By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
By Leif Haven
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Kate Conger
By Brian Rinker
By Rachel Swan
Industrial neighborhoods are the bustling backstage of a city, like the private areas of a colossal opera house where craftsmen, laborers, and visionaries conspire day and night to fabricate ease and beauty for those seated on the other side. Behind the scenes of a metropolis, a theater's catwalks, pulleys, and tricks of light are replaced by wide, cluttered roads, heavyweight grease, and loud machinery lumbering in and out of towering garage doors, but the result is the same: a seemingly effortless spectacle provided for the paying public. I don't think you can actually love a city until you've become intimate with its industrial zones; until you've trailed your toes along its warehouse districts and waterfronts and run your hand through its frayed edges. As Jimmy Porter said in Look Back in Anger, "It's no good trying to fool yourself about love. You can't fall into it like a soft job, without dirtying up your hands."
In the early '80s, before I could drive and long before the Bay Area's warehouse districts had been whitewashed by a digital economy, trips into these gray expanses were like outrageous treasure hunts. I'd have a map crudely sketched on a crumpled piece of brown paper bag with street names I didn't recognize and wouldn't remember, and an X to mark the spot -- approximately. By the time the directions reached my hands, there was no address included, just speculation and rumor, but the journey was always worth the attempt. On the best nights, X was discovered -- a riotous warehouse-wonderland where bands played all night long and pianos or mannequins or swings hung from the rafters amid red lights and billows of cigarette smoke, and where drugs and booze were in such ample supply no one would notice if a couple of punk-ass kids slipped through the door and helped themselves; on less lucky nights, X was elusive and the evening was spent breaking bottles, hopping fences, and running like hell whenever we encountered someone crazy, which was nearly every time. Either way, those nights, like this one, felt charmed.
So I am not surprised by the grizzly bear of a man who emerges from between two trucks, only to offer me a stiff-backed sentinel's bow before returning, with great dignity, to his post near a shopping-cart mountain crowned by half a plastic elephant head. Beyond the vagrant sentry, the neighborhood is utterly still.
As promised, I spot an orange door and begin to feel the unmistakable vibration of bass, but there is no evidence of revelers in the street. As if in answer to my uncertainty, a young man with a security jacket steps silently from the shadows and, with an analogous half bow, pulls open the orange door. The stairwell is saturated by warm light, music, and the smell of sweat, flowers, smoke, and what I come to learn is Moroccan mint tea.
"Please understand that once you enter, you may not leave," says a soft-voiced security guard as she pats me down at the first landing. At the top of the stairs, a devilish ingénue with a long red wig, bright red fan, ruby-encrusted horns, and crimson pasties proffers a small, pale hand.
"Good evening, I'm Bonnie," she purrs. "Welcome.
Bonnie Duque, aka "The Bonster," is an interior designer and winsome wild thing known for lavish proceedings, such as the Red Light District Pornoment Party and the White Hot Scorpio Snow Ball, which began as intimate house parties but grew into highly anticipated yearly underground galas. Miss Duque offers me a warm smile and swishes off to greet the next guest. At once, I am engulfed and propelled down the hall by a flock of giggling nymphs in sheer white gowns and ivy-leaf crowns, past handwritten signs that read "I you he she we/ In the garden of mystic lovers/ These are not true distinctions" and "Gamble everything for love," into the "Temple of Aphrodite," which is awash in red streamers, cushions, parachutes, and rosy pink light. The nymphs fall on the cushions amidst a crowd of faeries, amazons, Gypsy girls, and robust young men in loincloths who lounge on the sofas like opium den denizens while hypnotic beats fill the room like sand. I am beckoned into the softly lit massage room but head instead to "Mount Olympus," where a colossal Greek mask looms over a space framed by faux marble pillars, tree branches, and reams of billowing white cloth. On the dance floor, great horned goat men and silver-faced Weird Sisters writhe and ripple through the otherworldly Eastern European electronic folk of Lumin, which performs on the low stage. The Romani Urban Tribal Belly Dancetroupe, one of the most potent and organically sensual groups of belly dancers I have yet seen, takes to the floor, undulating and ululating like delicate snakes. The crowd gathers in a circle and watches as if moonstruck. A grove of men wearing tree bark and moss wanders through the crowd, offering fennel seeds and flowers; a bit later, another faction arrives with lavish trays of white chocolate filled with raspberry, which they feed to guests by hand, all unplanned and unsolicited. This is the sort of spell woven by Soulsalaam, founder of Future Juju Productions and Hypnomadic Music and organizer of the annual Tropicalia held at El Rio.