Some things never die. And what I saw at the Skrillex show was not a rave “resurrection,” because it had always been there–at least since I coldly shut my eyes to electronic dance parties in 2002. This wasn’t bell-bottoms back on department store shelves after thirty years of shamed dormancy. This was Orange Julius-ism–a phenomenon forever associated with bygone days of '90s mall shopping but still smugly punctuates the food courts of 2011 with its neon orange signage and delicious mangled fruit drinks. It never went away; you (or maybe I) just haven’t been looking.
The line outside the entrance was nearly two blocks long. Slack-jawed, I followed the obstruction to its end, noting all the baby-faced teenagers in feathers, fluff, and day-glow plastics giggling and squirming, shooting smiles and half-mast eyes at me as I dodged stray glowsticks on the sidewalk. All the shorts skirts and tee-shirts made me miss summer, but it was way too rainy and windy now for all that skin to be showing. Turns out these exhibitionists were smart; they knew the Roseland was going to be a clothes-hating rice cooker containing a thousand people and speakers powerful enough to rattle your ribcage.
A drunken, high, bemused hoard of will-call ticketholders bottlenecked at the entrance below the sign that read "SKRILLEX SOLD OUT," squashing hopes of a polite single-file trickle through security. One hoard member suddenly swam backwards through the crowd, belligerently sobbing about a security guard having sent her away on grounds of appearing too drunk. Though the young lady’s eyes were bloodshot beyond repair and glazed with illegal chemicals, she refused to confirm the accusation. Undefeated, she employed a bummed cigarette and a feisty new friend in a pink hoodie and a nest of colorful plastic jewelry to summon the courage to push through once again. “Girl, you gotta be aggressive! All these fools are cutting in front of us! We gots to stick together!” Behind me, a gang of Russian teenage expats from Eugene psyched themselves up with squeals and truncated stories and laughter, all being quite sure they were keeping well hydrated. The camaraderie was thick and wearing on my jaded attitude.
At 10pm Egyptrixx (Canadian DJ/producer David Psutka who will be rocking SXSW this year) was halfway through his set as the venue reached its 1,400-person capacity. This was just another show at the Roseland except for the blinky lights, e-puddles, and a laser with a Spruce-Goose-size wingspan pouring in from behind the stage. Egyptrixx kept everyone else moving while concentrating intensely on the dials and buttons connected to his Macbook, spilling out high-energy “celestial” techno spliced with drum and bass and a few embedded club tunes for good measure. The nice thing about DJs versus bands is the lack of breaks between sets; when the music continued as Egyptrixx signed off and Craze stepped in (after some switching of computers, unplugging, plugging, a high-five or two), I hardly noticed a completely different person was now in control of the party.
Craze energetically bounced and twirled as much as he could without losing control of the records which gave photographers something more interesting to shoot than the nearly-nude hip-hop dancers cheerleading from both sides of the stage. He spun mostly heavy-bass techno that frequently sidetracked into jungle and hip-hop.
Around midnight, Craze asked if we were “ready for Skrillex.” I promptly pulled out my day-planner and found no previous appointments preventing me from, indeed, being ready for said person, so I relaxed in one of the hundreds of available seats in the balcony (hundreds of available seats at a full capacity show). Moments later a slight, pale gentleman dressed in black with nerd glasses and long, asymmetrical rock-and-roll hair carrying a Macbook exchanged some genial conversation with Craze and politely shooed him from the stage. Skrillex accented the change in conductors by issuing a long bzzzzzzzzzz sound from the monitors. Not that anyone in the room was unaware of Skrillex’s takeover, but I suppose a grand entrance by the headliner is always good etiquette.
While he slaughtered the sound waves with high-energy beats and the kids all around me danced themselves into a cold, drug-laced sweat, I pondered Skrillex’s journey to success. Being an outspoken proponent of his own un-coolness and underdog origins was definitely a factor. Knowing a thing or two about music and dance probably helped, but most importantly, I think, what hooked his fans the most was his supernatural ability to go no more than two seconds without interacting with the crowd. He never stopped jumping, gesturing, hair-flinging, and constantly reaching his arms out toward the audience with that pained, ecstatic expression only performing musicians can pull off. If I could be that engaged with people while I click away behind a computer screen... well, that’d be weird, but I’d certainly have a compelling argument against computers replacing face-time.
Shortly after 1am, Skrillex was presented with a birthday cake complete with flaming candles and a boatload of white icing. The entire room sang "Happy Birthday," and Skrillex threw the cake into the audience (later promising a free tee-shirt to whomever was hit by the cake). An encore was demanded to no avail. The Roseland staff were undoubtedly exhausted. The jams were shut down, but they returned power to the microphone for one last salutation from the birthday boy: “Thanks so much, Portland! And hey … you know … it’s not about being cool, because I’m not cool. It’s about loving music, and that’s what we’re here for.” Well put, but I would amend that statement and say, that’s what we’ll always be here for.
