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Far away from the velvet-roped clubs of Hollywood, a dance culture thrives in Downtown's previously deserted warehouse spaces—or at least it did until the LAPD crashed the party.
2008 was a turbulent year for these underground parties, most of which are illegal. In either a uniformed or an undercover capacity, the police have been almost omnipresent, shutting down parties for everything from noise and permit violations to illegal alcohol sales. Consequently, event-producing collectives such as Space Island, the Do Lab, Ninja Skillz, Plump and HipGenesis have forsaken warehouses in favor of legal, mainstream venues. Even groups steeped in the nu-rave and nu-disco movements, like the optimistic USC-based Danceism, no longer take their chances.
"Underground parties are like cockroaches: You'll always find them where it's dark and dirty," says DJ Wolfie, a veteran promoter, producer and DJ who laments the loss of Downtown's "dark and dirty" past. Following a series of close calls, injuries and increased police scrutiny, Wolfie finally cashed in his party-throwing chips and retired from the underground in 2008, effectively dissolving his production team, HipGenesis. "It's only bars and clubs for me from now on," he says. "It's just too much of a headache to operate at unpermitted venues anymore."
These cycles of party boom and bust are nothing new to underground dance culture. Drug sweeps in the late '90s and early '00s, along with the Illicit Drug Anti-Proliferation Act passed in 2003 (which made it possible to prosecute promoters for drug use at party venues), spurred many promoters to seek out mainstream alternatives. As a result, megaclubs like Vanguard and Avalon have soaked up much of the warehouse party clientele.
But with the surge of social-media websites like Going.com and Tribe.net, the underground thrived again—and at a pace that outstripped police resources. By 2005, Downtown parties had picked up, this time tinged with the burgeoning subculture of Burning Man. Nightlife calendars filled quickly with fantasy-themed warehouse bashes, busting at the seams with heavily costumed (and intoxicated) partygoers. A sizeable swath of stripped-down techno crews and art-punk ensembles also stormed in, resulting in a flurry of activity that the police and even the DEA couldn't react to fast enough. Until now.
Officer Ernesto Vicencio, of the Police Commission Office, explains why such parties are under fire: "First, it's all the residential development going on downtown. Now these parties have neighbors living next door, and they call in and complain about the noise." He adds, "Secondly, we've ramped up our organization and communication between the different branches. The fire marshal, Building and Safety, the Police Commission and vice units—we are all in the loop and are liaisoning to keep each other informed of where and when parties are happening." When asked about undercover police action, Vicencio replies, "Without saying too much, I can tell you that there is always undercover activity."
Seasoned party promoter DJ Travis Lea is convinced he felt the undercover squeeze via a plainclothes officer at his monthly Plump party at Hangar 51, which was busted Nov. 15 as part of a police sweep that allegedly shut down six parties in one night. Now Lea and his partner owe approximately $1,000 in lawyer fees and are on probation for one year. None of this has stopped Lea from throwing his events, however. He's just going the legal route now, taking over 1018 Studios, a permitted venue with an art gallery vibe, and getting permits. The Do Lab, which throws some of the most elaborate events of this kind (such as the four-day Lightning in a Bottle festival) has also had to deal with permit complications and utilizes only legal venues these days.
Do Lab's massive bohemian ball Lucent L'amour (see photos), held almost annually in February, is perhaps the crown jewel of the warehouse party circuit. And while this year’s Valentine’s Day event (featuring superstar DJs Z-Trip, Adam Freeland and Kazell) went off without incident, last year's event was almost canceled. It was set to take place at a raw warehouse known as the 2415 space (near the intersection of Santa Fe Avenue and Washington Boulevard), but Do Lab organizers learned less than a week before the event that the space failed to obtain proper permits and had caught the attention of LAPD vice officers in the past. "We were under the impression that it was a permitted space," recalls Do Lab's Jesse Flemming. "We were misled."
"It was ridiculously stressful scrambling to relocate all our decorations, art installations and sound equipment on such short notice," says Do Lab's Dede Flemming, who helped hastily move the event to the 4,000-square-foot Premiere Events Space on Imperial Street.
For many promoters, including HipGenesis' DJ darkMatter, the writing is on the wall: "I don't know what's going on with the city government, but I'm telling all my people, 'Get the freakin' permits for your damn party!'"
While some underground die-hards call it selling out or going corporate, for the Do Lab, it's the only feasible course of action. "You've got to take care of your attendees, their safety and well-being," says Dede Flemming.
In the meantime, venues like Premiere Events Space that already have these legalities taken care of have been inundated with business. Dave Young, of Premiere Events, thinks the police must really be cracking down. "We've been getting tons of calls from promoters looking for a last-minute venue change," he says. "We're booked almost solidly through April."
What does the future hold for warehouse nightlife? It's tough to say. Undoubtedly, the line between underground and legal events has blurred, which raises the question of whether it's the venue or the culture that defines a scene as underground or mainstream. Wolfie says, "We are entering an era where our underground scene is quietly ending, and an era that I call 'alternaground' is beginning. [It's] underground culture in mainstream venues."
