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Gonzo Report: Glitter and good vibes at Spin's SUBmerged
A positive, pulsing run-up to Same Same But Different
Capochino gives the pulse to the body at Spin Nightclub.
“Let’s get some glitter on you and bring that inner little kid out,” Megan Harper says to me on the second floor of Spin Nightclub in the Midway District. Vendors are selling clothing, bartenders are serving from behind a lighted bar reminiscent of the cantina in Star Wars, and Megan and Bethany are applying glitter to patrons. I decline, laughing, secure in the knowledge that I am already a child with a bank account, and any further unleashing of my inner brat is likely to involve draining it to acquire a life-sized Creature from the Black Lagoon or some other “non-essential.” I wouldn’t be surprised to see the Gillman out on the dance floor, though. There’s a person dressed in a rabbit mask with a Victorian jacket, people juggling lights, and a woman spinning glowing hula hoops, so why not a beloved monster?
Gillman, getting down.
Tonight’s party is dubbed SUBmerged, and it's part of the run-up to to Same Same But Different, a festival that will kick off September 26 at Lake Perris, co-founded by Brad Sweet (Moves Collective) with the aim of providing an independent collaborative show fueled by community passion. The Spin thing is being held to provide a taste of the experience, raise funds, sell advance tickets, and foster connections. I won’t realize until well after the event that my natural skepticism never emerged — I never questioned the authenticity of the stated motives. Impressive.
Video:
Same Same But Different 2024 Aftermovie
Pre-show, I observe and listen, and all I hear are expressions of admiration and support — for people who aren’t even within earshot. Steph is my on-site contact, and well before her arrival, I hear her name mentioned several times; people appreciation her competence and friendliness. (When I meet her and share this, she seems surprised but happy.) Rosie, who works the bar on the patio, has been coming to the club for years, and tells me, “The two Brandons elevated it.” She loves the bonus of “hearing some sick ass music” while working. This is a sign of the club's soul: former patrons joining the staff, and former employees moving into ownership. Brandon Colt managed the club for over a decade before he and Brandon Garva became co-owners last August and started doing what they had always wanted to do with the place. Colt’s priority was the sound system, which is sublime no matter where I go in the space — no mean feat when you're putting out bass-heavy music. Both Brandons remain immersed in the scene, though at the moment, Garva is pursuing a degree in Electronic Music Production.
I slip past the line alongside the building's nondescript exterior and into the club proper, where I watch the multi-level dance floors fill with bodies as Cam Steen kicks out a set of electronic dance music. The patrons don’t need a a crowd to know that it’s go-time: their energy propels them into bouts of individual expression regardless of the number of participants. The music supplies the pulse that gives life to the venue, sparking rhythmic motion in those who feel it. Capochino starts his set, a seamless handoff from Cam Steen to a filled house.
Earlier, Capochino seemed shy during our interview — only growing excited when I asked him about playing Pokémon on his vintage Game Boy. Now, he’s a raging powerhouse. But he’s not exactly in command of the crowd: it’s an exchange of energy that lowers the barrier between observer and performer. Each feeds off the other, doing their own thing in mutual coexistence. There’s no “uniform” for the show, no posturing in an attempt to out-cool everyone else, and I'm pleased to detect a palpable lack of entitlement. One person apologizes for dancing into me, and I laughingly tell her to do her to not stress about it. She dances away to a less cramped spot as I head out, saying goodbyes before I head down a quiet Hancock Street to the trolley. I’m not over-stimulated, despite the plethora of stimulus, and I’m not feeling that empty drop that usually accompanies a post-show glow. Again, impressive.
I say hello to the only person I see, a man working on some midnight gardening, doing his own thing like everyone back at the club. As I start writing this story in my head, I realize that Harper got to me after all: I’m wearing glitter on the inside.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Glitter and good vibes at Spin's SUBmerged
A positive, pulsing run-up to Same Same But Different
Gonzo Report: Glitter and good vibes at Spin's SUBmerged
A positive, pulsing run-up to Same Same But Different
Capochino gives the pulse to the body at Spin Nightclub.
“Let’s get some glitter on you and bring that inner little kid out,” Megan Harper says to me on the second floor of Spin Nightclub in the Midway District. Vendors are selling clothing, bartenders are serving from behind a lighted bar reminiscent of the cantina in Star Wars, and Megan and Bethany are applying glitter to patrons. I decline, laughing, secure in the knowledge that I am already a child with a bank account, and any further unleashing of my inner brat is likely to involve draining it to acquire a life-sized Creature from the Black Lagoon or some other “non-essential.” I wouldn’t be surprised to see the Gillman out on the dance floor, though. There’s a person dressed in a rabbit mask with a Victorian jacket, people juggling lights, and a woman spinning glowing hula hoops, so why not a beloved monster?
Gillman, getting down.
Tonight’s party is dubbed SUBmerged, and it's part of the run-up to to Same Same But Different, a festival that will kick off September 26 at Lake Perris, co-founded by Brad Sweet (Moves Collective) with the aim of providing an independent collaborative show fueled by community passion. The Spin thing is being held to provide a taste of the experience, raise funds, sell advance tickets, and foster connections. I won’t realize until well after the event that my natural skepticism never emerged — I never questioned the authenticity of the stated motives. Impressive.
Video:
Same Same But Different 2024 Aftermovie
Pre-show, I observe and listen, and all I hear are expressions of admiration and support — for people who aren’t even within earshot. Steph is my on-site contact, and well before her arrival, I hear her name mentioned several times; people appreciation her competence and friendliness. (When I meet her and share this, she seems surprised but happy.) Rosie, who works the bar on the patio, has been coming to the club for years, and tells me, “The two Brandons elevated it.” She loves the bonus of “hearing some sick ass music” while working. This is a sign of the club's soul: former patrons joining the staff, and former employees moving into ownership. Brandon Colt managed the club for over a decade before he and Brandon Garva became co-owners last August and started doing what they had always wanted to do with the place. Colt’s priority was the sound system, which is sublime no matter where I go in the space — no mean feat when you're putting out bass-heavy music. Both Brandons remain immersed in the scene, though at the moment, Garva is pursuing a degree in Electronic Music Production.
I slip past the line alongside the building's nondescript exterior and into the club proper, where I watch the multi-level dance floors fill with bodies as Cam Steen kicks out a set of electronic dance music. The patrons don’t need a a crowd to know that it’s go-time: their energy propels them into bouts of individual expression regardless of the number of participants. The music supplies the pulse that gives life to the venue, sparking rhythmic motion in those who feel it. Capochino starts his set, a seamless handoff from Cam Steen to a filled house.
Earlier, Capochino seemed shy during our interview — only growing excited when I asked him about playing Pokémon on his vintage Game Boy. Now, he’s a raging powerhouse. But he’s not exactly in command of the crowd: it’s an exchange of energy that lowers the barrier between observer and performer. Each feeds off the other, doing their own thing in mutual coexistence. There’s no “uniform” for the show, no posturing in an attempt to out-cool everyone else, and I'm pleased to detect a palpable lack of entitlement. One person apologizes for dancing into me, and I laughingly tell her to do her to not stress about it. She dances away to a less cramped spot as I head out, saying goodbyes before I head down a quiet Hancock Street to the trolley. I’m not over-stimulated, despite the plethora of stimulus, and I’m not feeling that empty drop that usually accompanies a post-show glow. Again, impressive.
I say hello to the only person I see, a man working on some midnight gardening, doing his own thing like everyone back at the club. As I start writing this story in my head, I realize that Harper got to me after all: I’m wearing glitter on the inside.
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