10/23/24
By Theo Kocs-Meyers
Photo by @kkily2 on Instagram
Ten minutes before doors, there’s a short line in front of the Holocene. Quiet, dressed in black, holding pensive cigarettes, for a brief moment it feels like a church before a memorial. Then the bass starts thumping inside and the spell is cast. Our IDs are checked (twice) before we get our hands stamped with a hammer – almost emblematic of the sound – and step inside to a hazy cascade of blue and purple lights.
Already a dozen people on the dancefloor nod and sway to a set of stomach-punching kick drums and soothing vocals. This must be the opener’s opener (it’s definitely not damon r. yet, the billed opening act). We find a table in the back to watch her work nonstop magic. Cymbals clang on the CDJs while I head off on a quest to learn the name of the person spinning. The whole club has been transfixed by the tender time of 8:15, but none of the staff can tell me who’s responsible. Eventually a bouncer finds me to say the woman of the hour is a local DJ who goes by Maestra. In the meantime, we people-watch: there are generic Portland men, all beanie-flannel-IPA, in an archipelago of beautiful androgynous women wearing increasingly niche styles of stunning outfits. This is everything the promise of “the club” has prophesied. Here we are as witnesses.
After 75 minutes, Maestra leaves the booth. I feel like I should give a standing ovation to the epitome of understated brilliance. Every mix was spotlessly clean, crystalline yet fluid, nostalgic but cutting-edge. Most importantly, it got people dancing from the get-go. The energy is still there in the lull. I run into Maestra at the bar and she assures me that the Holocene is like this every night – internationally touring headliner or no, here is the place to be. In spite of receding hairline and looming graduation, I feel blessed to be over 21.
damon r. steps into the spotlight. His music pulses. It grinds. Artistically speaking, his vision has whispers of witch house and whatever Drain Gang was cooking coming through the anthemic electroclash. We had no choice but to swoon at Maestra’s futch aesthetic; I know Namasenda’s serve will be a balm for all that ails the world. For now, though, Rick Owens jeans can’t prevent a slightly underwhelming follow-up. There’s no issue at all with his music – I enjoy the distortion and edge in his recorded releases! If he was the headliner, I’d still be thrilled to be part of the crowd here. I’m the target audience and I will continue listening to his music while I set new bench press maximums and tease highway speed limits. But as it stands, sandwiched between the two ends of the Genius Women Who Leave You Gagged Spectrum, his aura wavers. “Tricked Out,” “Just Obliterate,” and “Backseat” nonetheless rouse the whole room.
Namasenda goes on no later than 10:15. You would wait over two hours for a sign from God, too. I’m catching a quick breath of fresh air when it happens. Twinkling treble and churning bass grind into my skeleton even from outside the venue. I have to go back in – this is a calling, a religious experience. Red lights sift over the crowd to singe my eyes like the cherry of a blunt from Eden. The green dot shining from her mic is Gatsbian. Maybe to reassure me after I missed the first track, the next one to play is “☆ (ft. oklou),” a personal favorite. She throws in songs from all her projects: “What You Got” follows, from her first EP, hot_girl_93. Next is “Shots Fired.” I’ll admit most of her newest album, Unlimited Ammo, didn’t click with me. But I was listening at home, on an IKEA speaker or gas station earbuds. In the club, though? Everything falls into place. “Black Ops 2” is not a game: Dylan Brady and A.G. Cook’s signature production styles drill through the air. The bass on “Demonic” is revitalizing.
Even sequestered at a table in the back, we’re dancing in our seats, forgetting we have 9:40ams to attend tomorrow. Entranced in the music, I still take the time to wonder if anyone has ever had a ponytail so slick. Banger after banger winds down for Namasenda’s first crowdwork of the night. She announces that she’s about to play an unreleased track, “Claremont Twins.” It could be personified as a confident dance partner – her beat moves with you until the drop, then leaves you to your own devices, enticing you to give everything you have to keep up with her. We’re floating on the thrill by the time it ends.
Photo by Mari Sheppard
Namasenda addresses her audience one last time with a message of gratitude. She says it’s her first time touring the US and she’s amazed by the turnout. At least a hundred people cheer back in adoration, caught up in the height of the magic that started hours ago. We’re on the precipice of something too great to articulate, fully in the glamor of the music and the Holocene, never wanting the moment to end. But there has to be a final track, and she delivers perfectly. From the opening notes, the room transcends itself into pure revelry. It’s “Donuts,” the track I’ve been waiting for, my first introduction to her art. Somehow I have found myself in the middle of the crowd. I
forget that I’m here to document and it frees me to fully
experience. “Don’t let it stop, I want the rush.” But the song is only three minutes long. Beauty is defined by impermanence. Soon we’re filtering out, catching the bus, clinging to what’s left of the spell that was cast on us.
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