By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
"Oh, Kreme, they're just crackheads," sputters the J-unit, pooh-poohing my dismay at being in the Phoenix equivalent of Fort Apache, The Bronx after 1 a.m. on a Saturday night. "It's even worse during the day, dood. Didn't you know? This is ground zero for the crack trade in this city."
"Really? Hmm, maybe I can trade you for a rock or three," I spit, as we ease by clusters of saucer-eyed men and women hanging out in the middle of the street. "Let me see if we can park a little closer to the entrance so they won't strip the ride clean."
We eventually find a spot on Madison where tons of other people have parked for the all-night house-music extravaganza RedMonkey, started by DJ Pete "SuperMix" Salaz many moons ago at the long-gone Riverbottom Lounge in south Phoenix. Salaz eventually moved on to co-captain the long-running and recently retired Batucada at Scottsdale's Next with our good friend Sean Badger, a.k.a. DJ Senbad. Still, RedMonkey has remained a powerful memory for the countless who got their groove on to Salaz's throbbing, sexual four-four beats.
The Buddha-like Salaz occupies a legendary status in P-town DJ-dom, with other mixmasters bowing down to him as if he were a stocky Aztec god. So SuperMix's decision to bring RedMonkey back, if only for one night, made it a must for Jett and me.
"See, that wasn't so bad," comments the Teagan Presley of the PHX, after we've walked a blocklong gauntlet to make it to .anti_space's oasis of relative safety. "All they did was stare at us hard."
"My plan, if attacked, was to throw you at them and bolt," I impart. "After all, it's important to our employer that yours truly gets inside the club."
"My hero," sighs Jett, sarcastically.
Inside, we pass a front desk laden with a huge basket of bananas, then meander blindly through a long, haunted-house-like tunnel of darkness, crafted by affixing black plastic to the walls and ceiling. We follow the electronic pulse emanating from the back to a curtain made from the same material as that on the walls. Beyond is a reddish light and a wall upon which hangs a stylized rendering of a crimson simian. This is the back wall of the DJ booth where Pete Salaz is setting the decks afire. A massive, multi-ethnic crowd gyrates before him beneath a roof draped dramatically with Army-surplus cargo nets, and an old-fashioned disco ball dangling from the center.
Past this main dance floor is a smaller one, and then a roofless, unpaved area that looks like some sort of gated back alley for the building. .anti_space normally operates as an art gallery when it's not hosting the occasional event, like this one or the monthly dose of industrial and noise-driven insanity known as Sadisco (formerly at Jugheads). On the wall of this back alley, assorted video clips are being screened. And though these are hard to make out because of lighting and the roughness of the wall, I swear one of them looks like an episode of the old, stop-motion animated Davey and Goliath TV series.
.anti_space doesn't have a liquor license, so the strongest thing it's selling are these skinned coconuts that the counter chick drills a hole into for straw-insertion. Anyway, the vibe's more about dancing, conviviality and art than gettin' tore up. In fact, one of the first chaps we meet is artist Banding Hendrix, the cat who did the monkey painting that greeted us upon entry. He's working on some abstract canvas as we chat him up.
"I'm originally from San Francisco," explains Hendrix. "But I'm here because the art market here is better."
"Better than San Fran?" I sputter. "Get outta here!"
"Creatively, there's not as much talent," he replies. "That's just because Phoenix doesn't have as many people as the Bay Area. But I can sell all my pieces for $700 to $1,200, and this is what I do full time. I don't have to have some other job. Plus I publish all my pieces through my company Dreamzart.com."
Hendrix tells us that he also has a regular gig doing live art over at the Hidden House on Mondays for After 9 Events' "Foreign Affair" evenings. So we ask what he gets out of doing his thing as part of a par-tay.
"It's all about evolution of the soul and going forward," he philosophizes. "Peaceful thoughts and abstract expressions. Having conversations with people about educated things. Instead of focusing on the negative."
I look around. Jett's disappeared on me. Can't keep that ho workin' no matter how bad I beat her. That's when I espy her cozying up to two lovely lasses, one of whom reminds me of Alyson Hannigan. You know, "Willow," from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Her name's Tarah, and her buddy's name is Kim. They've come all the way from Peoria for the shindig.