The GREEN VELVET Show
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Located in Amour Yards across from a commercial brewery, there stands an insipid warehouse. A long winding ramp leads to the front door where bodies are patted head-to-toe, ID’s are checked, before smartphones are scanned for admittance. Entering the nearly 12,000 square-foot premises and finding an all black male security staff proves Black Employment Matters. A walk into the oval shaped interior of copper columns and wood grain floors with highlights of turquoise, emerald and amber promises this experience might be money well spent.
A horde of hot summer girls wearing thigh-high leather boots, lace leggings, and skin-tight halters with attached angel wings parades along a curved exposed brick wall. Their soundtrack is of pulsating synthesizers pulling from the ceiling’s rafters igniting 300 floating orbs to fall over mops of heads. Above on a circumference VIP balcony used for additional social distancing measures for an extra fee, of course, are more young couples head-bopping and viewing a 360-panorama of the dance floor and DJ booth below. Where the DJ extends his arms in the air, for no apparent reason, as if he is the second coming of Christ, sadly it is going to be one of those nights.
“I like your costume,” a young guy yells. This is the weekend of ghosts, goblins and ghouls. Translation: beware of the tomfoolery. Most people are wearing costumes or some form of the least. The best dress goes to the studio 54 transplant sporting wide leg pants and satin shirt. A Borat look-a-like struts by. Of course, someone shows up in the must-have gear of the year, a Hazmat.
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At ten to midnight, a thin frame appears onstage wearing a black tee. His baldhead is devoid a shocking green faux hawk. He stands appearing ready to rock the limited capacity crowd. Instantaneously, a black and white shaped railroad crossing sign displaying two R’s, the first R reversed, flashes on monitors behind the man of the hour. The time has arrived. Generation Z knows what’s up.
“Bass Face.” Green Velvet comes out swinging balls and all. He serves the children the Eskuche tune released on his Relief Records . The track wobbles to dizzying heights before the bass bombs. And here you have it; Joker’s brows, eyes shut tight, smashed mouth, lips contorted and fangs appearing everywhere underneath a laser lightshow of amber and emerald.
Green Velvet is somewhat of a bastard child playing in the streets of Chicago’s more sinister neighborhoods. His sound follows not the established codes of structure. His tracks bite! They are techy, thumps and bumps. He marches to the beat of the drum he creates with others. His collaborations with Claude Von Stroke and Joeske are adventurous if not risky undertakings other DJs of his caliber dare not embark.
Green Velvet is fun. His persona is hilarious. After all, he coined, “Barbees don’t eat. Barbees don’t sleep. Barbees don’t’ speak.” “Barbee” the Green Velvet and Joeski collabo brings out Fabio Fail. Who believes he is a ladies man. There next to the massive maroon column on the dance floor, Fabio stands; his sneakers shuffling, knees angled, torso lurching, hips swaying on count one and count three, his arms locked around an inebriated young woman. Her visage reads caution, actually annoyed hesitation. However, she does not push Fabio Fail away. Instead she entertains his shortcomings.
“I see your lips movin’ but what you talkin’ bout?” This must be what the young woman is thinking as Fabio Fail talks incessantly into her ear. How apropos. The Green Velvet and Chris Lake’s “Deceiver,” captures the moment. After the song fades, Fabio Fail exits the floor with his bro.
“Sacudelo” is a bouncy, but not too rubbery, track that leaves booties shaking it to the Latin tech sounds from masterminds Green Velvet and Joeski.
Heard are screaming lasers, modular synths, and bass explosions. The music conjures to mind an intergalactic war. This is music for the bipolar or schizoid. Imagine Green Velvet in a straight jacket beating his head on a brick wall in La La Land.
Reinvented
Only God knows what goes on in the mind of Green Velvet. Within his psyche is much to behold. The aliases, the music, and the output are cumbersome. Born Curtis Alan Jones and raised in a burb of Chitown, his father spun records. Like father, like son, Curtis took up the turntables. Next came production work, crafting his sound that would send him into the proverbial sphere of Chicago’s who’s who of house music in the early 1990s. Releasing hit-after-hit his work became international anthems. Then came the transformations; Cajmere to Green Velvet, Cajual Recordings to Relief Recordings and the leap from underground raves to EDM’s main stage. His penultimate, “La La Land” was a game changer in early 2000s electronica. By that time, Curtis Alan Jones was burning out. Once again, Chicago’s king of reinvention remixed his life, no more drugs and lots more Christianity. And now everyone’s favorite “Preacher Man” stands in the pulpit, a black elevated stage protected by a plexiglass sneeze guard, delivering his sermon to the predominately no face mask wearing congregation of finger-snapping gays, ravers with glowing gloves and bottle poppers dressed in black booty skirts.
Ah, Fabio Fail returns to the scene of his earlier exploitation and finds the young woman now dancing in the arms of another dude to “Maven.” Bohemien & Raf Parola pay homage to early Chicago’s 90’s house with its low wobbles, low synth jabs. The track is busy, but not skirmish, its frantic BPM jacked from a page out of the “Percolator.”
“Satisfied?” “Are you satisfied?” A voice shrills into the soundsphere. What is Chicago house music without playing vocals? Or Loleatta Holloway’s “Hit and Run?” The classic is a staple that has become expected, if not predictable in most DJ sets.
Including Gospel diva Ann Nesby wailing over thumps. Too bad her voice drowns into a sea of bleeps and oontz. The vocals fall on deaf ears. EDM this is not. Poor kids. They waited for the beat drop that only came once.
Real talk. Lil’ boys stop with the harassment. There dances another smashed young woman shimmy shaking in a blue sparkling dress with sequins. Shimmy Shake’s protective friend stands nearby eyeing the vicinity behind her geisha face mask. Enter the Flea. He buzzes his way towards Shimmy Shake. He captures her attention. He points rear stage and gestures for Shimmy Shake to follow him behind the mysterious black veil blocking the view. He is a persistent flea. Buzzing in Shimmy Shake’s ear. Immediately, Geisha steps into view. She swipes her hand in the Flea’s direction to ward off his unwanted advances towards Shimmy Shake. The Flea continues his pursuit. Geisha does not let up. Now her hand physically touches his chest. There is a simple pushing him away. The Flea continues without hesitation. Geisha’s final choice is to grab Shimmy Shake and pull her from the main floor. In haste, they disappear into the restroom. The Flea shrugs. He looks around. He notices he stands alone. He questions what happened. Even worse, he wonders why his advancements were rejected. After the sickening encounter the oblivious Flea is spotted in the DJ booth fist pumping.
GTFOH! It’s about time! “Ooo…oh…I…need.” “Ooo…oh…I…need.” Dajae singing “Brighter Days” is the, I’m here for it track of the party. The focus on the music returns with Cajmere’s The Underground Goodies Mix. That’s what’s up!
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Thereafter, the time arrives to exit door left. Tellingly, The Green Velvet Show delivered one word-fun! The Millennials attending the party were hilarious. Hilarious enough to throw one shocking curveball. Their electronic devices known for waving in the air, recording the spectacle and taking selfies was non-existent. Their faces more fixated on the DJ booth than nomophobes swiping at screens. Finally! Liquified parties have changed for the better.
wrds: aj dance
grphc: aj art
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Tags: Atlanta Georgia, Cajmere, Chicago house music, dance, dance music, District Atlanta, EDM, electronica, Green Velvet, house music, Liquified