DJ BUS STATION JOHN
SELECT PRESS 2004-PRESENT
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SAN FRANCISCO WEEKLY Feature Interview:
"Hey DJ! Friday Q&A: Bus Station John"
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Direct Inquiries to
EARL DAX
earldax at mac dot com
(Photo by Joseph Durham)
This week our guest DJ is Bus Station John, a droll club vet who is so old school he started out DJing with cassette tapes (read his hilarious story on that situation below). BSJ is well known within the queer dance scene by the kids who like a little grit in their kicks. As the man himself explains, "you don't have to have a gruesomely over-defined, tortoise shell-like abdomen" to be a guest at his club nights -- although he also reminds folks that the (literally) well-heeled can upchuck elsewhere. He hosts parties in the city's dive-y underbelly, and his nights, from the Tubesteak Connection to Trash and Double Dutch Disco (R.I.P.) are the stuff of legend. Below Bus Station John takes a minute to extrapolate the life of an intrepid promoter, and take it from us, his words of wisdom make for good reading.
Name: DJ Bus Station John
Club nights: The Tubesteak Connection; The ROD; MANQUAKE!
Style(s) of music you spin: Rare Disco, Hi-NRG, Italo/Eurodisco, Boogie, R&B/Funk, Electro-funk, New/No-Wave...basically late 70's/early 80's dance music that you would've heard in gay bars, bathhouses & discos of the day, from the Trocadero Transfer to the Paradise Garage and beyond....
How and when did you first get your foot in the club scene in San Francisco? I started out making cassette tapes incorporating these delightful genres for house parties in the mid-90's, after having been an avid fan and collector of the music since it first came out. Then, eight years ago, I did my very first gig in the space that is now Deco Lounge, where I throw The ROD.
I found out at the last minute that they didn't have turntables, so I ended up faking it on a dual cassette player, swapping songs from a handful of pre-recorded tapes! The booth was a utility room with a little window facing the dance floor---you could only see me from the shoulders up---so nobody knew i wasn't actually spinning vinyl. Now the secret is out!
I spent the next three-plus years hunkered down in the dark behind a chain-link fence at The Powerhouse, doing an evening called TRASH, where I provided the Sunday night soundtrack for gentlemen in search of male companionship after a long, fruitless weekend..."cruising the dregs," as it were. Hey, we've all been there. But things really took off when I left that cozy nook to start The Tubesteak Connection at Aunt Charlie's in early 2004. I felt there was a definite void in the scene as far as there not really being a place for non-mainstream queers to commune, to find each other---the dot-commoners and retail-obsessed Castro queens had pretty much blanded out San Francisco by then. I wanted not only to create a refuge for homos who reject the status quo, but also to celebrate the aesthetics of an era when gay culture---and dance music---was at its peak, while existing largely underground. Despite the subsequent popularity of my nights, I still try to maintain that "off-the-radar" vibe.
What's the most important thing to remember as a DJ or promoter?
For a DJ: Stay true to your instincts. You're doing this because you have a passion for music, so it's important not to be distracted by things like trying to second-guess the crowd, or trying to live up to people's expectations. Just do your thing, and if you're lucky, enough people will "get it" to make it fun. To the promoter: Be genuine with people. And don't forget your flyers!
What club night do see as your finest accomplishment and why? I'd say that each one has its charms. At MANQUAKE!, which is at The Gangway, San Francisco's longest continuously-running gay bar (and featuring many of its original patrons!), we have twenty-somethings getting down with sixty, seventy, even eighty-year olds---not a typical sight in a gay bar, or anywhere else. I'm very proud of creating a dynamic that allows for such intergenerational camaraderie. It's been great fun rehydrating the age-old gay tradition of the Wet Jockstrap Contest at The ROD. Lots of cute boys/men, and you don't have to have a gruesomely over-defined, tortoise shell-like abdomen to win! Double Dutch Disco (R.I.P.) showcased some of my favorite period dance music ever, where black & gay intersect. People still come up to me and tell me how much they loved it---I just may have to bring it back. Of course, The Tubesteak Connection is my baby. The crowd represents a lovely cross-section of all differents kinds of queens, with lots of hipsters (in a good way), people in the arts, music lovers, scene-makers, and regular joes. It continues to be my little laboratory where I mix all the aforementioned musical genres together and see what sorts of explosions result on & off the dance floor....
