Our nightlife column, Super Ego, says farewell (for now) with a massive list of spring party musts, including Beats for Japan, Mary Anne Hobbs, Fag Friday, Bomba Estereo, the Tubesteak Connection anniversary, and How Weird Street Fair
SUPER EGO Dear Miss Rotissary Ethnicity Jackson-Houston Ross,
By the time you read this, I will be gone. Europe and North Africa are calling Hunky Beau and me, and after almost seven years of covering San Francisco nightlife for the Guardian, and 14 years in general, she needs a little break (as does her skin!) Don't fret, I'll be back soon enough, in some form, possibly this one, quidnuncking up in your after-dark business. And we'll be polishing the nightlife part of our weekly Guardian music listings, so you can keep an eye on what all the other queens are up to while I'm gone. Or just know where to go for fun dancing, duh.
Miss Ross, I leave the San Francisco scene in the creatively manicured yet still slightly crackly hands of yourself and all the other gorgeous new club terrors who've recently sprouted like neon alfalfa along the gilt gutters of our dance floors. (Although I haven't seen your name around in a hot minute and sincerely hope you're not dead.) Our local, organic, small-batch, sustainable, house-manufactured alternative party scene is the sexiest and deepest and most creative in the world right now. Don't fuck it up, loves. If I come back and it's all loathsome Britney tribute night$ and DJs/models from Vegas with two "Z"s and a hash tag in their name, I will pull out my hardcore OG Detroit techno wig — the one that's really three wigs at once, powered by an ECS RS485M-M motherboard and topped with an abandoned 1930s skyscraper on fire that rotates — and level y'all. To the ground.
But of course before I leave, I have just a few things to say. I hope I've helped break down any severely tired genre and crowd divisions in the clubs, and I've tried my best to elevate nightlife commentary to a higher level than mere celebrity rubbernecking and overuse of the word "fabulous." Nightlife is an art form, Miss Ross, and it has actually saved my life on several occasions. It has a history, and deserves respect and study. But not so much that it ceases being cuckoo bonkers coco puffs Loleatta Holloway amazing.
Finally, unlike some other outlets in this town, the Guardian's party coverage has never been for sale. I may over-gush on occasion, and I'll never actively deflect a dishy bartender's kind attentions after I've written about a party, but you'll always find "advertorial" between "shit" and "syphilis" and "circuit party" in my dictionary app. I may not look like an objective journalist when sprawled spread-eagle at Lombard and Broadway at 5 a.m. with a paper sack of emptied-out Cuervo pints in one hand and a fierce knock-off Gabrielecorto Moltedo bag of emptied-out dignity in the other, but welcome to the new media. No matter how much I adore the people involved, I'd never steer you toward a Mongolian stinkbomb for the free drinks and pocket change, K?
And now, at last, here's a gaggle of awesome upcoming special-event spring parties. Farewell, Miss Ross, for now, and goddess bless you and the children and the children's children and the host with the guest list scrawled on a crumpled-up cocktail napkin in his other pants so everyone gets in free.
Where's my lime wedge,
WED., MARCH 30
Salem Oh, hi, witch house? You've caused a lot of trouble among the no-labels crowd. But few can deny the gothic-gangsta spookiness of your haunted electronic sound. Michigan's Salem brings the crunky rap and fractured neo-Orff production, openers Soft Moon and Water Borders will hold the crowd spellbound.
8 p.m.-11 p.m., $12.50 advance. 103 Harriet, SF. www.blasthaus.com