As one of the e-blasts queried, “Where is Soho Studios?”  Not as far away as you’d think—ten or so blocks from Space, for example—but far enough away to make you feel as if you were entering into a whole other realm—which is as it should be on New Year’s Eve: out with the familiar and in with the new.

There were white Hummers parked out in front—and security guard presence—and a long entranceway beneath a moonlit, palm-filled Miami night.  Inside, Abel was up in his booth, high above the massive Soho Studios floor—and “Please Don’t Stop the Music” was thundering from the speakers.  Maybe the Song of the Year—as much for its metaphorical meaning as well as its literal. 

This was Abel werqing it out in his warehouse, mixing it up in his big personal sound studio.  Abel playing with his mixes, reworking “Gimme More” into a year-synopsis symphony. 

With décor by RKM, what was once a concrete monolith had been transformed into something soft and ethereal: swaths of sheer fabric puddled on the floors and white fabric columns punctuated the room.  One entire wall was covered by video projections—and out back was an outdoor tiki lounge with palms and palapas (perfect for photos—and text messages to friends around the world).

The countdown commenced with the year in visual images: ninety seconds of planetary insanity—accompanied by the thundering bass of Abel.  And then—there it was: the New Year. And thereafter, the kisses—and maybe the collective sigh of relief, Thank goodness that one’s over, and this one’s here.

The video projection flashed the message: One World, One Night, One Beat.  And then the words: It’s here – THE FUTURE OF DANCE.  And now we were in it: dancing in the New Year.

With Madonna singing “Forbidden love—a certain kind of torture,” everything came together.  There were boyz flagging, gorgeous mosaics of fabric, and there were go-go boyz on the boxes, and couples holding tight.  There were boyz from Melbourne, texting home to Oz, and boyz who’d been in New York the night before—and now were stripped down to nearly nothing.  There were porn stars and fantasy men and— Wait, there’s that guy—  Didn’t we just rent him last night?

And then came Jeanie Tracy, a vision in red satin and feathers—werqing the boyz with her string of hits.  She and Abel go way back; they have history; they’re family—and on New Year’s Eve, they made everyone else family, too.

For that’s the kind of party it was—the kind of night a New Year’s Eve should be: where you send off the old and welcome in the new—with people who look good and know how to dance!  Hats off to Hilton, Gary, and Abel for bringing that kind of party back to Miami.  One world, one beat—let’s make it truth this year.