2019
If you search the internet for information on DJ Pedro Cavaliere’s L.A. party series Dial Up, you won’t find much — and that’s by design. When he and longtime collaborator Virgil Abloh set out to start the event in 2017, it was a bit of a social experiment. “We didn't really approach it as a party; we made it as complicated as possible to get there,” explains Cavaliere. Instead, they shot a video commercial with no mention of an event and no address, only a phone number to call, which ended up serving as the place to RSVP. “We really just wanted to see if we could get people to come somewhere without announcing it.”
People did come. Expected or not, the stunt marked the beginning of a recurring event in his city. Hundreds of people — most of them millennials outfitted in street and skateware and women that Cavaliere describes as “artsy” — showed up. For those who were in the know, Dial Up became the go-to for an impeccably curated and always surprising talent list, with regulars like Heron Preston, Pierre Bourne and Pizza Boys. From there, the party grew exponentially. In fact, the most recent event was shut down because the address was leaked on the internet and 8,000 people showed up. Dial Up proved, in a world where everything is so readily accessible, there’s still an appetite for discovery and an even stronger appetite for a new way to experience nightlife — and Cavaliere provided that for L.A.
It’s surprising that Cavaliere carved out his niche in Los Angeles — or in any city for that matter. The DJ lives the type of lifestyle that has him on a plane more than he’s not. Born and raised in São Paulo, Brazil, he’s jumped from city to city since the age of 17 when he started working as A-Trak’s right hand. His career, which has included DJing for Rihanna, Yeezy and Nike, has taken him around the world and back again — but L.A. is the antidote to that. “For the lifestyle I've been living for my adult life, it's the perfect city to offset all the craziness. I get why so many high profile people live here. After all of the drama, even Diddy moved to Cali.”
For somebody with a global perspective on club culture, Cavaliere sees California’s as the best at fostering something meaningful. “What's impressive about L.A. nightlife is that I do see the benefit of the 2 AM curfew,” he explains. “After 2 AM, where do you go? You’re gathering at someone's home — someone's private space — and there’s a lot of people who maybe don't know that person that will come to the house. It builds this bigger sense of community.” What Cavaliere may not realize is that he’s the kick off to that end point, making him the arbiter of that community and culture. “At the end of the day, I want to unite different groups of people. Touching as many people as I can — that’s the ultimate goal.”
2019
To be cast as a “weirdo” or “ghetto” would stir ill sentiments to most people, but DJ Venus X revels in those words. For the Dominican and Ecuadorian creative, this is her identity. A native New Yorker, Venus found her niche amongst a group of marginalized, queer brown and latinx denizens, including friends and fashion designers Telfar Clemens and Shayne Oliver. They wanted a place that felt like their own, so in 2009, they created it. Together, they fostered a movement unique to them, creating the now internationally-recognized underground collective GHE20G0TH1K.
“New York desperately needed it and we created it,” says Venus of its founding, which kicked off as a local club night. The operation was founded on earnest beliefs, with no intention to ground herself in the upper echelons of “cool.” “I just wanted to play my own party and to do my own thing with my friends,” she says. There were no rules to what Venus was doing, making the engagement uniquely raw and punk. Each event oozed an authenticity that many in the contemporary have tried to encapsulate in their own parties, but none would reproduce the magic created by Venus X.
The sets were unconventional — a byproduct of the DJ’s subversion to the banal — and the series never had a permanent home, but those who knew always sought it out. Venus created a place where people could come as they are. GHE20G0TH1K parties are incomparable to other scenes, especially to the “fucking intellectual circle jerks,” as Venus says, where people are made to think about capitalism on the dance floor. What she serves up is a “party where people go home drunk having sex and where gay people in my community can feel like they are empowered and represented from the lineup.”
Initially, the scene was a niche concept, operating below the radar of the zeitgeist, but others started to take notice. It eventually became the apple of the music industry’s eye, though not always at the benefit of the brand. Venus’ movement was erroneously coopted by celebs who — in her eyes — didn’t pay homage to what she created. In the same breath, media outlets took notice of her rise and deemed her crowd as the “New Club Kids,” which wasn’t necessarily accurate. “I don't think that it's bad to be compared to really iconic parties,” says Venus. “There's a legacy of underground club culture that we're very proud to be a part of, specifically because it's never really been acknowledged as black and brown.” But from her perspective, they are not club kids, they're the new pop.
It’s important the Venus X is the one defining her brand, because what she built is limitless. Even growing GHE20G0TH1K to an iconic level, outsiders still need an education. “People need to acknowledge the fact that we come from neighborhoods that are hood, and we’ve been there the whole time being weird,” she says. The fact is, the identity she asserts is not ephemeral, it’s forever. As for what’s next, Venus X will be launching a record label and global tour to “connect weirdos all around the fucking planet.”
2019
So, at 15 years old he found himself steeped in the Sound Systems of the day. The community he connected to deviates far from the genre’s stereotypes. Addy describes the scene as a mosaic of personalities moving to chunes. “There were dancers, there was a guy who sells peanuts and a man making jerk chicken,” he explains. “Not to mention, there was a guy who setup a typewriter and typed to the beat.” People found the parties cathartic, a place to release and be their true selves.
DJ and producer Silent Addy is often depicted as the stoic, elusive visionary that his name suggests. Responsible for revitalizing basement and dancehall culture in Miami, the Kingston, Jamaica native has become known for saying a lot without saying anything at all. But in conversation, that reticent nature isn’t present — Addy has much to bare.
Growing up in Jamaica gave Addy an inherent understanding of the syncopated rhythms of reggae tone. The music, he admits, took over his entire life. “There was no age limit to partying,” he says.
Galvanized by his experiences as a teenager, Addy aimed to bring the culture of Jamaica’s music scene stateside. “I wanted to take dancehall music to that next level,” he says. “I didn’t want it to be stuck with just the Caribbean people.” Outside the confines of its origin, the movement needed a leader. Aside from sporadic releases and dubs by the genre’s top artists, the livelihood of the scene happened at night. “If you're not at the party that night to hear these songs or if you don't know the platforms to find it, you’re not in the know,” explains Addy.
In 2006, looking to extend the legacy of his iconic mentors Black Chiney and Walshy Fire, Addy began his first party in a restaurant in Miami’s Broward area. “I didn’t really want to wait around for a promoter to book me,” he says. As a result, he became solely responsible for his career, dealing with venues that had never housed the genre or pushed back in fear of violence erupting from it. It didn’t deter Addy. With blinders on, he committed to the cause, which meant paying and hiring everyone out of pocket, promoting 24/7 and handing out thousands of flyers himself.
Needless to say, it paid off. In 2010, he was given his break with a weekly at the now closed Miami music venue Grand Central. The series blew up. That momentum propelled him onto a world tour, taking his native country’s sounds global. Despite this, he keeps roots in Miami with Rum & Bass, an intimate, sought-after party operating out of Coyo Taco in the Wynwood neighborhood.
Looking towards the future, Addy holds an unwavering optimism about dancehall’s ability to ascend to a pop status and is at the forefront of making it happen. He recently launched a new music endeavor, producing with his cohort Creep Chromatic. But as the genre grows, he won’t waver on the real, transportive experience. “I want to keep the vibe and keep the same authenticity,” he says. Simply put, he just wants people to dance and have a good time. “I want people to go to dancehall parties to be like, ‘Yo, I feel like I’m in Jamaica,’” even if they're at Coachella.
