photo by Jack Cusumano "When we conceptualized Saturday Thursday some months ago, we did it with parties and performers like The Rub in mind," Pauly Crush, promoter for Saturday Thursday said in a recent press release. Similarly, one of our intentions when starting the KillerPOP collective a little over a year ago was to kick Orlando out of its I-Bar stagnation and expose it to this emerging global club culture, in the hopes of attracting innovators like these to party in our own backyard. Thanks to similarly minded folks like Paul, it seems that day has finally come. Orlando's already played host to sets from Girl Talk to Diplo, and shows from Tittsworth and Flosstradamus are right around the corner. But perhaps the most symbolic of this seismic shift in Orlando's clubscape was The Rub's performance at Firestone on February 8th. As some of the pioneers of the mash-up, and the hosts of one of the craziest, most well-renowned parties on earth, The Rub are the real deal. Surreally, much of Orlando's scene sufficiently completed its new dress-code compliance just in time for the arrival of these visiting inspectors. All-over-print hoodies speckled throughout the crowd have replaced the vintage blazers of 2003, while ironic bling has become the new necktie for some. Thus, the sheer oddity of the evolution Orlando has undergone in recent months nearly overshadowed The Rub's actual performance. Luckily, their performance proved adequate to satiate expectations. Jam after jam flew at the readily prepared crowd, from ubiquitous bangers-of-the-moment like Fat Joe and Weezy's "Make It Rain" to somewhat obscure hyphy tracks like Federation's "Stunna Glasses." As for their patented mash-ups, the crew strapped the vocal track from Sean Paul's "Temperature" to the beat of Britney Spears' "Toxic" with rather splendid results. Aside from said highlights, the presence of Ghosttown DJs' "My Boo" made this dude's night complete. While nothing in their set failed to move the crowd, one could only wish the DJs themselves were a bit more animated. Occasional shout outs and sing-alongs over the mic helped pump up the sweaty masses, but there did seem to be room for a bit more spectacle. Then again, not everyone can be a shirtless, limb-flailing, Nirvana-screaming Girl Talk, and not everyone has to be. Regardless, The Rub delivered a more-than-acceptable set in a show that crystallized Orlando's plunge, for better or worse, into this new frontier of contemporary club insanity. The only question left is: "Now what?" Story by Jack Cusumano