The Phoenix Landing, Thursday night Drum n Bass, and Wine
a quality can wait production
The reviews return! Yes, the winter was long and depressing and cold, and it was tough to muster enthusiasm for
creative writing. Now that the days are long, warm, and sunny, thoughts and ideas come without
invitation and insist on being immortalized on these pages. Resistance is futile.
A disclaimer about the reviews: these reviews represent an evolution in our thoughts on DnB and Elements over a very
specific time period. Sometimes our reviews are congratulatory, sometimes highly critical. Sometimes, critical even
of our friends and acquaintances of the scene. This makes it necessary to mention, I think, that our reviews are not
meant to be personal attacks, or really to be personal at all. They reflect *our* tastes in DnB, they reflect *our*
highs and lows, in life as well as on the dancefloor. No one is perfect -- no one plays a good set every time he
shows up to play, no one writes a kind or well-written review every time he puts his hands on the keyboard. Hopefully,
at best, we can make some people happy in sharing back with them how happy they made us, and offer constructive
criticism to those who still wish to evolve and grow; and at the very worst, it is my hope that we can all forgive
each other for any possible offenses we may cause. Because it's all about love. Baby.
"He killed it!" That is what I wanted to write in this review during the fist half hour of Dylan's set. The fury with which he attacked the task of rinsing out the audience was unrelenting and merciless. It was so ill, all the doctors in Boston couldn't have helped.
"If this was a local DJ, the place would be empty by now!" This is what I wanted to write during the last half hour. The barrage of irregular beats did little but annoy the loyal followers who every few minutes made vane attempts at dancing.
Clearly, something had gone horribly wrong in the middle of his performance. It seems many a dissertation can be written on how to make a set consistently enjoyable, but the gist of it usually comes down to that illusive performer-audience connection. I just didn't sense any playfulness in Dylan; he was a mean lean skilled mixing machine, but he was not paying attention to the crowd's mood. So the only peeps who were left at the end were either the truly dedicated or the truly drunk (or both, in some isolated cases).