Boob jobs, waxed pecs, and oh yah...the Winter Music Conference

First things first: the cult of the Body reigns supreme in South Beach. After nine days of prime SoBe people watching, I return to New York City feeling like a very normal human being. How many tens of thousands of dollars are walking around buried deep in the subcutaneous tissue of scores of Miami beach babes and stud muffins? Enough to pay down the debt of a small country, I'm sure, but now that that's out of the way, you were asking how things went at WMC 2005?

Well, at least I thought I heard you asking. In a word, good. It wasn't a hectic, business-all-day kind of vibe. If anything, it was too easy slipping into the Miami mindstream, walking around in a heat-induced (and other things-induced) haze, rolling from hotel lobby to poolside to club, throwing down drinks and trying to keep enough presence of mind to concentrate on music.

Here's my rundown, in no particular order, just what my Miami-addled brain can produce at the moment:

THE DELANO:
Ok, I guess this one is first because I was so damn impressed by this place. Talk about surreal. You walk in through a breath-taking lobby with larger-than-life columns lining both sides. In between the columns lie miniature environments: a fur-draped chaise lounge; a fortune teller's table with purple velvet, candelabras, and chairs backed with the face of a black man in a red robe looking like a cross between Alladin and Yul Brenner. A staff member dressed in white opens the door to the outdoor dining patio. Walk through the diners, for whom the constant stream of people serves as exquisite entertainment, down a flight of red stairs interspersed with grass. Here's where the fun begins.

More miniature environments lay scattered about a lawn: a giant chess set; an off-kilter dining table with a lonely candlestick; a ladder leaning up against a tree going...nowhere; a single round table with one chair, perhaps for stimulating monologues? Then comes a disappearing-edge pool, bathed in light for an eye-poppingly gorgeous night-time effect; private cabanas, white and tent-like line the pool. Each has a flat screen TV monitor. I wanted to jump in one and pull the door curtains closed. Another spindly table, green and gnarled metal, sat in the shallow end of the pool. Two chairs and a candleabra made it irresistible and I was happy to see a couple sitting there over drinks on another night we returned. More beds, flat, white, and cottony, lined the opposite edge of the pool. Each was far away enough from the next to give a sense of intimacy in public space, and I envied the couples laying on them bathed in the blue glow of the pool.

The bar was woefully understaffed. Behind the bar was a wooden dancefloor under the stars, with more beds, chaises, lounges, and random chairs strewn about behind it, with torches, candles, and other sources of light bathing the entire scene in a warmth and sensuality that made the whole place, to me, irresistible.

Three visits, and each one I enjoyed as much as the previous. Jerome Syndenham the first night; The Five Beats with Mr. V, Alix Alvarez, Spinna, Franck Roger, and DJ Deep the second; a closing party the last.

NIKKI BEACH:
The MAW party here was very nice. Mr. V, Alix Alverez and Franck Roger all played very nice sets. Although the afternoon gathering got doused in the Conference's only major rain storm, after the skies cleared, things picked right back up. A return to Nikki Beach for a BBC Radio party proved nearly impossible: as soon as we turned the corner to the dancefloor, the heat and humidity levels shot up a thousand-fold, and we ran smack into a churning mass of naked, sweaty bodies packed onto the dancefloor. Even the outdoors, usually large enough to contain any floor overflow, looked like a small city, with groups standing near tents, more beds (the bed theme is big in Miami), and across the sandy lot. The whole spectacle looked totally tribal, with groups wondering and coming into contact with others, where individual interaction merged into group dynamics, and we all became part of a momentary tribe.

THE RALEIGH:
Another beautiful hotel, very well done. Another edgeless pool, this one with a more organic, flowy shape, and a lower-depth ring bordering the pool where partiers occasionally took off their shoes for a calf-deep romp. More beds, more chaises, more horizontal reclining surfaces upon which to drink, smoke, talk, and more if you were lucky.

THE SHELBORNE BEACH RESORT:
Home base. Camp. La casa. The spot. Muh crib for nine days. This one I'm going to leave somewhat blank to preserve the memories, but here, in list form, is an outline: Grooverider, Fabio, LTJ Bukem, Jonathan Peters for nine hours after he played 12 hours the night before, Donald Glaude, boob jobs EVERYWHERE, waxed pecs, devil ducks, a balcony, college basketball, beach access, red beanbag chairs, tribal tattoos, cowboy hats, Coronas, the kitchen fan, reading and re-reading the MasterList, the Mezzanine.

JAZID:
Ok, this is where we did New York Detroit and in the interest of keeping things civil between me and the venue, let's just chalk another one up for experience points. Thanks to Rick Wilhite, Keith Worthy, Malik Alston, Sean Holland, and EMan for putting it down and doing their best with a system that we worked with, despite its deficiencies.

LINCOLN ROAD:
It's really nice. Keep walking down, it gets better. Great shops, good food, outdoor life Miami-style, but taken down a few notches. Civilized.

THE MOJITO:
How many of these can you drink in nine days? A lot.

THE WEATHER:
Oh. My. God. Perfect. With the exception of a little rain one day, it couldn't have been better.

THE CARS:
Bentleys, Rolls, extended Hummers everywhere, plus a fair amount of Lambourghinis (the orange Countach I can't forget), Ferraris, and a lot more eye candy to keep your neck turning.

FINAL ANALYSIS:
Anyone in Miami looking to hire a smart, organized writer/editor/researcher/DJ/event coordinator/Jill of all trades with the option to jet back and forth from Brooklyn to South Beach? Yes? I thought so!