SUPER EGO So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, good-bye, Ms. 2007. Don't let the 404 error smack your red-soled Christian Louboutinclomping, MySpace bisexual ass on the way out. And take your tired $500 embroidered jeans, Belgian sunglasses, Hollister panties, Affliction Ts, and fake Bape reeking of your mama's Target fabric softener with you you know, the one with all the circa-2004 Louis Vuitton rainbow logos on it.
Screw you, Marc Jacobs. Bite me, DJ Tiësto. Can it, rosé-tipsy lady on the dance floor who keeps smacking me in the back of the head with her knock-off Fendi glitter-enameled suede baguette. Arrivederci, neon-streaked hair-don'ts, shuffling texters, drunken Googlers, Killers remixes, Rihanna drag, and Red Bull breath. Au revoir, veneer of social networking. Sayonara, bump watch. Fuck off, gay-lined tweeners.
Heyz, Marke B.! Can't we get a little more <3???
Totez!!11!one. I know it's halfway through January, but I had to let my bitter 2k7 hens out and the above are just so country. I'm zipping them into my lead-lined Hannah Montana backpack and tossing them gracefully yet firmly, in one sweeping motion, with my profile turned toward the camera, chin up onto the raging pyre of fashion victimology. 'K? The new year has me feeling positively jagged with sophistication, deliciously complex, and I need a squeaky-clean slate to cut my witty lines on. (Best overheard club phrases of 2008 so far: "Are those pants or a skirt?" and "This bathroom smells like Fritos and cum!" and "From the top you looked like someone else, but from the front you look like yourself.")
Also: fuzzy resolutions. It's time to get more worldly, more intel, more funkily interconnected. Time to put the pow in MIA, the wise in dubwize, the balls in global. Everyone on the scene's been snugging on their knit Sherpa thinking caps, braiding all of their international musical tastes together, and letting them hang down cutely over their ears. The fractured bass lines pumping through the multiculti underground are raising the roof of the world.
What the hell am I talking about? My secret favorite forward-thinking monthly of the past year: Surya Dub. I need to pack my glass bong up and hit there more on the regular.
Rocketing toward its first anniversary at Club Six, Surya Dub's one of the few joints in San Francisco where the crowd is truly interdenominational, where representatives from all of the latest club contingents Balkan lovers, Bollywood dreamers, rave revivalists, stoned dubsters, ancient househedz, indie cosmopolites, post-hyphy hoppers, grime gawkers, ragga ragers, and eager sublebrities meet in a kind of United Nations of Nightlife, getting off to a tuneful mulligatawny of pan-planetary styles.
Resident and cofounder Maneesh the Twister describes Surya's sound as "dread bass music." "There's not really a genre that fully encompasses what we do," he told me over e-mail from Southeast Asia, where he was breaking for the hols. "Obviously there's a heavy bass component which is the foundation, and a prominent dub influence, but one of our main goals is to bring seemingly disparate music styles and communities together. Hence our vision to bridge the gap between organic styles such as reggae, bhangra, and other global beats and more electronic styles such as dubstep, glitch, breakbeat, and drum 'n' bass."
Maneesh, who also resides at the fab Dub Mission weekly (www.dubmisionsf.com), went on to name-check some of his favorite regular parties Surefire Dubstep, Grime City, Nonstop Bhangra and a few Surya-friendly up-and-coming music makers, like Roommate, Juju, Process Rebel, and Matty G.
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