At two am, the floor was packed. At four am, there was a two-hour line down 52nd Street. Rites XXXI, the Black Party was SOLD OUT. Inside Roseland Ballroom, at the Saint-at-Large’s annual bacchanal to all things dark and handsome and sexy, DJ Hector Fonseca was throwing down a persuasive percussive tribal set that kept the boyz asking, “Who’s the deejay?” to which the only reply was, “It’s Fonseca, bitch.”

Every since the announcement of this year’s trio of Black Party deejays back in February, the anticipation had been mounting—for this year it seemed to many that the Saint-at-Large had done right by both the traditions of the party—and its future—in selecting Fonseca, as well as DJs Paulo and Ana Paula. And with the anointment of award-winning theatrical designer Adam Koch in charge of the set and décor, and with the inimitable and illustrious Guy Smith on lights, Rites XXXI had all the cards for a royal flush.

Koch’s immense and imaginative set was so respectful of Roseland’s inherent desuetude, and so perfectly proportioned so as to transform the entirety of the huge space, every nook and cranny, every labyrinthine walkway, and every staircase, into a tawdry tango hall that had seemingly been overtaken by a military regime for use as a sordid officers’ quarters cum penal colony. One officers’ clubroom upstairs was illuminated by rose-colored light, and furnished with moth-eaten armchairs and wooden desks upon which lay bouquets of dead red roses and bleached bones—and a rotary dial telephone. Meanwhile across the vast expanse of the hall, a sign flashed on the scrim:
Please report to the infirmary, while phosphorescent spider webs glowed in the black light. Where were we? In some amalgam of the Weimar Republic below the equator where the Spider Woman lurked in the shadowy recesses of every shady officer’s fantasies.

And in keeping with the Década Infame, scenes of torture unfolded at the hands of every officer: boyz enmeshed in spider webs, and a woman hung by the skin of her back, twirling through the air, and a lovely little stage moment where one go-go boy on the lip of stage knelt to piss into the mouth of a guy on the floor. This was a South American city sliding rapidly into the Lethe.

In control, at the helm, was General Fonseca ripping through an arsenal of beats that included mash-ups of “Night Train,” and “Put Your Hands (In The Air)” and “Let Freedom Ring”—and to tumultuous applause, “Sweet Dreams.” Fonseca’s set sent the energy in that tattered tango hall into the stratosphere—so that when the switchover happened, and a stage show of debauchery paved the way for Paulo’s entrance, Paulo came on with the control of a commanding officer after a coup d’etat.

The sold-out crowd was ready: a writhing mass of caged sexual heat, a panoply of the most extreme sartorial ensembles and sexual accoutrements, a truly depraved fashion show for sadists and masochists—and when Paulo cranked into “Let Me Take You On A Trip” and “Same Old Bitch,” the crowd followed his commands. This was chunky, house-grinding music—and Paulo was immediately relentless.

The lighting rig shook and lowered. A gargantuan cross of white lights flashed inside the perimeter of a circle, reproducing in light the same iconic and slightly sinister red-and-white symbol on the flags, the pennants, and numerous armbands.

The energy was peaking: a prison riot about to burst wide open as Paulo ripped through “Make Some Noise” and “Can You Feel It?” and “Everybody’s Jumpin’”—before a female voice commanded “Do as I say… Let me have my way.” Everything was “Erotica” then—and everything on the verge of climax—and nowhere better evinced than in the perfect harmony between Guy Smith on the lights and Paulo on the boards. This was a perfect agreement of light and sound, the two masters pushing each other forward, reading each other’s cues as an orchestral chorus swept through the hall, with chimes and bells and whistles all erupting in one massive explosion that rocked the house with the lyrics “feels like home.”

Sound and light—it’s a beautiful combination, and in the hands of two professionals, a joy to witness. This was lights overload, lights overdose, an overdose of white light, total white-light-out, complete white-out—and the perfect catharsis for the cheering crowd.

Thereafter, they were putty in Paulo’s hands as he worked them over with
“Feel the Drums,”“Make My Body Rock,” “Slave”—a series of pelvic rides that built and built before achieving release.

Meanwhile, making their way through the packed floor, a quartet of red-lighted nuns led a group toward the stage—and smashed through the barricaded wall in a frenzy of red flag-waving frenzy—and as the wall fell, the energy, the bass, the pounding beat of the music was amped up to such an unconscionable level as to evoke a thundering herd pounding across the firmament. This was Paulo’s intro to “Hills of Katmandu,” his version of the Tantra (and Black Party) classic, which made it perfectly clear as to who was in charge of this party.

Throughout the night, and long in to the morning, the red-shirted MedEvent boys kept watch over the Black Party faithful—to insure that all would be delivered safely from Roseland. And equally attentive throughout the eighteen-hour event were the myriad Saint-at-Large volunteers, diligent and committed, as well as Saint-at-Large impresario Stephen Pevner who oversaw the proceedings of the entire experience with a kind of beneficent grin—and why not? This year’s Black Party: Rites XXXI was a beautiful revolution of sound, light—and the forbidden dance. Viva la revolucion!