous melody of beating drums and jabbing chords draws you into the crux of movers and shakers. There you find.
Connections
Stare into her eyes. She returns the favor. Both your gazes are locked. Both discovering the worlds of each other’s souls. Her arm swings left. Your arm swings right. Her hips sway right, your hips go left. Without thought, your feet spin around. She follows. Your straw bucket hat can’t match her braids twirling as if she paints brushstrokes of pink and periwinkle in the sky against the setting sol. The feeling of making a connection without verbally speaking is destiny. The mere fact, you believe you were summoned here to dance with her. You both speak the same language. The language of movement. Dance.
Hedonism
You want a popper? A random young lady offers. You politely refuse. These days you don’t know what lurks in substances. However, that does not deter another man in black from inhaling.
Inclusiveness
This is part of Chaka Khan Haciendas’ appeal. Inclusiveness is the new acceptance. People are welcomed with open arms. No matter their past, appearance, pronouns. No one points fingers and laughs. No one gives a fuck.
A judgement free zone
Everyone’s taste is served at the Hacienda. Hairy shoulders. Got ‘em. Tats. Over here. Nip piercings. Over there. Waxed scrotums. Yes. Queens, doms, twinks, and bears in every hue, shape and size are on menu. Even bald baddies to grey haired daddies are present. Everyone can get it!
Music
Now that you have a dance partner, two-stepping in a blowing sea of bubbles, the fun begins. The deejay throws down, views from outside the open window of the container. Like the one located on the Beltline’s Eastside Trail underneath the Freedom Parkway Bridge. Thanks to Ree De La Vega and a Beltline grant. DJ ??? serves house variants of Beyonce’s “Move,” Ciara’s “Get Up,” to Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl.” The varied playlist of ballroom, Jersey club, juke, Afro, acid and 808 breaks keeps you two grooving into the night underneath the dancing stars. You a ball of sweat. Your pink long tee totally drenched. A feeling of euphoria sets into your core. Inhale. Release. Feel the freedom. To be who you are without label and legislation. The freedom that keeps you glowing for days, if not the week to come. Remembering, Chaka Khan Hacienda might have 99 successes, but never will it be a lame ass party. Periodt.
wrds: aj dance
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Tags: Alcohall, Atlanta Georgia, ChakaKhanHacienda, dancing, house music, house music dancing, LGBTQ, Pullman Yards, rave, Ree De La Vega