What's the common thread that runs between your nights? Besides the focus on all things retro-homo? There's very little pretense going on. I think the music gives people permission to let their barriers down. Notably absent is the sense of ennui that sets in when one is assaulted by the unrelenting tastelessness and din of the contemporary dance music played in most gay settings. Or straight ones, for that matter. I will take a moment here to reiterate that my clubs are indeed primarily intended for queer people, we have so few corners to call our own anymore, particularly as we become absorbed more into the mainstream. Don't get me wrong, we don't frown upon the presence of respectful straight-Italo-heads-with-a-clue, we actually think you're kinda cute! And I enjoy broadening my horizons doing occasional gigs out in the straight club world. But as for the average fickle slummer, regardless of your orientation---let's just say you'll have more fun barfing on your Blahniks elsewhere, and we'll have even more fun not watching you!
You've worked with a number of venues around the city: how do you choose the
right space for your nights? It's very important to align yourself with people you respect, people who are on the same page as you. I've been really fortunate in this regard, with one or two exceptions. The best venues are the ones who truly appreciate having you there, and are willing to work with you to make a party happen, even chipping in to help defray the cost of throwing it. They also understand that it might take a while for the night to take off, and that the numbers may naturally ebb and flow over time. They don't freak out over stuff like that, they're just grateful that you're bringing in business, as well as creating a special energy in their space. Physically, I've always leaned toward more intimate venues---you don't need as many people to make a party. But at some point I'd like to see what I could do with a bigger space....
What's the craziest thing that's happened at one of your club nights? All of our patrons are extremely well-behaved, heads bowed, and hands folded where we can see them---and always, always using their "indoor voices."
Name of a track you can't get out of your head: That's a trade secret!
Dream DJ partner: I fly solo, baby! Seriously, four hours is barely enough time to say what I need to say---and the first two might be spent just trying to find my groove. That's when you're waiting for the crowd to gel. Do come down a little earlier, kids---I need your inspiration!
Favorite DJ experience: It's ongoing...the warm fuzzies I get from people who enjoy what I do. It feels wonderful, and I never take it for granted!
Worst request: The vast majority of the people who come to my nights have a clue, so lame requests are rarely a problem. I do, however, recall one night at TRASH when some kid came up and drunkenly asked, "Do you have anything good?" What else could I say but, "No."
Most treasured vinyl score: There are quite a few. I found Taana Gardner's double-disc EP for a dollar...yay!
Musical mantra: To thine own self be true.
Any other projects you currently have in the works? I'm embroidering a lovely sampler that says "No Cell Phones or Texting in the Bar, Thanks" to hang next to the front door @ Aunt Charlie's. The paper version's gotten a little raggedy.
Question we didn't ask you but you often ask yourself: "Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?"
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SAN FRANCISCO BAY GUARDIAN Gay Pride Issue / Cover Story + Interview:
Gay heritage night
DJ Bus Station John's bathhouse-disco revival at the Tubesteak Connection takes aim at the gay culture cul-de-sac.
By Marke B.
WE QUEERS ARE always looking ahead. We eagerly latch onto newfangled gizmos like the Internet, digital film, fauxhawk haircuts, bias-cut jeans, and home-remixers in an effort to express our sexuality while advancing our politics. And for all the lip service about "honoring our past," we have a tendency to selectively edit out the more "unseemly" parts of it. Give us Phyl and Del for the front pages – but please keep the Crisco and poppers to yourself.
Our future, however, seems to be a mess. In one year's time, we've gone from holding worldwide pep rallies celebrating a fulfilled destiny of legalized sodomy and same-sex marriage to fighting a media barrage that's laid bare our apparent addictions to crystal meth, unsafe sex, and online hookups. In response, it seems that much of gay club culture is attempting to "sanitize" any overt queer sexual expression by burying it beneath a storm of heterosexual video imagery coupled with the same old remixes of Cher.
So what are we to make of the sudden emergence of a wildly popular DJ and promoter whose photocopied flyers feature a dancing, Baby Jane'd Bette Davis superimposed on a grainy Super-8 double-dicking? Whose sets mix early-'80s downtown NYC no-wave and disco obscurities with the synthetic Hi-NRG sounds of San Francisco's fabled cha-cha palace the Trocadero Transfer? Who worships at the keys of pre-Fairlight synthesizers but refuses to log on to the World Wide Web?
One smart sissy star, that's what. And his name is Bus Station John.
