AJ Dance Legacy

Photography by Carlos Bell

Mr. Tea Party opened with his stellar crowd pleaser, Anto Vitale’s fiery, “Theorema Del Faya” (The Tea Party Vocal). Next up, Radiohead’s, “Everything In It’s Right Place” (Afefe Iku’s Mix) with lush synthesizers slowly built to a startling crescendo. Then came Peven Everett’s scorcher, “Burning Hot” that sent flames up and down the dance floor. Talk about burning the disco out, the track was on fire! Black Coffee’s heartfelt, “Superman” came to the rescue with soothing vocals by Bucie that cooled off the heated dancers with peaceful rains. After the downpour the dance floor was left flooded in sex oils by sexy siren Jill Scott’s, “Crown Royal” a white label demo provided by Shelter’s famed Quentin Harris and Timmy Regisford. Then Ian pulled out the old school radio sing-a-long of Rufus & Chaka Kahn’s, “Do you Love What You See.” The party people classic, “Off The Wall” by icon Michael Jackson followed suit for more dance and disco nostalgia. From the shores of North America to the coasts of South Africa, Culoe De Song featuring Thandiswa, “Gwebindlala” rang loud and free with deep tribal influences. South African’s current house reign continued with Black Coffee’s insane, “Crazy” by Manchester Englander, Charles Webster Slightly Deeper Mix. Ian’s own rework of Byron Moore’s classic, “Life Starts Today” (Tea Party Vocal Mix) jumpstarted the party as if the party needed more juice. Next the crowd lost it with Ian’s self-produced “Found Myself” (Yoruba Soul Mix). Immediately thereafter, house legend Kenny Bobien’s falsetto reigned from the heavens singing a soul stirring, “Don’t Be Afraid” (Libation Mix) another Ian Friday rework. Yet, the voice of another angel resounded gracefully this time from the late Jimmy Abney with “More of You” (Ian Friday’s Tea Party Vocal). Then the crowd was swept into its own “Heaven” (Marlon D & Groove Assassin Mix) with Detroit’s soul crooner Kem leading the way. Dance classics consumed the night with 1989’s “People Hold On” by Coldcut with British soul diva Lisa Stansfield. The Jackson’s, “This Place Hotel” made the room cry, “joy” while a downtempo jazzy number of Ultra Nate’s, “Twisted”(Re: jazz Mix) made dancers plie and triple spin around in circles. That wasn’t all, Manoo’s, “Kodjo” with its crashing cymbals and four-count thumps made the tribesters leap for joy in spiritual dance circles of breakers and fancy footers. The night’s closer and surprise, Elton John’s, “The Beenies and the Jets” knocked the socks off the music lovers scattered about the room. Needless to say, the venue’s once pristine dance floor resembled a worn torn aftermath culminated from Ian Friday’s catastrophic rampage.

WOW! What more was left to say? The diversified label owner and songwriter that seemed to have crafted half of deep house music’s lengthy catalog rocked Tambor into the next stratosphere. Needless, to say Tambor would never be the same from that night forth. What a Tamborific time!

Photography by Carlos J. Bell

~ONE~

It all started twelve months earlier at a tiny vegetarian organic soul food restaurant on the city’s east edge on a hot humid late August night.Those twenty-five or so in attenDance were the first to taste Tambor’s delight without speculation as to this would be “IT.”Those in attenDance were small in number that understood Tambor was destined to be just another local party thrown by local DJ’s that happened to be local party promoters.Tambor was just another night of deep tribal afro-centered house music.It was just another Saturday night where people went out on the town just to get out of the house, apartment or what have you just because it was a beautiful summer weekend where there was not much sense in wasting a perfectly incredible night; weather wise.

So the few in number stumbled into the restaurant’s basement half-heartily with that been there and done that visage.Even the deep tribal afro-house sounds that played in the restaurant’s basement were nothing new or outstanding.Those songs could be easily downloaded from any of the several underground dance website hosted on the web.Sure, the small crowd danced, sung, hooped and hollered but their behavior wasn’t out of the norm.Also, the night’s local guest DJ that was all too happy to make the guest smile dropped deep infectious house grooves knew deep within his heart there was always room for improvement.Yep, it was just another night.Another one of those nights where not much cash was made at the door and the registers hardly rang with sound.

