People who live outside Miami view South Beach as a hedonist party Mecca. Locals who’ve been swindled time and time again know it as more of a Ponzi scheme. You exchange money for the prospect of good times down the road. The more people that pay to get into the club, the better the party. Except there’s never really any return on investment: the drinks are watered down, the patrons are usually standoffish, and on the wrong night it can be a lonely and hostile environment. Most locals avoid the scene altogether in favor of more budget-friendly options. The strangest thing about South Beach club culture that people in other cities may not realize is that most people don’t dance. Either they aimlessly stand and look around, or spend all their money to sit down and drink a bottle. There’s always a surreal feeling of disconnection in one of these clubs, because for all of the hype there’s the simple fact that nobody wants to be bothered.
The point being that if I wanted to go out somewhere for a romantic Valentine’s day party or event, a Miami Beach party is the last place I would think to go. If I wanted to have a
birthday party in a place that would distract me from the inexorable march of time, I wouldn’t even think about it. Cam’ron, however, did not feel this way, because Cam’ron does not think and act like you and I do. On Saturday, I saw a flyer advertising that the
Purple Haze rapper was spending his 38th birthday party at Dream, a club with a reputation for mostly being fake and overpriced. He’d be there with Alshon Jeffery, a wide receiver for the Chicago Bears with a reputation for making ridiculous catches and Tweeting his appreciation for God—a combination that seemed dredged up from the darkest, most cynical part of a club promoter’s how-to manual. The flier prominently displayed their names and faces without exactly stating what they’d be doing—whether Cam would doing a set, whether Jeffery would be running some short routes to show off, or whether they’d stay on the other side of the invisible partition dividing “you” and “us” at every club.
At the very least, it seemed intriguing. Appearances are the nadir of South Beach club culture. Performers or celebrities show up to a Hotel or Club at a random time, stand around and do absolutely nothing that has to do with their talents and get paid an exorbitant sum. Promoters are the snakeoil salesmen of the whole operation who make a lot of promises without fulfilling them. Generally, a promoter will come up to you on the beach or on the street and tell you he can get you into a club for free. When you get to the front door, you will be asked to buy an astronomically priced bottle or you won’t be able to get in.
The flier claimed that anyone who called the promotional number listed would receive complimentary admission, which sounded too good to be true. I called up the promoter and he told me to text him with my information; if I showed up before 12:30AM, I would only get charged the twenty dollar dikk tax. Women would get in free all night. I asked him a few questions.
“So...is Cam’ron actually going to perform tonight?”
“Of course.”
“What time do you think he’s going to get on stage?”
“Probably around two.
“Great! So I’m on the guest list? When I show up I’ll text you and you’ll help me get in?”
“Yeah dog, you’re good.”
I was now in with the club promoter! I was even his dog! Optimism eroded my pervasive negativity toward beach clubbing. When I arrived just before midnight, I figured I’d be promptly inside. I confidently mentioned to the platoon of bouncers that I was on the guest list and therefore I should gain entry. They halted me and told me to call the promoter. The promoter never answered. I felt betrayed. I wasn’t his dog at all. I would have to wait it out and hope for the best. In the meantime, the fleet of doormen and bouncers and hostesses would be letting in ‘important guests’ and ‘friends of the promoters.’ Ten minutes later, twelve energetic black women got in line behind me. As we waited and watched for activity, the bouncers proceeded to pull young, attractive white girls off the street and into the VIP line.
It started off rather innocently. “You think you Rick Ross? I don’t have to deal with this shyt at Cameo.
They just keepin’ us out here to make this empty ass place look busy. We bein’ embarrassed.” After forty or so minutes of non-movement on the non-VIP side, Kayra started to really dig in. “You about to have your face slapped the fukk out you! You Rick Ross beard havin ass motherfukker!” she proclaimed, shortly before her group left for greener pastures.