Harnessing the current electroclash vogue to channel gay historical dissonance into a dance-floor confrontation with the whole of our past, DJ Bus Station John pulls no punches with his disco politics. Aiming to re-create the slutty, sleazy, pre-AIDS bathhouse era with his music, his visuals, and his vibe at regular club nights the Tubesteak Connection (at Aunt Charlie's) and the Rod (Underground SF), he reanimates a lost, necessary part of our culture too often buried in shame and desperate yearning. Bus Station John dares to fete the heyday of truck-stop, bathhouse, and tearoom encounters, honoring it as the often fun-filled grassroots resistance movement it was, the only form of communal validation then available for many gay men.
But for those of us whose musical cerebellum often overshadows our pier-sized libidos, Bus Station John also reprazents. His mystical crate-digging layers homocore fetishism for the marginal over a roots ideal, with a generous nod to the same underground analog railroad that techno gods Derrick May and Carl Craig and early-Eurodisco enthusiasts Dimitri from Paris and Gilles Peterson have ridden to DJ superstardom. (Bus Station John would cringe at these contemporary comparisons, but, rather charmingly, his rage-filled lumping of all recent dance music permutations into a single "house music all night wrong" category is what fuels his creative lust for anachronistic vengeance.)
After years of suffering through that Great Erasure of queer dance quirks known as circuit music, we finally have a vinyl archaeologist of our own, one who nails the spirit of DIY activism in his stacks yet keeps the floors packed. The great gay ghost of Larry Levan may be double-parked in Paradise Garage, but down here in the queer underground, Bus Station John's still taking the free-love message to the streets. Revenge of the clones, meet the return of the queen.
Bay Guardian: You seem to be in direct rebellion against a gay community of methed-up, apathetic circuit queens on steroids looking for the latest anonymous Internet encounter. Is that safe to say?
Bus Station John: I don't see what I do as conscious rebellion, just my natural reaction to the steady decline of gay culture and nightlife over the last 20 years. I'm old enough, at 44, to have tasted the end of the golden age, the pre-AIDS era that I celebrate in the music I play – specifically the late '70s and early '80s, when some fantastic dance music was being produced. While Stonewall had definitely flung open the closet door, there was still that exciting sense of being a sexual outlaw, moving on a special plane apart from the mainstream.
Now we've gone from being a unique underground subculture to a marketing niche. Just check out how the archetypal gay male has changed over the last couple of decades. First we had the Castro Clone: the mustachioed, Levi-clad, free-loving, crotch-popping, hanky- and keyring-sporting icon of the old school. He was a stylistic expression of sexual freedom and identity. His current replacement? An overly preened and pumped label whore working the latest pinhead haircut smeared with "product," and undermining all those hours at the gym with a pair of hideous insect eyebrows better suited to Marlene Dietrich. Hmmm ... maybe I am rebelling after all!
BG: That certainly seems to be the gay man's current media image, but how does it relate to gay bar culture, which can be viewed historically as a reaction against the outside world?
BSJ: A visit to a gay bar today is less the sexual cruising odyssey of yesteryear than a visit to a well-lit aviary full of retail-bred magpies and their chirpy gal pals from the office. All eyes are fixed on relentlessly heterosexual video images of hoochies grinding their collective jugs and cameltoes into the camera lens, their meager talents propped up by an army of dancers as they frantically feign "havin' a par-tay." Why are we watching this in a gay bar, anyway? Suppose we pull the plug and look at each other. Now that would be revolutionary.
BG: Is that what inspired you to do your own thing?
BSJ: When you know how much better things have been, I think it's hard not to imagine how much better they can be. That's why I finally decided to create my own scene. I was tired of having no place to go after the dot-commoners and greedy landlords blanded-out San Francisco – and even more tired of complaining about it.
My nights are audio-visual tributes to the old-school gay demimonde, when our culture was at its creative, aesthetic, and sexual peak. There was a short but amazing window of time when incredibly imaginative, engaging, and sometimes crazy electronic music was coming out of New York, San Francisco, Europe, and even Montreal, made principally by and for gay men.
These songs were the result of many hours of sweat over primitive, often homemade, synthesizers without the use of computer software or samplers. They transcended the disco clichés of the day by featuring one-of-a-kind hooks and arrangements, often paired with delightfully idiosyncratic vocals. As a DJ, my mission has been to rescue these gems from oblivion and re-create the special vibe of the gay bars, discotheques, and bathhouses of the day.
BG: So you're basically using electronic music not as a path to the unknown, technological future, but as a window onto a utopian, mostly forgotten fleshpot past. That's all well and good within the confines of your parties, but how can that translate to a wider shift within the community itself? In other words, how do you think your clubs can change the gay world?
