Redeye - SoL-er power September 30 2004
On Thurs., Sept. 23, J. Carter's SoL FUSION celebrated its two-year anniversary at eleven50, while the rest of Midtown just plain celebrated. Maybe it was the lull in the storms, or the welcomingly not-sweltering weather, but people were lined up outside Vision, the Leopard Lounge and Twisted Taco. The sidewalks were plastered with people and the curbs were plastered with cars. The bump in the trunk (of both people and cars) was almost overwhelming. (Step in anytime to do something useful about the traffic issues, City Council — and more meters and other limiting methods are not useful.)
At eleven50, however, the only thing plastered on people were their clothes, 'cause inside it was a steamy bohemia. Anthony David and Res performed that bluesy, woozy soul, and DJs Kemit and Jamad played hip-house, rare groove, dancehall and disco breaks — you know, everything from boom-bap to bump 'n' grind to roller skating jams (no, really, there were girls on roller skates). The night was as multi-culti as it was mighty-tighty, and congratulations are in order for SoL Fusion fiercely nurturing a fine Atlanta tradition. Check out www.sol-fusion.com for the next installment of the party, taking place the last Friday of each month at various locations.
It's a Jungle in there Entering Jungle, the circuit bois club occupying the space that was formerly the S&M-themed club the Chamber, every atom in my body wanted to yell, "You damn dirty apes!" Just for old times' sake, because the Chamber was a bit gritty (what a nice way to say dank and decaying). Problem that arose, however, was that the new apes inhabiting the place weren't that dirty, at least in appearance. I can't speak for anyone's intentions, but these apes were hairless, prime specimens of what a co-worker calls "gay show muscle." Can I get a six-pack and soda, please?
I tell you, I thought it was easy (not pleasurable, but easy) to get around in the Chamber, slithering between the well-oiled pleather and PVC. It's even easier (easier, not any more pleasurable, for me at least), to slip through the crowd of shirtless, hairless men all glossy from sweat. I just whisked through a blur pecked and pocked with nipples and abs to check out how the place had changed. The conclusion: only so much. It still smells of a sauna, still has the odd box or bar jutting into the space for the go-go bois. Sure, there are some tremendous murals of, like, tigers and panthers, but I think people are still there for the same reason that they were at the Chamber: They've been bad and deserve a spanking. (Thank God the Atlanta Leather Company, located next door, hasn't moved. You can still walk by the window display of assless chaps to get ideas.)
I will say that I was amused to see the parking lot littered with Red Bull cans. No condoms, no syringes, none of the fun stuff from when Atlanta was Atlanta. Red Bull. That pretty much sums up what Jungle is about on a Saturday night: HiNRG — in the music, the mingling (though a friend did point out how odd it is to name a club after a genre of music circuit bois for the most part vehemently dislike). Anyway, for all you men with the eye of the tiger, or the tongue of the anteater, or an anaconda with an insatiable appetite, rumble in the Jungle.
Keep one RedEye open. And send all comments, questions, observations and invitations to email@example.com.