Miami: the land of silicone and saliva

Miami: the land of silicone and saliva

22 March, 2007 | 11.20AM

• Section: Music News Topics: Industry Boy Blog
• Written by: Industry Boy

Two headache pills and three glasses of water later, and the horizon has stopped moving. Industry Boy stares down at his vast breakfast plate unable to summon the strength needed to fit in another mouthful of scrambled eggs. No wonder in America there are so many fat people.

The sun and cumulo nimbus do battle above, upsetting the mood of a pool party that I find myself at. Without the sun’s rays, there are no bikinis. And without g-strings and suncream there is no authentic Miami experience.

Still the DJs play good music, and manage to keep my head from drifting towards the hangover cutting-board.

A goddess suddenly appears in the crowd, like a thunderbolt thrown by Zeus himself. Her eyes sparkle a deep mystical blue, her tones are curvaceous and her hair flows delicately in the wind. Before the arrow has time to pierce my heart, a long sword cuts me down from behind.

“Stop dribbling, you cunt,” a voice booms, in the crudest of ways which could only be one person, Dwayne.

“There’s so many fucking fit birds in Miami, it’s ridiculous!” he barks, grinning like a hyena and raising his arm for an exaggerated high five.

Dwayne has come to Miami for the ride, not because he’s in the industry like moi.

And no doubt, he’s done the five-finger knuckle shuffle in the toilet a fair few times already, for the eye candy around here is a sight for sore eyes.

“Even you could pull here mate, the Yank girls love the British accent.”

I turn back towards the beauty, but she is gone lost in a sea of tanned bodies and muscles. I consider Dwayne’s haphazard approach to social etiquette for a minute.

He does have a knack of hooking up with stunners, despite his crooked hook nose and wonky teeth.

His dastardly charm has proven time and again, that persistence overcomes resistance.

And for some reason, girls are attracted to his arrogant nature. ‘The direct approach always works he often brags.

Industry Boy isn’t here to shag though. I’m here to work. So I spend the rest of my day drowning myself in interviews and conducting Strawberry Daiquiris.

A few famous dance music folk and DJs agree to my spotlight, and sure enough Industry Boy gains some respect and some business cards.

After the sun drops off wounded from its fight with Mr. Rain and Master Wind, the dark Lady Desire appears once again, her enticing long finger nails seduce me with promises of forbidden pleasures.

‘The night is young, and into it we must ride,’ she whispers.

After a triple S (shit, shower, shave), Industry Boy is tanked-up ready to absorb whatever niceties are thrown at me.

A few hours later, I’m sharing a couch with Carl Cox in the VIP room of club Nocturnal in downtown Miami.

“So I heard about Space,” I tell him, referring to a rumour I heard about Coxy being chucked out of Space nightclub in Miami the night before. No doubt some idiotic bouncer didn’t like Carl’s choice of footwear.

“You keep your ear to the ground don’t you,” he says grinning, before putting one huge black arm around me and pulling my ear closer to his mouth.

“The thing is, old Fritz has been bought out and now he’s got nothing to do with the club anymore,” he murmurs. I nod, like I know what he’s talking about.

“It’s a shame, cos Fritz was a major reason for the success of that club. He brought in all the good DJs and promoters.”

The brain cogs suddenly splutter into life. Cox thought I was banging on about Space in Ibiza not Space in Miami, and he just let slip that Fritz, the longtime owner and manager of the famous Ibizan club, was no longer a part of its operation.

A shame indeed, for Fritz was something of an Ibizan legend.

Industry Boy and a few Carl Cox hangers–on devour the free booze lustfully, like vultures on a rotting carcass.

The blood thins, and the basslines get thick thanks to Green Velvet’s electro. We would be sweaty and squashed, was it not for the velvet rope that separates our corner of club paradise from the flood on the dancefloor.

Chaos is all around us, and we sit and watch as flames of indulgence engulf the tribe of dancers below.

And the beat goes on in Industry Boy’s ears long after we leave Nocturnal. Even in my dreams, the kick drum vibrates emphatically. In the moonlight, Zeus’ goddess dances naked just for me.

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