BSJ: I'm not so sure about changing the world, but I think the parties I've created have definitely filled a void in SF's nightlife. The Tubesteak Connection in particular attracts fags, dykes, and trannies who are typically broke, creative, urban savvy, scruffy chic, and looking for love, sex, and kindred spirits. They're over the mediocrity of the status quo, they've been starving for something different for a long time, and I love turning them on to this great music they might not have otherwise known existed. It's part of their gay heritage.
I also want to get the word out to "men of a certain age" that you don't have to be young and hip to enjoy what I do – though it does get pretty loud!
In a sense I think I'm providing a musical bridge between two distinct queer generations, an emotionally important connection that was decimated both by AIDS and the lust to harness our "demographic" 's spending power to the popular market. By restoring this connection, I'm hoping to inform and empower us to make our sexuality our own again. I hope for a world where freaks can be freaks – and can proudly walk the streets of San Francisco again without feeling any pressure to fit into the latest fashionable "scene" shoved down our throats by whatever liquor or "lifestyle" ads are currently barraging our community.
BG: About AIDS: You must know that by bringing to the fore the bathhouse era, you're forcing a new generation to contemplate a segment of the gay past they may view as "dirty," in the sense that many young gay men erroneously see that particular historical period as the "cause" of AIDS. What's your take on some of the controversy you've stirred up because you champion the men and the music of that time?
BSJ: About 95 percent of what I spin is on used vinyl. Sometimes I look at my records and wonder about their previous owners. Many were gay men – DJs and disco-lovers whose music ended up in thrift stores and bargain bins, their collections broken up and scattered like ashes to the wind. Sometimes I find names stamped or handwritten on the labels. I think of these men and try to honor them. I believe part of them is resurrected every time I play their songs.
You know, those men who are no longer with us, the first to succumb to the epidemic – they didn't know what they were dealing with. We on the other side of the first wave of AIDS know better. Caring for yourself and your gay brothers enough to get rubbers and use them – that's hot. Rocket science it is not.
BG: Are you finding that people are glomming on to the message in the music of your clubs?
BSJ: Well, initially I envisioned my first club, the Tubesteak Connection, as a sleazy venue for alternaqueer men to cruise and pick each other up at – which of course it still is. But the comment I hear most from newcomers is "I had so much fun" or "I love your music," which is incredibly gratifying and lovely, so I adjusted my vision a bit to up the inclusivity factor. Now we're an internationally known nightspot for queers of all genders who get it. And I think they really are getting it.
My favorite evenings happen when every sort of San Franciscan is represented, from the electroclash kid to the disco granny, the trannyfag to the aging drag, the milquetoast accountant to the incognito TV personality. And I love that drugs aren't a big part of my parties. People get high enough on the music, the vibe, each other. When everyone's dancing enthusiastically to anachronistic rarities from a gay past they're rediscovering together, that's the icing on the cake.
Straight people aren't unwelcome, provided they have a clue. But if they're just out slumming 'cause they heard it was the trendy thing and they're looking to be entertained by the latest queer minstrel show, this isn't the place for them. The same goes for Queer as Folk Castro queens with their cell phones glued to their ears. I'd rather retire the club than see it co-opted into "the Bar on Turk Street."
BG: What do you do about the people who come but just don't "get it"?
BSJ: I have a stash of secret weapon music I can whip out that will ensure they flee back from whence they came.
http://www.sfbg.com/39/38/cover_bus_station_john.html
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SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE Pride Issue Feature Article (excerpt):
"The Gay Spin" by Neva Chonin
"Dance till the stars come down from the rafters," W.H. Auden wrote in "Death's Echo." "Dance, dance, dance till you drop."
The dancing queen in Auden would appreciate two of the documentaries this year at Frameline31, the San Francisco International LGBT Film Festival, tracing the role club culture plays in forging a sense of gay identity and community. "The Godfather of Disco" (4:30 p.m. Tuesday at the Castro Theatre) tells the story of Mel Cheren, an early backer of the Paradise Garage, the New York gay club where DJ Larry Levan, started the disco era. "Mother -- : A Movie" (7 p.m. Tuesday at the Victoria Theatre) fast-forwards to post-AIDS New York, where DJs in an underground club encourage the queer community to once again fly its freak flag proudly.
San Francisco's own gay club scene is, of course, legend. And so, to honor our own dance revolution -- and to keep these fine New York-centric docs from stealing all the thunder -- we offer profiles of three San Francisco DJs, each of whom, in his or her own way, is helping forge community on the dance floor. Oh, if only Auden could see us now.