What was it about this restaurant that housed such local events?Was it the organically grown collards or hand-made cornmeal that drew patrons to the parties?Whatever the reason people were just as likely to sit upstairs and taste the culinary delights rather than to dance downstairs to soulful house.One could easily shrug the night away with looming thoughts of average, predictable or lame.Although expectations were low for the small turnout little did anyone predict this was just the beginning of things to come.

As if overnight Tambor had outgrown its humble roots to become a legendary party.The reason for this occurrence metamorphosed several myths.Some argued people were paid to attend the events.Others believed some self contrived ulterior motive was behind Tambor’s rise.Despite the critic’s skeptic, no one was able to truly articulate, nor comprehend Tambor’s rise to fame.

No one dared dream Tambor would grow on such a colossal scale.But it happened.And despite some minute opposition within the house community many were not disappointed.The Tambor tribe partied hard.The tribesters partied without a worldly care believing such parties had occurred since the dawn of time.No one seemed phased at how long the winning streak was destined to last or when it would end.

Happy One Year Birthday Tambor!

Above photograph by Carlos Bell/Below photographs by John Crooms

Video by Ari Johnson/courtesy of Stan Zeff

ZEPHERIN SAINT

“BOOOOMMMMMM!!!!” blew the loud speakers that sent several people running to the back of the basement near the bar where the noise was less obnoxious.

This Friday night and all the rest started early, way before the first musical note licked any listener’s eardrum. The invisible time before the party that only a few chosen ever witness due to their expertise in audio management. This was sound check. The time not for the technically challenged but for the more technically inclined sound technicians that understood power converters plugged into walled outlets that checked wired cable chords to ensure proper installation and usage.

U.K.’s Tribe Records founder and label president, Zepherin Saint didn’t even blink an eye at the explosive sound as he continued testing the volume in the DJ booth that sat high above the floor in a glassless window booth lined with silver plated wires and chrome polished hardware that resembled an android beast straight from a sci-fi flick. This was all apart of the preshow to make the Tambor experience a continued success.

This being Zepherin Saint’s second time playing at Tambor knew how to work the tribesters musically into a fit of rage. Eight months earlier the music producer/songwriter ripped the roof off club Filter and positioned the city as a global House Music Mecca.

As the party started it took little time for Zepherin to get in the groove and drop the bomb on the place. What started out as smooth jazz played over a mellow house beat steadily transformed into a dirty bomb exploding with unbridled passion as people experienced out of body transcendence of being swept into heaven.

When the Tribe leader dropped Frank Roger’s “Me, Myself & I” (The Distant Music Mix) it was over. WOW, the surprise track of the night hadn’t been heard of in years and conjured questions of how such a stand out could have been so easily forgotten. Other notable standouts included the upcoming release by one of the hottest male house vocalist ever, Peven Everett with “I Need You.” Next up followed, DJ Le Roi featuring Roland Clark with, “I Get Deep” that came equipped with floating keys weaving a harmonic tapestry across the underground track. This never before heard version titillated the tips of every tongue in the room. Unbeknownst at that moment the keyboard was actually played live by a fellow tribester that sat hidden in the DJ booth. Shortly thereafter, a local songstress jumped into the booth and provided live spoken word over a track aptly titled “Slave Song.” Musically, this Tambor experience could get no better with its live vocals and instruments.

Suddenly, Zepherin launched into a hypnotic deep afro track that caused the crowd to move about as though they danced around flames of fire. What was this sound that brought out the tribal beast in everyone? Looking the room over, a spectacular visual of motion-fueled bodies filled the basement. There were ritual dance circles inhabited by free-stylers and fancy footers showcasing dance moves not found on the latest reality dance competition television shows but on the streets. The several onlookers pinned to the walls marveled with goggle eyes at the majestic sight. It was though all were one in a cosmic dance. Actually, the congregation already damp with sweat could take no more. Or so they thought until Zepherin dug deeper into his crates and produced a scorcher; a scorcher that would set the roof on fire.