After waiting an hour and a half, I gave up and finally pleaded to the doorman that I was in the press and needed to write about the show. He looked at me like I was do gshyt and told me to just go in. When I reached the cashier, I was asked to pay a fee for being late. It would be sixty bucks. I explained that I had patiently waited to get in quite a bit before 12:30. They allowed me the privilege of paying the early bird price of thirty dollars.
T
here was another worrying problem. Despite the high number of patrons in the VIP-area, nobody was dancing. So what the fukk was I supposed to do until Killa went on the stage? There was barely anyone outside the exclusive layer of promoters, thirst-mongers, and club guests. I was going to have to make friends.
“Why am I here? Because I’m a fukking man!” He grabbed my hand for shake and squeezed painfully tight. He would not let go for the extent of our conversation. When I mentioned the prospect of Cam’ron performing, Terrence stared at me incredulously.
“Cam is a legend! He released his dopest shyt in ‘96. But he ain’t gonna perform. That fukker’s out of the game, what we like to call ‘on hiatus’.” I pretended to not know the meaning of the word hiatus as he explained the concept to me. “If I didn’t come here tonight, I wouldn’t meet someone as inspired as you. You seem like you really care about your job. I’ll show you how we do.” Terrence walked away and danced by himself five feet from me. That made me feel a little better about myself but I was left worried that Cam would not be performing.
Cam’ron then stepped on a podium in the middle of the VIP area and stood there while another member of his entourage removed his shirt, revealing a tank top. The friend proceeded to take selfies next to Cam’ron. Women and promoters intermittently joined him on the stage to get their twitter-ready shots. Over the din, the stocky DJ kept on hyping up the crowd by steadily reminding everyone how elite their company was. “We got a lot of nikkas tonight poppin a lot of bottles! Where my rich nikkas at? There is so much fukking money in this building!”
Nobody handed Cam a mic. People stood in the VIP area watching as others took photos with his friend. Finally, he was escorted from that area to another tinier VIP area where he quietly stood for two hours. He hung in the back and played with his phone. He was behind two other rows of people and they were all standing still. It looked like they were being forced to take a high-school class photo.
Looking at Cam during his birthday party reminded me of how I felt at my bar mitzvah. It was supposed to be a celebration, and yet I couldn’t help feel forced and resigned to be there. I couldn’t blame him. Appearances are work. Cam’s birthday was February 4th, which means other clubs in other cities probably also paid him to come hang out and pretend it was his birthday party. Perhaps he was tired of celebrating turning 38, night after night, for money. There was nothing for him to do. Nobody danced, and everyone around Cam’ron was basically paid to be there or didn’t give a shyt about him being there at all.
I ran into Verie, who I met and abandoned in line for the club. She criticized me for leaving her alone at the beginning of the night. Her friendliness gave me a sense of comfort, and I felt I found someone who could accompany my pitifully lonely ass through the rest of the night. I asked her why she came to the club. She said she came down from West Palm Beach to celebrate her sister’s 25th birthday; she wanted to go to Cameo but her sister lost her ID and they had to find a place that would let her in. She lamented the lack of dancing, fun, or general happiness that she found at other clubs. “I would never be treated in West Palm Beach the way I was treated here! I used to party with Lil Wayne! Why the fukk is nobody dancing?! They ain’t let me in because I ain’t as beautiful as I used to be. But they let in all those white girls.”
I didn’t understand what anyone would get out of the event—it seemed like people just slinging money at a wall hoping to get noticed by the people being paid to be there. In Miami, people make the amount of money spent at clubs a point of pride. Lebron James’ one-hundred thousand dollar night at Club Liv is the stuff of legend down here. It makes sense that the club experience and Valentine’s Day would go hand-in-hand, as they’re both emblematic of the need to fit in using empty gestures. Couples throw money and forced gifts at each other and tell themselves that they are being romantic. Clubbers spend money on drinks and events so they can officially have fun and be at the top party. If I wasn’t having any fun, I could only imagine how Cam felt.
Photos by Holiday Vargas—find more of his work at City Never Sleeps
dead at the stock dj
...NYC and CHICAGO are two different kind of black people, you ain't gonna play us like that.
