DJ Ranger Verde and an array of ass shakers.

On the night in question, The Air Conditioned Lounge in North Park is offering “Bootydew feat. Booty Selectors,” an electronic dance night featuring genres described on the venue’s website as “Electronic, Latin, Ass Shakers.” Which, to my carnival mind, sounds like Hispanic androids twerking. Unlikely, but I’m clinging to that image, because it’s more alluring than the prospect of air conditioning on this chilly February evening. A sign in the enclosed entry leading to the club warns you must be 21, that a dress code will be enforced, and that you must be nice or leave. I’m over twice the age of 21 and dressed in shorts and an Iron Maiden soccer jersey, but I can probably manage to be nice.

Arriving a little after eight o’clock, I find myself wondering if the website was mistaken, because the small space is so sparsely populated. The place has a feel that calls back to mafia meetings and back room gambling, so I’m surprised to find the club has existed for less than 20 years. Only a couple of tables have anyone occupying them, and the couch that sits in a recessed part of the floor is nearly empty. It’s easy to get to the bar and order a diet soda, which the bartender gives me on-the-house. She doesn’t know what the dress code is, but suggests that if clothing isn’t extreme, there are no issues. I suggest that a T-shirt with a dick on it might be a violation, and she looks around, asking if I saw someone wearing that. I tell her I haven’t seen one, and she directs me to security before I can ask about twerking robots.

Two men enter the venue and approach an elevated stand, so I ask one of them, Adam Villarreal, if he’s the DJ. He’s not. Instead, he’s the former guitarist of punk band Sustivity, which now goes by the name Sadie Hellfire. He introduces me to his friend Marcellis, aka Ranger Verde, named after a Mighty Morphin Power Rangers character. The television program is represented on Marcellis’ body by three different tattoos. Verde introduces me to Karley Fregoso, who goes by the moniker DJ Kale, and another performer, DJ Lossy. Fighting my revulsion at the mention of the so-called “super vegetable,” I ask Kale about Latin robots dancing, earning only a blank stare that requires me to pull up the club’s website on my phone.

I read aloud the description of tonight’s events — disregarding the punctuation — in my best Christopher Walken impression: “Electronic Latin Ass Shakers.” Adam Villarreal agrees that it sounds like Latin robots dancing, but it turns out the trio of DJs are unaware of how the festivities were billed. They have no robots, androids, or other artificial life forms in their sets, though Kale does tell me that she’ll be the Mexican robot shaking her ass.

I equate making music with hours of practice, bleeding fingertips, blisters, and calluses — sacrifices made for the chance to make the same sounds as Geddy Lee (Rush) and Verdine White (EWF). I fail to see the challenge in plugging in a hard drive and calling it art. But Kale explains that being a DJ, like any other form of music, results in a wave that is created when someone is putting their heart into the set. She works with Umbrellavation, a community-building health and artistic charity collective doing desert festivals where wellness is a top priority for attendees. Her talk of yoga and meditation spaces is at odds with the sorts of festivals that I’ve gone to, where survival becomes a priority over the music. She also assures me that the music continues without pause in order to keep the energy moving forward, not because someone may yell “Freebird” between songs.

As I turn from the platform booth, I see the club has filled up, though there’s still plenty of room to move. The security guard has no time for my questions about the dress code, only describing what I’m wearing as a violation. He says something about “back in the day,” and I’m left to wonder what day that was, as he offers only “A lot of young people here tonight” as an explanation. When the music starts, the promised ass-shaking begins. People pour from their tables in a stream as Ranger Verde gets the crowd pumped. Well, most of the crowd, anyway. I’m not particularly pumped, nor moved to shake my ass, but the energy makes me smile. The music may be electronic, but the reaction is both warm and organic.