Being it was summer and a HOT summer at that a major heat wave had stricken much of the nation. How appropriate to play the summer’s anthem, “BURNING HOT” by soul crooner Peven Everett. Not only was this track so unexpected but it was an exclusive organic remix of the certified HIT unavailable anywhere else. As soon as the crowd got hold of the song’s chorus, people fell to the floor, yelled, threw fists in the air and stomped their feet as if to summon the spirit of dance. The people erupted in sheer pandemonium that struck the room as fast as lightning strikes a tree. For six unadulterated minutes, nothing else warranted or unwarranted mattered. No one or nothing could penetrate the soul oozing from the speakers. This was the MOTHER of all MOTHERS. The fat lady had sung!

Not too long thereafter, the house lights brightened in the narrow shoebox and the music faded into eternal rest. It was 3 AM and all had to cease. Please, could someone end the city’s unorthodox ordinance of closing bar/club times? Suddenly, burley security pushed people out the way, shined flashlights in patron’s eyes and shouted, “GET OUT! GET OUT!” Wait a minute this was too much and unnecessary. The crowd of house music lovers was not the typical thugged out, hoochie humping, hip hop parties Merlotte usually hosted. Maybe the bouncers and wait staff were eager to get home. Whatever the reasons for the ostentatious attempt to evacuate the premises was not enough to dampen the mood of a “Burning Hot” night.

Photography by Luis V for DEG

OSUNLADE & DAVID SABAT

At 10:30 pm a line stretched from the door all the way down to the next building. Thankfully the spring night air was warm, a tad too warm for mid-June. Anxious tribesters not accustomed to waiting in lines to enter clubs waited for the party to begin. Finally, the doors swung open and in walked everyone into the cool air conditioned ground level restaurant for drinks and mingling. The crowded room was noisy, not with music but with conversations. Topics ranged from, “I can’t wait to hear Osunlade play” to “I can’t wait to meet David Sabat.” Yes, the Los Angeles and Chicago residents were booked to play Tambor during the same timeslots that night. David on the musical decks upstairs and Osunlade on the musical decks downstairs. To determine how to hear both play at the same time was a daunting task. Only a dancer with skill precision could pull this off.

The sultry sounds of DJ BE penetrated the soft lit room of eating guests and soon to be drunks. It didn’t take long before people were on the floor dancing; mine you in a restaurant, in a small space created as a pretend dance floor. Surely, people seated along the exposed brick wall aligned with tables and at the bar found it hilarious how people danced in the way of waiters and waitresses pacing between the kitchen and the bar delivering hot plates of Cajun cuisine. Yep, the dance spot was dead smack between the two. You had to watch out or you were sure to be decorated with andouille sausage and angel hair pasta.

Fortunately, everyone survived, spill proof, until the basement door’s opened about thirty minutes later. Poor DJ BE, as everyone exited the top floor in favor for the night’s main event held in the basement.

Downstairs, the nice and cool dance floor was warmed-up for what would be an adventuresome night of dance. Of course, Tambor’s founder Stan, worked the musical switchboards and tore up the room with afro-house beats. But what happened next was a frenzied blur of events. For the reminder of the party, the quest of running upstairs and running downstairs to hear both sets of DJs play; BE upstairs/Stan downstairs and David Sabat upstairs/Osunlade downstairs, consumed the entire night. More energy was spent working the stairs than actually dancing.

Not long after, the night’s premier maestro Osunlade arrived in full form to shower blessings down on the crowd of hot house heads. Osunlade stopped the music to begin his musical journey with his heavy handed produced girl power-esque, “Pride” featuring Nadirah Shakoor that sent the crowd into danceteria. The Yoruba priest continued to work the congregation with heavy doses of deep tech that had people’s hands clapping to mouths blowing whistles. The sound went much deeper and deeper into techy territory than possibly imagined but thankfully the crowd appreciated it. Out from Osunlade’s bag of beats came a remix, the one with Afefe Iku’s “Mirror Dance” sample, of the biggest songs of the year. With fists pumped in the air, people started singing the tune, chanting and screaming at the top of their lungs, “HEY HEY.” (Black Coffee’s Remix the deep house artist of the year.) Everyone jammed as one nation under a house groove.

