Gateway

Issue date: 4/3/07 Section: Arts & Leisure

Media Credit: Brent Crampton The Got Soul Therapy party featured Osunlade, a Yoruban priest who performed afro-latin selections to a hip and soulful crowd. [Click to enlarge]

As is tradition of last year's belligerent introspection on the Miami spring break a-flairs trip I had, I thought I'd take some time to recap what occurred this year in Miami at the Winter Music Conference.

Now, I know this is a band town, and as expected, The Reader did a full feature on the South By Southwest conference in Texas. Well, in contrast to this, the Winter Music Conference is the largest annual convergence of record label owners, producers, artists and DJs within the electronic music industry. The Reader mentioned nothing of the WMC in their paper, so I'll fill you in on some of the happenings . . .

Opting to extend my spring break, since the conference was a week after UNO's designated week, I found myself in Miami, with the roar of the beach beckoning from the balcony of my condo. But I was not found to be frolicking on the beach or sipping cocktails in a nightclub.

No, rather I was hunched over, eyes fixated on my laptop situated on the low-lighted kitchen table as I conjured a seven-page fill-in of a midterm exam essay about the differences between high and low culture. But I was low and all I wanted to do was get high to the music.

My study session was temporarily halted as I headed to a gig at which I was slated to perform. This was the Scion and imeem.com Break Thru Emerging Artist Tour showcase of DJs around the country, and after winning this pseudo DJ popularity contest, I was sent to Miami to represent Omaha. Evidently, the only thing I broke through to was five people in the hotel lobby-turned-night-club as I showed up for my gig at 3 a.m. But eager to celebrate my first Miami drink, I went to the bartender, who had remnants of mojitos plastered to her white shirt with her thong crudely sticking up above her waistline and low-rise jeans. At the time I didn't know that with an acquired wrist band I could get free drinks, so I obliviously ordered a Red Bull and vodka. Wondering if her sagging pants were going to pop out at any moment via a hip-hop video booty-wagging stint, I watched her interpret my drink order with a modest plastic cup, ice, a bit of charcoal-filtered, headache-inducing Skol vodka, topped off with Red Bull. The price for such a masterpiece? Well, all I could think of was the Alaskan king crab I could have had as I passed the requested $16.50 to her.

Continued...

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