BUS STATION JOHN
Biological Age: 46
Styles: Classic bathhouse and disco grooves of the late '70s and early '80s.
A night spent dancing to Bus Station John's record collection is like a voluntary flashback to a time when disco was the soundtrack to a gay cultural revolution.
From the discs to the decor, John wants to re-create, briefly, the euphoria of "a post-Stonewall, pre-AIDS era. My mission is to take gay men my age and older on a trip down memory lane while turning younger men on to this music," he says. "In the best-case scenario, I can be a bridge between generations of queer men. We've almost lost a generation because of AIDS, and it's left a huge void in nightlife and in the arts and culture in general. We can't fill that void, but at least I can point to those who came before us -- the crazy, creative queens, the wild ones."
This noble mission nearly came to a soggy end in March, when a three-alarm fire reduced John's apartment to a post-disco inferno. Miraculously, his extensive vinyl collection survived. Proof, obviously, that God digs retro grooves, or maybe just enjoys watching John shake up the city's complacent gay bourgeoisie.
"With our supposed acceptance into the mainstream comes the mainstreaming of gays themselves, and, to me, that's extremely boring," John says. "It's important to me to create queer spaces that are alternatives to the queer mainstream. I want to show younger queers that there are all different ways to be queer. You can spread your wings and fly your freak flag if you want to. You don't have to settle for the status quo."
Battling the status quo and promoting a sexy, bodacious party atmosphere have made John's club nights among the city's most popular, but John says he sees himself more as a curator than a celebrity DJ.
"I always emphasize that it's not about me. I'm just the archaeologist, the guy who turns you on to the music. I'm doing it because I have a passion for the music and the aesthetic of the era," he says. "Although it is nice to get free drinks."
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SAN FRANCISCO WEEKLY Feature Article:
"Let's Get Physical: Bus Station John Spins Rare Vinyl Into Golden Opportunities"
by Brock Keeling
"You can be a mess here," DJ Bus Station John says as the bartender serves up another round at Aunt Charlie's Lounge. Having helped revive the sleazy and sexually charged gay club scene in San Francisco, one that nearly died almost a decade ago, he should know. It's been just over two years since Bus Station John started "The Tubesteak Connection" at Aunt Charlie's, a porn-ish weekly of hi-NRG and disco curiosities that began as a showcase for John's enviable collection of late '70s and early '80s gay bar and bathhouse beats. Today his party is a yardstick by which others are measured, also marking its dive-y venue as the epicenter for Thursday night frolicking. "It brought a whole new crowd to the Tenderloin who would never normally come here," says bar manager Joe Mattheisen, adding that the place is regularly filled to capacity come midnight.
Since then, John has helmed two other disco-heavy club nights — the larger and more sexually aggressive "The Rod" at Deco Lounge (every second Friday of the month), featuring a tongue-in-cheek wet jock strap contest, and the early '80s New York City soul-laced "Double Dutch Disco" at the Transfer (every last Sunday of the month). The Bus Station trinity is coveted for both the music and the crowd it attracts. His scrappy and nerdish patrons are refreshingly prone to cruising and getting smashed. But what ultimately makes his events unique is a hard-to-pull-off retro vibe that abstains from irony. His mixed following (well, "[m]ixed only in the sense that it's a mixture of all kinds of queers," as he bluntly puts it) come to enjoy the music, to get loaded at a deliciously sordid locale, and, well, to maybe fuck another boy.
By his own admittance, John doesn't think of himself as a normal DJ. "I'm not obsessed with 'skillz' ... I'm not Mr. Beat Scientist, or whatever," he says. In lieu of seamless sets, he's more of a mix-tape-ish guy, with no kind words for the new mash-up sound. Instead, he'll break out the most oddly beautiful disco and new-wave rarities this side of time-traveling capabilities. Club promoter and writer Marcia Gagliardi gushes, "[H]e is truly old school — and it extends to his value system, too ... a total cream puff of a guy, with disco sprinkles on top."
Having lived in San Francisco since 1987, John has seen the city go through everything from AIDS to dot-com hedonism to today's Internet-ification of the one-night stand. "There are very few old-school gay dive bars left; they're dying out everywhere," he pines. He blames the downward spiral on the dawn of the Internet age, where the proliferation of personal ads substitutes for in-person flirtation. John's clubs bring back that old personal touch.