To top that off, if that wasn’t enough, the dance floor became even more condensed as an African dance troop bombarded the floor. The tribesters danced into one another as the already too congested floor swelled with patrons pushing the tribesters back so they could view the African dancers. Yes, the young ladies with matching red, white and black ensembles worked their arms and legs into fury as one of their own banged a drum. This caused everyone to stand in awe with drooling mouths to watch the dance troop that worked the room into further frenzy.

“Damn there was entirely too much going on.” In all appreciation and not too complain, two headlining DJs, the large crowd and dance troop were a bit over the top. On that note, the congested basement was traded for the more spacious, fresh air upstairs. Even Chicago’s David Sabat managed a decent crowd of tribesters dancing between the bar and kitchen to the sounds of Dennis Ferrer’s, “p 2 da j.” There was the usual New Yorker who showcased dizzy head spins to a lady adorned in a captivating red dress fanning herself with a church fan. Yep, it appeared as though all had a great time….

Until those drenched in sweat constructively critiqued, “We need a larger venue.” Who could disagree? Tambor’s crowd had outgrown the shoebox restaurant with dance floor in the basement. Everyone had a difficult time adjusting to the throngs of bodies swaying back and forth packed tight like canned sardines. Something had to give and it had to give fast.

Photography by John Crooms

Photograph by Carlos J. Bell

Photography by Luis V for DEG

RON TRENT/TRINIDADIAN DEEP/NAPPY G

After several long minutes the doors to the basement’s dance floor/lounge and bar opened. The long dark narrow stairway gave way to a dark overly frozen air conditioned basement which was needed because once the throngs of various tribesters arrived the room would become hot as hell’s kitchen. The soulful driven house grooves traversed through the air that greeted every tribester’s heart with love. Since the floor was desolate, immediately a spot was found to warm up the tired feet that were still exhausted from last night’s dance-a-thon with Louie Vega and wifey Anane’s musical madness. The two sore feet slowly stumbled with hesitation to move to the groove. Actually, it took five or so minutes before the feet fully warmed up to the beats exploding from the speakers.

Up above, perched high in a glassless window in the wall, DJ Stan’s head weaved and bobbed behind the control panel. Those soulful house anthems dropped like liquid nitrogen bombs on the few dancers warming up the floor. That wouldn’t last long as the floor quickly swelled at an alarming pace. Within twenty minutes the vacant dance space would read occupied. So the most had to be made with what little space was left. Sure enough, thirty or so minutes later, people were pinned against the walls unable to move and barely able to breathe.

Adjacent the left wall, played a live percussionist, Turn Tables On The Hudson’s, Nappy G all the way from NYC. The drummer’s small stage, consisting of a 21 square foot low platform table further downsized the already too tiny dance floor. It was going to be one of those shoulder to shoulder nights.

As the night’s first guest DJ, Trinidad bred, Trinidadian Deep jumped on deck to play, some fresh air was greatly needed. Not only fresh air but maybe some open space to freely move about. Oddly, everyone that entered the narrow basement seemed to run towards the front of the room, right in front of the DJ booth as if to touch the helm of Jesus garment or to receive a FREE CD. WTH? Okay, this was the dance floor but did someone forget to inform these individuals there was no empty space. Of course, no had to tell them because they could plainly see there was no empty space to maneuver about. Not to mention, an overweight lover and his boney girl decided to “plop” themselves right in front of yours truly further pushing me up against a brick wall.

As the deep beats of afro-house penetrated the room a safe space free of bodies was found in front of the basement’s bar towards the back of the room right where the lounge area populated with brown and white sofas and chairs begins. What relief to freely dance and breathe fresh air.

The night’s second premier talent, Chicago native, Ron Trent worked the room with heated disco and Chicago house classics from his personal music catalog. The beats steadily grew deeper and harder just the way the tribesters like until the entire room erupted with joy. Unfortunately, the shoebox shaped basement was too packed, too small and had too much going on. There were the legions of dancers, Nappy G banging away on the drums while Ron Trent played “Altered States.” So the decision was made to leave the club well before its 3 am closing time. All the noise had to be traded for some much needed recuperation and quiet rest. Overall, the night was great until the flat tire was discovered on the passenger’s rear side of my car in the club’s parking lot.

