As a recent transplant from the West
to the East Coast, I had no idea what to expect from New York
City's Electric Zoo festival—the second coming of an
electronic event improbably located on Randall's Island in
the middle of the Hudson River with the New York skyline juxtaposed
against a pastoral tree-lined park setting. I don't know what
I expected from the NY daytime clubber scene—a bunch
of stereotypical Wild Style-styled b-boys? Fist-pumping guidos?
Reserved IDM headnodders? Neon-clad electroclashers in played-out
shuttershades? Well, the answer was all of the above—and
more. Not to mention a surprisingly satisfying musical menu.
Day 1's highlight came early with Paul Kalkbrenner in the
Sunday School Grove tent, which proved to be the home of the
more intellectual end of the sonic spectrum as the festival
progressed. Kalkbrenner showered the kids with life affirming
bass pulses, grinning and smiling between cigarettes as he
worked his way through a Berlin Calling-dominated set. Standouts
"Azure" and "Square 1" established the
vibe as firmly downtempo and summery—perfect for Kalbrenner's
midday set.
It perfectly mirrored his filmic alter-ego DJ Ickarus's daytime
jam-out at the confluence of the rivers Havel and Spree in
Berlin—warm, loving, Euro xoxoxo type stuff. He threw
a few leftfield crowdpleasers into the mix too, with Fatboy
Slim's "Praise You" and the Gary Jules cover of
"Mad World" making appearances. Kalkbrenner closed
on a high note, blowing kisses to the crowd as he dropped
"Sky and Sand," the emotional signature track from
the film that features vocals from sibling Fritz Kalkbrenner.
Just simple and stunningly beautiful.
Up next was a raucous set from Boris on the mainstage, throwing
down the usual sirens-and-sawtooth-bass fare down for a crowd
of shirtless juicers with rocket nipples. Not really my scene,
but for what it was, it delivered. Ascending trance melodies,
break-chorus-break, that sort of thing.
ATB followed him up, mixing twirling high-register hooks
with Andre Tanneberger's signature high product values and
girlvox. Frustratingly, ATB kept teasing the unforgettably
elastic guitar line from "9PM Til I Come" but never
actually got us there. Sadly (for me), his choices took a
downturn, with an extended foray into Rage Against the Machine's
"Killing in the Name Of" that just wouldn't end.
Thankfully, he took us away from rap-rock near the end for
a dip into Robyn territory. But what do I know? The crowd
seemed to love it all.
I tried to catch the tail-end of Pete Tong's offering, but
it was losing the soundsystem battle to the main stage and
ended up being a throbbing mess that no one seemed to be able
to dance to, thanks to sound bleed, dust and exhaustion.
Things looked up with cheerful Rusko bringing it back to
filthy dubstep. The effervescent Leodensian wore the crowd
out with slow-n-low bass grind and more complex drum loops
than the usual kick/kick-snare one-two that was the coin of
the realm for both days. I had a bit of a prejudice against
him after a largely lame hip-hop flavored set, but he won
me completely over. Again, though, the poor guy, being on
the Red Bull Music Academy Riverside Stage, was drowned out
a bit at the periphery by strains of M.I.A., Santigold and
Ace of Base blasting in from Major Lazer on the nearby main
stage.
I finished out the evening with an absolute killer set from
the always intense, always rock-solid Richie Hawtin. Known
for ecstatic, erratic beat wizardry and sparse everything
else, Hawtin was true to form, layering snare after snare
over a bed of cymbal nails and bass landmines. I can't seem
to learn a lesson—I stood too close to Hawtin's speakers
during the Plastikman set at Coachella and I did the same
damn thing in New York. But when it comes to reminding hardcore
heads what they came to hear, Hawtin delivered and reminded
we the believers that there are no atheists in a k-hole.
The morning's offerings for Day 2 were lackluster, so I got
a later start, arriving just in time for a kickass show from
Martin Buttrich, Matthias Tanzmann and Davide Squillace, performing
for the first time as a trio. These three friends were in
perfect sync, dancing together and hunching over their Macbooks
with wide smiles. It was all midtempo bangers of the dirty
variety—perfect for the filthy dustbowl that the Sunday
School Tent had become at this point.
The biggest surprise of the festival came in the form of
a Moby DJ set, which, despite all misgivings, did not actually
suck. Moby, whose career is somewhat of the lightning rod
for the, er, bald commercialism of '90s techno, came with
the heavy shit, eschewing his wimpy electro soul and mom-pleasing
blues spiritual sampling tendencies (thank god) for a set
of all bone-crunching bangers. For a man that once made me
embarrassed to be both an electronic dance music fan and a
vegetarian, this is a sizable achievement. Moby unleashed
thundering upper-BPM choices one after another, spicing it
up with a few classics, including the inimitable pad wash
from Underworld's classic "Born Slippy (Nuxx)."
Jumping up on the DJ booth and working the crowd hype with
old-school rave cuts, the hairless one knows where we came
from and why we're here. He ended the set with a grand mal-inducing
crescendo that (I think) featured a snippet of the vox from
the one Moby album track I still actually love—"Next
Is the E."
Alexander Ridha, AKA Boys Noize, came for one reason only,
to blast us into the stone age. There was nothing complicated
about tracks like "Kontact Me" and "Sweet Light"—which
exist purely to get the lead out of droopy club kids. It was
loud, loud and loud and the crowd went absolutely catshit.
I don't think my fave, "Jeffer" made an appearance—a
track that has gained somewhat of a cult following thanks
to this nugget of awesome.
Diplo, who had shared a stage with Switch the day before,
threw down a lukewarm set of his own in the Red Bull tent,
leaning heavily on tracks he produced for Maya Arulpragasam
like "Bucky Done Gun." Granted, everyone's pretty
wiped at this point, but it didn't seem like people were having
that much fun and the selections never seemed to lock into
a groove. It seemed like soupy drums brought it down. I did
see a guy in a giant inflatable deer costume though, which
was kinda rad.
Not having the energy or the yen for '90s superstars Armin
Van Buuren or Digweed (and having an abiding distaste for
Grey Goose-sprayer extraordinaire Steve Aoki), I finished
the evening with a tight little house package from Brooklynite
Victor Calderone. Sure, my sinuses were filled with Randall's
Island firmament and I was like 1,100 cigarettes closer to
death, but I managed to have one last dance to Calderone's
no-nonsense brand of precise kick drum patterning and delightfully
woozy yet respectably skeletal synth noodling. With the NY
club scene just a short Metro North train ride away from my
new home in Connecticut, I'll be sure to make it to one of
his regular appearances in the city in the near future.
