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On a drizzly, film noir New York night,
our cab slid to a stop in front of the
line of leather men and black-clad boys
circling the block at 52nd and Broadway.
"What's going on?" asked the cabbie. The
Black Party, we explained, the
5,000-person, sixteen-hour bacchanal of
the year. Grinning, the cabbie shook his
head and said, "God bless you guys."
Everyone needs a benediction before
Black Party. The first Rites at the
Saint in 1981 was the legendary
two-night affair that stretched into
three nights, with entertainment by
Grace Jones (as well as a anal-compliant
boa constrictor). Since then, the Black
Party has become the ne plus ultra for
strange live acts, leather fetishists,
and libidinous music. Manhattan's
largest ballroom, Roseland, is now Black
Party's home - and each year,
Saint-at-Large producer Steve Pevner and
his crackerjack team of artists and
designers create the equivalent of a
sexual Neverland for a carnal crowd of
concupiscent dancers.
With a history of salacious shenanigans,
the Black Party has a reputation for
extremism and pushing the boundaries
beyond the comfort zone. Consider, for
example, the year of the live
circumcision or the groundbreaking
performance by porn star, Buck Angel,
"the Man with a Pussy." Or the boy who
rode the baseball bat. And then there
was last year's aerialist intercourse
complete with mid-air orgasm and the
breaking of water over the awestruck
crowd.
Bound in black silken ties with crimson
whip welts across his bare ass, the
comely Japanese youth gazed from this
year's Black Party invitation with an
intoxicating mixture of pleasure and
pain. This was the work of the yakuza,
the Japanese mafia known for strict
codes of conduct. Inside Roseland, the
club glowed blood red, its vast recesses
strung with tattered Japanese lanterns
and dangling hubcaps.
Bottle-rocket-blasted banners dangled
from the ceiling, while red neon
Japanese characters, splattered with
gunfire, spanned the stage.
Saint-at-Large production designer Adam
Koch completed his Black Party trifecta,
his third consecutive Black Party, with
a brilliant, bang-up rendition of an
Asian gangland street party celebrating
the Chinese New Year in the back alleys
of Shinjuku.
Behind a chain link fence, at the far
end of the party, was an abandoned
stretch limousine surrounded by sexual
fetishists and topped by porn stars -
and a videographer who filmed the
debauchery from the limo's roof. In the
bordello red light, the resultant
tableaux evoked the piers of New York
and the Meatpacking District when
photographers like David Wojnarowicz and
Robert Mapplethorpe prowled the streets.
Throughout the night and long into
Sunday afternoon, the 33rd edition of
Black Party revealed itself as the
brilliantly seductive lovechild of
Burning Man’s bacchanalia and Broadway’s
technical proficiency. Spectral
aerialists floated through the sky and
bits of operatic spectacle evoked "Turandot"
atop the limo - and late in the morning,
a gorgeously erotic aerial pas de deux
climaxed in a confetti drop of cherry
blossoms, which left the gaping crowd
gasping and cheering (and not only for
the prodigious member of one of the most
stunning examples of homo sapiens on the
planet).
As surreal as a film co-directed by
David Lynch and Terry Gilliam, the
steamy, seamy, sexual atmosphere was
complemented by the sounds of Japanese
house music producer and DJ Satoshi
Tomiie. Tomiie's opening set brought
back the chunky, house sound of the
original Saint (once the Fillmore East)
with such focused determination and
impressive skill that Bruce Mailman, the
Saint's founder, would have been
radiant.
As always, what elevates Black Party
into the pantheon of theatrical
extravaganzas is its enthusiastic crowd
of lustful devotees - and this year's
edition was the equivalent of a
monograph of male nudes springing from
the pages to populate the dance floor.
Thanks to the Black Party's ban on cell
phones and cameras, boys and men were
free to wander uninhibited, junk
exposed, in various stages of repose and
tumescence - and the resultant scene was
a William Burroughs' novel deliriously
come to life.
Spanish duo Chus & Ceballos took the
controls at three am, followed by Def
Mix and hometown favorite, Hector
Romero, who drove the party into Sunday
afternoon with a set that beautifully
complemented the sense of wonder that
pervades the final hours of a Black
Party morning and afternoon. One of the
many joys of Black Party is the
impeccable sound quality, as pristine
and clear as a recording studio, which
was matched by the sultry atmosphere
created by lighting wizards Darren Kawa,
Liz Liguori, and Guy Smith.
But the truth is, no matter what you
read or which photos or footage you
glimpse, the only way to understand the
breadth of sexual desire and the
magnitude of a Black Party is to
experience it firsthand. As one lyric
had it, "This is why you're here." These
are your people; this is your tribe.
Now follow the command, "To the dance
floor, please." And raise a toast to the
Black Party and its annual celebration
of priapic excess. |
