Prostate exams

This past Friday there was a party deep in Uranus. Were you aware that I was deep in Uranus? If not, I’d like you to know that I felt the heat, deep in Uranus. Now, I didn’t make it to the Black Hole of Uranus. No, that was far too deep for me. But I did watch people bust a move in the upper reaches of Uranus. I did watch people search for love in Uranus. And if they didn’t find love, they at least felt the loud pounding of Uranus.
At this point, you might be wondering how I managed to worm my way into Uranus. Well, I’ll tell you that I wasn’t alone in Uranus. A friend had won a free party to be held in Uranus, and I had to play escort because not everybody feels safe traveling in Buckhead alone. Or exploring Uranus, for that matter.
As usual, I had to park far away to avoid paying $10, and it was a chilling walk, but it was hot in Uranus. Uranus wasn’t full. It was still early. Plenty of time for people to fill Uranus and be treated to the stereotypical mix of early ’90s bottom heavy bass and club music — and free shots for the ladies. Pain-numbing alcohol is always a good idea when you want to have a good time in Uranus.
My time in Uranus left me with some unanswered questions, however. Do they offer body shots off of, you know, “Uranus”? Is their theme song “Da Butt” by EU? Do they ever have a tossed salad buffet free with the price of admission at Uranus? Will there be drink specials for brown-eyed girls? (If you don’t get that one, you don’t know your anus.)
Never in my wildest dreams — even in this post-“Beavis and Butthead”/”South Park”/”Tom Green”/”Jackass” generation — could I have ever have imagined a club actually called, you guessed it, Uranus. But it’s there, in Buckhead, where Swingers used to be. While I can applaud a club for not giving in to the pretentiousness that characterizes much of Buckhead, I’m not sure I’m excited by the thought of the kinds of ridiculous people who will get a kick out of getting loose in Uranus.
I mean, come on, it was bad enough when they named a damn planet Uranus. That’s given middle-schoolers something to snicker over for countless decades. But now there’s a public place called Uranus, a place that will give the shits and giggles to drunk people with barely the maturity of middle schoolers. And I bet it does well. It’s a cheap ploy, but people will love to get their rocks off in Uranus.
Can’t people just go to Backstreet to find that instead? Least they have good music.
Happy spelunking.
Speaking of good music, Richie Hawtin and John Aquaviva played at Liquid Groove’s party this past Saturday. If you don’t know Hawtin and/or Aquaviva’s work, you should. In terms of techno, these Canadians are second only to the Detroit originals. The duo founded Plus 8 Records, which recently released a must-have retrospective that shows the growth of minimal techno from rudimentary pounding hardcore through electric acid tests to where it is now — wiry and winding.
However, Hawtin and Aquaviva played for far too few people. When a good track plays, the sound system shouldn’t be louder than the crowd. Does Atlanta really have such a severe generation gap that this type of event would fall through the cracks? It didn’t garner enough interest among older club goers to get a booking at eleven50 or Karma, and also wasn’t able to drawn even the party kids at Liquid Groove? If Atlanta’s little scenesters want their scene to pass the test they need to be willing to do their history lessons. It makes me sad (and makes this column hard to write) when the only events that succeed feature the same lineups every other month and nothing but fresh off-the-presses progressive house and trance with a spot of breaks and drum ‘n’ bass. Major house and techno (pick a subcategory) talent come and go with little fanfare when they come at all, but all the party kids think Atlanta has such a well-developed and loving scene.
So if I’m preaching to the choir, why am I the only one singing praises? Think about it and instead of picking up the latest Global Underground, pick up a primer like Plus 8 Classics.