Is iBar Stuck on Loop?
Some time after our generation tired of searching for true love via staying locked up in a bedroom reading perks of being a wallflower, writing unbearable poetry and never moving more dramatically than a simple head-nod during the melodramatic performance of some local band, we decided to drop the tedious pretense of noble romanticism, get fucked up and bust a move to some irreverent, pounding dance music. This humble back step to all of our caveman roots is, in this writer’s opinion, one of the greatest decisions in hipster history. After all, there’s only so much one can accomplish sitting alone, finely honing his or her angst into meticulously crafted verses each ending with such innovative rhymes as “heart” and “apart”. So where did these masses of starry eyed, newly enlightened and liberated kids scamper off to in order to trade in their sea legs for dancing shoes, in order to quell the veritable forest fires raging within their pants? Clubs! In Orlando we’ve got a few, but what emerged as the downtown Mecca for new converts to the church of dance is Independent Bar, or “iBar” for short. Here we all were, freshly immersed into an ocean of The Strokes, The Faint, Interpol and Hot Hot Heat, bombarded with flashing lights, and feeling like the gods had taken their booze stained, smoke filled heavens down from the sky and allowed us to throw a party in them. And then something odd happened. As if a mad scientist with a penchant for general meddling and unwarranted douchebaggery was walking around with a time-freeze ray one drunken night and fired it at our iBar, suddenly the club was frozen into a bizarre living museum display of “life in the early 00s”. Remember The Postal Service? Well you certainly won’t forget when you can hear highlights from their 2003 release every Thursday and Friday at iBar. You can still float on with Modest Mouse, still get taken out by Franz Ferdinand and still clap along to the 3 year old bridge of The Darkness’ “I Believe in a Thing Called Love.” But if you’re looking for anything new, you’re out of luck. Orlando’s a big city. Thusly one might expect their clubs to have a bit of that special, magical knowledge about what’s hot shit right now and what’s dead and buried that every big city ought to have. That there is a lot going on in the world of dance music is undeniable. While Diplo’s Hollertronix shows are tearing Philadelphia a new one, The Rub DJs, like Ayres and Eleven, are bombing New York’s club scene back to the glorious and bass filled stone age. Spank Rock are clearly the gods of future party sent back in time to enlighten us with such club killers as “Put That Pussy On Me” and “Backyard Betty”. We’ve got Lady Sovereign treading in MIA’s footsteps, minus the politics and plus a couple Adidas hoodies. The world’s dancing circles around us, and iBar’s just putting “Emerge” on repeat. So what can you do about it? Hell if I know. But I’ll invite you to the next Pegasus Pointe Party Patrol party until we find a solution.  copy by Jack Cusumano |