Beats, Thrills, and Beyond
By Mo Shah

Shazia rubbed off her crimson lipstick in the women’s room. The time for such embellishments had slipped away unnoticed during a steady fusillade of splashy drinks and unnecessary words. But the time for alcohol and banter had arrived and departed as well, all in the midst of an escalating and addictive beat. A Japanese girl with every possible color in her hair stormed in and removed her silver backpack. In a matter of seconds two luminous glow sticks appeared in her hand. Their gaze met, transfixed in curiosity, heightened by the blue light in her hand. Green eyes locked. They were both a striking study in disparity – the one in streamlined Prada, and the other in a well fitted tracksuit. True, they both set hearts fluttering that night, but at Crobar, such archaic pleasures take a backseat to the DJ and his near-hypnotic groove. Shazia, returned to the dance floor. A sea of synthesizers and an army of drumbeats marched their way into her soul. The crowd was no longer comprised of individuals; it was a collective. She left her friends to their three-button blazers and LV handbags. She untucked her top and found the Japanese girl in a sea of anarchic bliss. They smiled again, this time more sensually. They danced well past sunrise. The memories of that night, though majestic, would last but a week, until Shazia returned for another epic evening at Crobar. Next time however, she was clad in softer attire, and once again, she found her friend at four a.m. – and once again, time vanquished as they were lost in the whirlwind of sound -

Every so often a nightclub is borne into a city, and things are never quite the same. It’s almost an unwritten and ubiquitous rule of nocturnal urban sociology. However, when that city happens to be New York, people sit up and pay attention, and when that nightclub happens to be Crobar, people jump up and notice.

	Crobar's Website

Gone are the halcyon days of New York City nightlife, when the only thing more gorgeous than the checkered lines of cocaine being snorted in the mystical Studio 54 were the very luminaries making them disappear. The closing of Studio 54, in its original incarnation (not to be confused with its tacky and inexcusable reopening as of late) marked the end of an era. It marked the end of disco, of unabashed decadence in the days before the AIDS scare, and finally, it brought the pop-art propelled New York glitterati to a sudden halt. What came next was a decade where everything seemed opaque, tenuous and loud. And although greed had become paramount in the 80s, an underground movement was forged in the form of New Wave music – the punk-tinged anti-disco. This music, which had its offshoots (acid, house and the like), brought with it its own set of drugs (ecstasy became a fun supplement to its older sibling, coke) and fashion (dark, simple, anti-establishment wear). Limelight became the new 54, and celebrities were spotted there alongside the rich and successful. On occasion, a drag queen coupled with someone clad in gothic vampire-chic would stroll in. It was all about looks. But drugs, or more specifically the rough business of dealing inside Limelight, brought the establishment to its knees. By the time Limelight closed it had evolved into a megaplex nightclub (housed to perfection in an eerie Chelsea-church) frequented mostly by people who did not understand nor care for music, but were status seekers in the ever-dizzying echelons of permanent midnight in New York City.

So what happened? When did this stuff stop being, you know, fun? In the past fifty years, music was seldom written for the ruling class. Why were things so uncomfortable and competitive? Queue the House music baby, just queue the house music! House music, and progressive house as it has now evolved was made for the simple pleasure of dancing. It is not about isolation, it is about elation. It lends itself as effectively to the drug user as to the number cruncher, to the artist as to the debutante. It is beautiful layered music with beats that are so inventive and primal, that even the most reserved person can’t help but move to it.

What Crobar has done so brilliantly, is set up a space for the world’s greatest DJs to come and entrance thousands of people every weekend – a space where nobody is out of place, and everybody can find momentary bliss. Seldom has a place been so well fitted for the masses. Seldom has a nightclub been so aware of its time. It accepts the fact that there are people who seek a certain level of unparalleled polish when they go out at night, but at the same time it caters to the urban street culture that house music is designed to foster. It is a club keenly omniscient of the generosity a banker’s credit card can provide to the bar or waitress, and the aesthetic contribution of the “Who the Fuck is Prada?” artist on the dance floor. And although there is a lounge area, playing hip-hop for the well-dressed clientele, it is the main room – a simple standing room dance floor - that elevates Crobar to majestic and unforgettable heights week-upon-week. For people who are still consumed with the need for comfort and status, VIP tables are situated on top of the dance floor, but it’s that diverse crowd, convulsed in an ecstatic romp below, that lies paramount in the eyes of the DJ, the club, and the music lover. The floor is illuminated by spectacular lights that are at once minimal, haunting, dreamy and fetching – based on the D.J.’s current track. It is a scene that truly must be experienced to be believed. This dance floor is its own subculture – a big fuck-you to the Paris Hilton’s and Donald Trumps of the world. A sweet middle finger to the krystal-sipping Hollywood jet set. It is what independent cinema is to Hollywood. Sometimes, it is what Woodstock might have felt like when the sun went down.

At about two to three in the morning, the crowd thins out a bit, and this is when Crobar truly comes alive. All around you are waves people smiling, sighing, and dancing. Women kiss women, transvestites move to the beat, glow sticks and designer shades are ubiquitous. The bar is shut at about 4 a.m., and Crobar shuts by eight, so that’s not a Heineken making the crowd smile, sugar. It’s the high one gets from the music. This is a club that takes its music extremely seriously. Above all else a sharp paramount is placed on the scholarship of its DJs…and they are the best, most respected, and progressive artists in the world playing on one of the most state-of-the art sound systems in any nightclub, period.

The fashion police would probably go into sensory overload at Crobar, because this is a house that welcomes all. And all come. From John Galliano to Adidas, this place has its own prêt-a-porter. Under the washes of sweet synthesizers and mesmerizing beats, everyone, for a brief moment in time, no matter what race, no matter what color, no matter what shape, and no matter what income-bracket, smiles at each other. It is an accustomed taste, true, but one that is singular, sensual, and otherworldly. Crobar is a beautiful, large, snazzy warehouse. That’s all it is. Architecturally, the hip-hop lounge is very opulent – with large trees and round tables, as well as a small yet hopping dance floor of its own. But enter the white, subway style tunnel to the main floor, and the music just switches to something grander, larger and more exciting. Be it Sasha, Digweed, or Deep Dish – something brilliant is behind the decks.

By six in the morning, there is no ill-will anywhere. The music has reached almost inexplicable heights. It can move even the most exhausted individual into a non-stop groove. And the beauty of it is, you don’t have to be an expert-dancer to enjoy yourself. You just have to move. That’s the genius of the music. That’s why it works. This large space, at first intimidating, has become home to legions of night crawlers. From the decent to the decadent, and from hip to square, they all find a peace of heaven here. And it’s set to one of the best soundtracks ever produced. House music is one of the only danceable music forms that is truly progressive and cutting edge today. And in New York, it’s found its home at Crobar.

She walked out of the hidden entrance, her feet throbbing and body strangely alive. She had never felt this awake or aware. Music had suddenly become a cardinal part of her being. The streets were bathed in flickers of sunlight. The Japanese girl released Shazia’s hand. They put on their shades and kissed goodnight. They would meet again in this parallel universe. House music was now a religious experience for Shazia. And this was her own private Mecca.

Rights for all pictures provided by Jamie Kraus