Photography by John Crooms

LOUIE VEGA & ANANE

It had been five whole years since Louie Vega played at the mega niteclub Compound. This moment had taken too long to come and this moment would not to be missed for anything in the world.

The room, quickly surveyed, revealed a pathetic abandoned emptiness. It reeked of a lonely silence except for the music played by Louie Vega. Yes, the legendary Mr. Vega hailing from Miami via Bronx was already on the 1’s and 2’s. The lack of bodies present presented a major problem as the cell phone displayed Friday, 12:05 am. The abundance of prime dance space proved highly unusual for a house music legend’s set. Fortunately, the floor wasn’t completely empty. There had to be at least ten house disciples already in mid-dance. Statuesque and poised stood several onlookers against walls in astonishment as if unsure of what they were to do in a dance club with a wide empty dance floor that beckoned to be inhibited.

Back on the decks, Louie delivered arsenal after arsenal of hits that destroyed the crowd. The few left standing hooped and hollered with such extreme aggression it caused the room to rock with jubilation. Then like fire from the sky fell the crowd’s favorite, “Twisted” Louie’s rework of a dance diva’s classic. Around the club people twirled in the air and spun in circles to the lyrics, “You’ve got me twisted on your love.” How appropriate as people yelled the lyrics in sheer delight. This felt more like heaven than a niteclub; a kind of twisted heaven where the wooden dance floor transformed into streets of gold.

After a short transition of tweaking the mixer’s knobs, Louie stepped aside. Interestingly, Louie exited the decks to make room for his wife, Mrs. Anane Vega. Was he really finished? He’d only been on deck for 45 minutes. That wasn’t long enough to be teased by such quintessential tunes.

Within a moment’s breath, Anane set up shop. WOW, what beauty! You’ve got to be kidding. What can she do on those decks that Louie hasn’t already done? Sure she can stand on stage and look good but what about her skills on the steel? With rapid dissension, Anane moved between the 1’s and 2’s with a soulful bounce as if ready to drop a new born child into the crowd. Behind the glamazon played an amazing black and white concept video of her new single. What ingenious marketing.

Then the build-up of anticipation occurred that aroused an energy that took prisoner one-by-one the followers on the dance floor. Suddenly, the people were arrested with a penetrable force not from Anane’s untouchable beauty but from what was to come. What followed was an auditory delight of deep house and afro-beat that descended upon the crowd as holy water. What was this sacred force that cultivated every being in attendance to jump and behave like wild unrestraint animals at a petting zoo? The room went crazy. Literally, the atmosphere transcended into an otherworld of talking African drums when the club’s walls fell down and gave way to Africa’s Amazon jungles.

For the rest of the night, Anane slew the room with her rhythmic conquest. The music brought out dance moves never before rehearsed. Legs were stretched in the air and arms swung to and fro as if in tantra positions. The music continued to stretch every vein, joint and muscle present in the room. Never had the crowd danced so deep in what seemed like ages.

Photogrpahy by John Crooms

SUPERMAN

Inside the club, a storefront pizzeria with a dance floor and DJ booth in the basement, located along the city’s Old Fourth Ward district, the music stopped. No one moved. No one breathed. No one dared make a sound.

“BOOM,” thundered an explosive sound of deep bass followed by a few electronic “clicks.” Then a second, “BOOM” followed by a third, “BOOM” blasted from the speaker in repeated cessions until a clear audible rhythm was realized.

Suddenly, a sharp voice within the silent thick mass of folks dared to speak, “C’mon I need a beat.”

A tall young lady of caramel complexion mentioned before turning her head ever so slightly with an impatient visage while holding her digital camera before capturing snapshots of the night’s special international guest.

Once more caramel complexion demanded, “I need a beat.”

After a two minute build-up of bass thumps and electronic clicks, an afro-tinged beat fell from the heavens that showered the room with manifestations of joy. Look up at the DJ booth. It’s a bird. It’s a plane. No, it’s Superman! Everyone present swayed from left to right with smiles aglow. Finally, their Superman had arrived.

