You’re standing alone in the back of a D.F. balcony. It’s about nine or ten and you’ve been roaming around the three floors of this dusty indie Condesa edificio-festival, trying to figure out where the best beat is hiding. You swig the last of rum ‘n coke from the street mixed bottle; they let you bring it in without saying anything. No one in Mexico likes rum, but you’re Logan Square and love all 3 dollars (estimated exchange rate) of it. This is your introduction to D.F. underground hipsterdom. You’re casual, calm, absorbing the scene, projecting lone wolf coolness, but mostly your just petrified of talking to anyone. The DJ starts setting up. You shift your way to the front. You see a guy you want to talk to. The bass bends your knees. The distorted voice sounds familiar. Something from your youth. Some 90’s pop track that lulls you. You wish you had someone to dance with. But, you didn’t come to Mexico to fall in love. You came to work. You came to hear and see new music. This dark-dance, ghetto-goth shit is kind of out of control. It reminds you of dank Chicago basement parties, but with more smoggy, weathered nostalgia. The naive hope of youth smothered beneath the ironic outcome of that decade. All that’s left is your body. The promise of work. Your hands. Looking out at the doubtless murk of another perpetually starless Mexico City night, you light another cigarette.
This the bump in the night. Teehnbwitches’ H4PPY bd.