Running the Voodoo Down
Hipgenesis takes it aboveground at Circus Disco
By Ron Garmon
Moby's 'Night' Out
The Circus Stays in Town
Too Much Junkie Business
Life in the Fast Lane
Something 2 dance 2
The Cool Kids Are Alright
Kazell
Hipgenesis defines itself in terms of a Phildickian consciousness coup or interdimensional ransom note: “Simultaneously a shadowy collective of artists and agent provocateurs, an increasingly disruptive series of horizonal events, and a word used to describe the transition point between reality and irreality.” This is talk to twitch the muzzle of a Homeland Security ferret but for the fact it refers to homemade debauchery, America’s last frontier and first excuse for itself.
The idea is this: You belong to an elite cadre of hedonists and high-rollers convening at odd intervals in the remoter crannies of Los Angeles, out from under the ever-lengthening shadow of the Man. Few spots are too remote or improbable for operations, and by the time theme and locale ping your inbox, you’ve laid in a dozen gaudy costumes with components to mix ’n’ match for any contingency. Anon comes the night and all assemble at some unlikely one-shot venue – downtown fire station, a South Central warehouse turned love shack, or Burbank office block made over as interdimensional spaceport – for an evening of dancing, musical performance, and the more esoteric forms of socializing. The fun goes on until you emerge blinking into the post-dawn hours and startle early-rising goodfolk on your way home.
A merry life, to be sure, and one I’ve led myself for the last couple of years, taking this comprehensive weirdness on top of my usual rock clubmanship. This sunless existence gave me a Lugosi pallor, a vast circle of friends and a distaste for the juiceless experience on tap at the local dance superclubs. Even so, the only downside to the Voodoo party Hipgenesis threw in the cavernous mainstream of Circus Disco in Hollywood on Saturday, March 22, was the 4 a.m. Hollywood curfew. Yes, yes, that’s what afterparties are for, but my own taste for such affairs was never great and dwindles every time some glitter-eyed civilian begs me score her some white-line yeyo.
Not that I didn’t abuse some privileges. Standing at the foot of a long line arterially clotted with youngsters and novice Burners, my pretty companion and I were informed by a welcoming bellow from Security this was for peeps on the guest list. This was surmounted with no trouble by the magic word “Press,” a Gorgon’s head one tries not to unsheath in polite company. Inside, one room of the two-story concrete sprawl was being worked by DJ Fatfinger, noted funketeer working electro-trance-funk havoc from behind the decks. Going for a sort of Anne Rice gothique, Hipgen’s set decorators went for a vampiric Vieux Carre carnival, with a fortune teller set up and exquisite posing from the Wandering Marionettes, a parcel of sexy undead preening in ultra-slow caricatures of worldly vanity.
Around me was a broad, tribal swath of hardcore revelers who show up at all these events. Most come from the Burning Man subculture; few bonds are firmer than with those who play with art that can kill. By midnight, Circus Disco was seething with the wild kids of Saturday night, and most of these civilians passed through ouraccessible- for-once party, delighted at the trimmings and taken aback at all the unclubby affection. Security was a bit laxer than in such well-upholstered penitentiaries as
Vanguard, with even the guards trading hugs with us well before closing.
Indeed, it began to get downright adhesive. In a long, stately approach to the exit, I was seized and loved-upon by dozens of freakishly-dressed, hyper-sexy friends, each breathing a goodnight benediction into my ears. It was like boarding the last train from Wonkaville, or as good as Saturday night in Hollywood gets.
Published: 03/26/2008
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