Superman, faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound worked the room the only way one with superpowers can. Superman pledged world peace by playing the inspirational, “Someday,” conquering the possessive “JuJu,” defeating heartbreak with the insane “Crazy” and captured the crowd’s praise with the “Home Brewed” breakthrough, “Turn Me On.” In all, there was a little something played for everyone from deep-tech to minimal tribalism. Furthermore, there was no stopping the super hero’s superpower from slaying the room with Rocco’s dark, “Hard Times For Lovers,”featuring C. Robert Walker channeling the late Luther Vandross, a revamped “Hey Hey” by Dennis Ferrer and the surprise, Peven Everett’s, “Put Your Back Into It”(Quentin Harris Remix.)

Black Coffee destroyed the age old adage that ordinary DJs only play ordinary music. Being not content with just mixing songs in standard mix-in and mix-out rotation, new remixes were created on the spot, right in the middle of a mix using a capellas backed by various beats. Black Coffee, a rare exception in today’s world, delivered the mundane with a refreshing twist.

The night’s behemoth arrived courtesy of Black Coffee dropping the anthem“Superman” not once but twice! And it could not have been more appropriate. The first, the original version, cried out, “Can You Be My Superman” a sentiment that ricocheted against every heart present in the room. The second, a smash-up version with dark-synths, over a dirty-tech beat rocked the dance floor. Surprisingly, right in mid-song the music slowly faded to a faint whisper till it was no more. Was that the end?

Photography by John Crooms

LET LOOSE PARTY

Every eye stared upward towards the DJ booth. No one dared to move a muscle. No one dared to make a sound. A safety pin could be heard crashing on the baby powder dusted floor below throngs of dirty soles. All were consumed, busily frozen in their tracks as if this was judgment day. Obviously, not the latter all were eagerly anticipating Jellybean Benitez to take charge of the musical console. Then it happened. In the blink of an eye the music started, that of a staccato beat escaped from the speakers.

“Dada, da-da- da, Dada, da-da-da,” thumped a melodious chord over soft finger snaps used as drums. NYC’s Jellybean Benitez was opening with Quentin Harris’ stellar interpretation of Leila James, “My Joy.” WOW what a double whammy, Jellybean and the favorite, “My Joy” jumping off the party. Already the night was destined for history.

The over capacitated basement could barely take no more standing room as bodies were tightly pressed against every inch within the facility. It wasn’t the walls holding up the people but the people holding up the walls. What a rare treat. Familiar faces that rarely came out were in the house. Tambourines shook, handclaps clapped and feet stomped in wonderful delight. Even the VIP area tightly packed with dancing feet, waving arms and swinging butts held little room to maneuver through. Every ethnicity seemed to be present that could have made the club easily pass for a brochure promoting racial equality within niteclubs. This crowd had no time for drama found at commercial niteclubs. Instead, they were all about the music. As the saying goes, “Ain’t Nothing Like A House Party!”

A House Party is what the doctor ordered. Therefore, Jellybean wasted no time delivering melodic harmonies, spirited vocals and soulful beats to the lovers of dance. One sweat soaked dancer compared the night to a vivid painting of sexually charged reds drenched with eye candy causing the heart to thump at orgasmic speeds to the backdrop of cool blues that rendered the heart useless against rich greens that caused a mental high of clarity. Clearly, Mr. Benitez the hard working visionary pounded the room with artistic vengeance. His artistic footprint left no stone untouched or rock uncovered. There were the highs, the lows, the hard and the soft played. There was a little something for everyone-sound wise-represented in the room. This artistic repertoire disappointed not one soul.

Obviously, the party went down in the history book of house music. Hundreds of individuals showed up and showed out to celebrate Mr. Benitez debut DJ set in the city. The music, the people and the dance all captured the soulful illustration of “getting down” to the beat of the drum. Amazingly, Tambor just kept getting better and better. Certainly, there was no stopping this runaway party train. So what lay next for Tambor? How could Tambor possibly top itself?

Photo: John Crooms

Photography by Carlos J. Bell