Drumcode Tour: Running on fumes in Miami

Drumcode Tour: Running on fumes in Miami

13 October, 2008 | 12.11PM

• Written by: Industry Boy
• Filed under: Music News: adam beyer, drumcode tour, joel mull

Adam Beyer’s leg is shaking at the speed of a wagging dog’s tail. “It’s time to go,” he says, standing up.

At 6’ 6”, this Swedish techno DJ’s desire to remain inconspicuous is futile; from the other side of this small nightclub in Miami, Florida, his trademark shaven head can easily be spotted.

An excited nerdy-looking 20-something comes bounding up with a huge smile on his face.

“Hey Adam! Can I have a photo?” shouts the kid. Adam obliges with a polite smile.

Secretly, I know that all Adam wants to do is sleep, because I feel the same way too.

For the last two hours we had been sitting in a dark corner of this club called Rehab, quietly sipping on vodka Red Bulls.

We hadn’t slept more than a few hours in three days, and after three flights, three hotels and three nightclubs, we were exhausted.

It took a double espresso and five or six alcoholic drinks just to get this far, and weaving through the warm moving bodies on the dark dancefloor, the urge to lean on a stranger and ask them for a cuddle is irresistible.

Earlier, on the plane over to Miami from Toronto, Adam Beyer’s fellow DJ, Joel Mull, had remarked upon hearing a baby crying, “I want to do that.”

As we cross the dancefloor, in my head I see a Rubensian woman offering up her breast to me for suckling and it gives me enough energy to reach the DJ booth.

“This club has got some strange decorations,” says Joel Mull as he steps back from the altar-like DJ booth to allow Adam to take over the music.

“Stuffed bears and bombs, and a photo of OJ Simpson on the bar. That’s pretty weird.”

There were other curious things to be found in Rehab, like urinals that were so low only a two-year-old wouldn’t end up pissing on his own leg, and girls with fake breasts so immovable they could open a beer bottle.

But that’s Miami for you, and the city that was built from cocaine does have its benefits.

Take this club Rehab. It doesn’t need to close. Ever.

And you can get a drink whenever you want, because for some reason, Downtown Miami isn’t under the overzealous eye of the party poopers that have ruined much of America’s nightlife scene.

Because the club can stay open as long as it wants, it doesn’t get busy till about 3am.

That was the problem when we walked in at 1am.

We needed energy, and there was none.

See DJs are like leeches - the need to feed off other human beings is part of a their psyche - but the only signs of life was a fat bloke sitting in the corner puffing on a cigarette.

That’s the other good thing about Miami – you can still smoke in the clubs.

Now smoking, yeah it’s bad. Cancer and all that. It makes your clothes smell like shit, too.

But the ban on smoking in clubs has had a detrimental effect on the dance music scene, because people now have to go outside and talk crap to strangers when they want a smoke.

When they go outside, they sober up.

Sobering up is never a good thing. Talking nonsense to strangers is bad too, unless you’re trying to get laid.

But if you want to get laid in Miami, there are plenty of other joints to haunt - the electronic music scene is all about the music, innit?

“I need a beer,” shouts Adam, with one hand holding his DJ headphones to his ear.

Good idea. I’ll have a beer and maybe a vodka too.

Beyer filters the bass out of a storming techno track using the Allen & Heath Xone:92’s stunning filters, and Joel Mull swings a white towel that he was using to mop up sweat above Adam’s head in a helicopter-like fashion.

The point was to urge the three hundred or so clubbers on the dancefloor out front to suck it up a bit more.

Show some enthusiasm you bastards, we’re running on fumes here, and if we can do it, you bet your well-rested asses you can.

The wind-up works, and the crowd throw their arms into the air as Beyer drops the booming bass back in.

Let’s stop for a second, to discuss the act of throwing one’s hands into the air.

It’s pretty weird, when you think about it.

This particular body movement only seems to happen in cases of extreme emotional response.

Like at a political or religious rally (committed hope)– God is great!

When your team scores a goal (supreme relief) – Go Chelsea!

When the cops want you to stop running (scared shitless) – Now stop right there or I’ll shoot!

Or in the midst of a fight (aggressively angry) – I’m going to kill every last one of you!

In a live music and club environment it’s a sign of pure excitement – This music is so good, I’m going to put my hands in the air, wahoo!

It’s great that such a litmus test exists for DJs and live performers. Have we got any hands in the air? Yep, OK, these folks are having a good time.

Tonight during Adam Beyer’s blistering techno set it looks like there are plenty of clubbers having a good time.

I remember that Adam reminded me to remind him to play the new Timo Maas track ‘Subtellite’ on Cocoon, a nasty ass epic techno tune that he says, “is going to be really difficult to mix out of. Once you’ve played it, where the hell do you go next?”

Sure enough, about 20 minutes later the most aggressive techno loop of the last year comes out, crunching on the speakers like a giant Pacman.

The Spanish guitars that float over the top sound like they were added by Timo Maas as a mild sweetener after he realised his track might make some people cry.

Kind of like if you wanted to kill yourself, you might add some sugar to the toxic liquid you’d decided to swallow before chugging it down.

At about 6am, Adam Beyer looks at Joel Mull and then looks at me, and through the exchange of the bloodshot eyes I see that Rubensian woman again and her fabulously large breasts.

Yeah, we’re all beat.

Adam grabs the resident DJ to take over, and after downing one more beer for the long five-minute drive back to the hotel, we head out into the dark Miami morning.

We pile into an elevator, and after the briefest of goodbyes, I take a running leap off into the dark warm recesses of that voluptuous woman’s boobies otherwise known as bed.

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