It's a touch that extends to his coveted record collection, the source of which he's notoriously tight-lipped. Award-winning DJ Jefrodisiac admits, "I've never ... heard a San Francisco DJ and thought, 'I wish I had those records,' except for Bus Station John, period." John is also quiet about where he gets his splendid porn collection, pages of which he uses for flyers and as a garnish for the walls and bar tops at his clubs. The late '70s, handlebar-moustache-heavy images work twofold, setting a tone for not only the era but also helping typically rigid hipsters to loosen up. And although the scene he attracts is typically frequented by chic and wrinkle-free throngs, John equally cherishes the rare moment when generations collide, when "someone my age or older comes up and says, 'Oh my God, I haven't heard this in 20 years. Thank you."
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STYLUS MAGAZINE Feature Article:
"Beatz by the Pound: DJ Bus Station John & The Tubesteak Connection"
Nobody I know ever saw Larry Levan. But can you really separate him from the Paradise Garage as a venue? I mean, the club unexpectedly closed in 1987, and Larry battled drug abuse until 1992 when everything finally caught up with him … so his personal history was always distinct from the club, and the era. As much as he did as a DJ, nobody can deny that a movement is never about any one person. Either way, because I'll never see him spin, and I'll never be clubbing at the Garage back in the 80's, all I can do is try to understand what happened and try to appreciate it.
The spirit of what it is that I, in an incredibly limited personal sense, appreciate about that place and time is alive and well. Not just in some metaphysical sense, but in my own city: San Francisco.
Notoriously secretive about where he finds his art, typically 70's gay porno, and endearingly pure about his motives, DJ Bus Station John has been all the rage on the internet for about the last month. Why? Well, anyone who can supply big screen b-boy projections, cheap drinks, early electro rarities, legit italo tracks, funky disco, and danceable champagne soul can find at least one person, in a room packed with people losing their shit, to go home and spread the word.
My first encounter with him was at a club called Aunt Charlie's Lounge in the Tenderloin District for a weekly event called Tubesteak Connection. Anyone who has lived, or had an extended stay, in San Francisco knows that the Tenderloin is the neighborhood where sex workers battle pimps and the marginalized heroes of yesteryear beg for change and cigarettes. Even if you have a car, taking a cab is a good idea.
After paying my three bucks, I walk in to a small, dimly red lit room full of drinks clanking, Munich Machine posters, vintage gay porn flickering on a television, and shirtless man dancing to their heart's content. To me, Aunt Charlie's isn't a dingy gay bar downtown, it's one of the only places that I've been where you can hear serious early dance music without any sense of self-seriousness. There's no retro value in any of the mashups, because there are none. Bus Station's style is simply classic to classic via the fade. It's a night all about track selection, not about the DJ's ego, and what you are there for is the trip that he wants to take you on. And it's great because this is a night where he shows the disco dorks and the disco devoid a perfect place to hook-up: the dancefloor.
Well versed in all of the relevant Mutant Disco, I-Robots, and countless numbers of Italo Disco compilations, I was floored by Bus Station. By the end of the night, and several very strong and inexpensive drinks later, I went home recognizing only one song: 'Lectric Warriors – "Robot is Systematic." But the thing about it all was not that he just played random twenty five cent finds off of Prelude Records or TSR, but every song is amazing … each one better than the last. First Choice, Invisible Man's Band, Carol Hahn, Gina and the Flexix, and Aural Exciters sit next to 'Lectric Warriors as the night's token "oh-yeah-you-obviously-know-this" tracks. Um, we do?
But more than anything, it's about the music and the energy of the night. It's not about obscurity, or DJ worship, but it's about the way that he works the crowd and the environment that he provides. On one hand, the nights are definitely about hooking-up. After all, each event is at a gay club with porno on both the flyers and the projection screens. And I don't want to ignore that aspect of Bus Station's nights. I don't want to gloss over the subcultural context and simply opt for the commodification of someone else's culture. But on the other hand, each event has a certain honesty, a certain what-you-see-is-what-you-get, about it that would prevent scenesters from ever completely infiltrating. And honestly, DJ Bus Station John doesn't seem like the sort of guy who's going to sell out his crowd for a shot in the Cobra Snake or Last Night's Party. When you're at one of his parties, you definitely get the feeling that you are in his world, and you're welcome there but it's not about you, or even him for that matter. As I mentioned above, Bus Station seems to embody everything that I can only speculate about the Paradise Garage: movement, energy, a safe community, and fun. Pure, unadulterated fun. So, you can feel good about putting down the black hair dye and grabbing your dancing shoes.
[Cameron Octigan]
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