INDY'S WEEKLY ALTERNATIVE NEWSPAPER HIGHLIGHTING ARTS, ENTERTAINMENT AND SOCIAL JUSTICE

A tale of two clubs

I set out on a recent Friday night to sweat — a sweat that says it’s the end of the week and time to party, a sweat that says it’s the cusp of summer, a sweat that says I caught the groove and danced. I had planned for days to go to the Jazz Kitchen and see Kyle and Cameron Hodges spin their “Focus on the Funk” show; I don’t know their work, but I loved their press release (containing phrases like “thick-fuzzy funk, lick driven rock ’n’ roll, groovin’ trip-hop”) and e-mailed it to many of my dancing friends.

About a dozen of us arrived — admittedly, a bit early: around 11 p.m. The dance floor was bereft of clientele, though the bar area of the Jazz Kitchen was well-populated. I bought a beer (a Heineken, if you must know), shuffled ’round the dance floor, waiting for something to happen.

Something finally did: The INtake party crashing squad showed up. Two I’m sure perfectly nice people with spanking white INtake T-shirts “crashed” the scene, taking photos, jotting down names (and ages, of course), offering to take surveys. I was embarrassed — there’s no other way to say it. True, this independently owned and operated company does the same thing. We send out our street team of fun-loving, attractive youth, but when a behemoth corporation like Gannett dispatches its sweet soldiers into the nightlife, it’s tantamount to having your mom crash your basement party, diary and pen in hand, and want to meet and interview all your friends.

I danced a tune or two; you who know me know that my life is about dancing and I’ve been the sole dancer more times than I would like to admit in area clubs (especially in the dearly departed Patio) and that dancing in any setting and under any circumstances is as nourishing to my soul as a visitation from a screech owl or the discovery that a certain species of spider carries its teeming mother lode of babies on its back.

Outside the Jazz Kitchen, there were plenty of people gathered — and who could blame them? A nice night, just cooling down from the first blush with humidity. But it was after midnight and still the scene was bereft of dance energy. My friend Eric, who had brought his camera to shoot dancers, could only find teeming ants on College Avenue to capture.

On to the Soul Sessions

We four remaining would-be dancers then proceeded to Radio Radio to see Soul Sessions, DJs spinning hip-hop, soul and funk.

From the get-go, though, it was clear something very different was going on. The place was packed. Secondly, and more importantly, the dance floor was packed.

I went directly to the dance floor. I did not buy a drink, I did not wait for my friends, I did not pass Go and collect $200. There I immediately found myself in a moving sea of strangers. Those of you who know me and the fact that dancing is my life also know that I could care less if I’m dancing in a group of strangers or with my best friends.

Soon, a giant, sweaty black man I didn’t know came up to me and gave me a big, giant, sweaty hug. I reciprocated and we danced together in this embrace. Later, I found myself in an improvised choreography with two white women likely half my age; we joined hands and attempted to tie a Gordian knot on the dance floor, an endeavor that failed and dissolved us into laughter.

I finally took a break, dripping with sweat, and went to the bar. If you must know, it was time for a Chivas, neat, with a glass of ice water.

Like many of you, I fancy myself a lay anthropologist when I go out, and no matter how immersed I am in the experience of being out in the nightlife, there is a part of me still observing others. Over the course of the night at Radio Radio, I studied a group of four or five white guys I would characterize as, well, college students, perhaps residing in a low-impact frat — you know, not intensely frat-like. They were dancing — or rather, hopping — in a group.

Nearby, a band of four or five black women, similarly aged, were dancing together. In contrast to the T-shirts and khakis of the white guys, these women were decked out in dresses and skirts and beautifully bedizened with jewelry, scarves, etc.

Over the course of 45 minutes, I watched these two groups occupy their separate dancing universes. They edged closer and closer until … voila! They converged and began dirty dancing to a bass-laden funk song. They looked like they’d been dancing together as a group for years, their moves were so mellifluous and organized.

Somewhere in here another giant black man I didn’t know embraced me. As before, I danced with this stranger for a few moments, before we broke apart.
At this point, my friends were wanting to leave as it was well past 2 a.m.

I’m sorry I don’t have any pictures to show you: Eric didn’t make it to Radio Radio. If he had, you’d be looking at photos right now, and there wouldn’t be so much room for all these words I’ve written, because, after all, people don’t really read anymore, do they? Well, I guess you are because you’ve made it to the end of my story.

Yes, Eric’s pictures, if he’d taken any, would be filled with beautiful dancing people sweating and smiling, but instead, all he got were these ants (see photo).