Tropical Synergy NYE 2019: This was the eternal Present.
19 hours of dancing was the perfect purge to a year long overdue. While 2019 surprised us like a swift kick to the head, New Years Eve at Tropical Synergy salvaged the final hours of the knock-out with rare rhythm and beauty. The past was the past, and this, well this was the eternal Present. To be surrounded by your closest friends tucked deep in the canyons of SoCal in a mini paradise oasis is a gift enough, but with a soundtrack that could've come straight from a deliberate deviation through the 9th circle of Hades' finest forbidden orgies, the stars aligned to secure this party as the breakout event of the year.
If we were a ship lost in the seas of silence, Chino's sound system was a siren's call to guide us home. Dialed in like the Lewis Carroll-inspired clock-adorned DJ booth, his relentless reliability complimented Ben Annand's perfect track record. Together with Wulfpack, this was a delicious recipe for success.
While I can't elaborate on all of the performers in the marathon near day-long bacchanal - from the early sets by Armando Kroma and Big Cee to Shawni's deft delivery of a midnight countdown, from the twin Canadian flame sets by MightyKat and Jay Tripwire to the sunrise serenades by Patricio, Aaron Jacobs, and Jamie Schwabl - in my opinion, one set needs to be commended for it's mind-altering unholy communion: Crescendoll.
Every once in a while a set stops you in your tracks, reminds you of why you are alive, and sets a new bar for music itself. For someone as verbose as myself, it's rare that I can't find the words to describe something so life-changing. However, I find myself lost, for once, searching for words where they likely do not exist. How do you put a positive spin on delirium? That's where I find myself. Crescendoll's set was alien like ancient hieroglyphics vocalized, our ears processing a new language for the first time.
There's a story in history of the American Indians not seeing Columbus' ships because their eyes were not properly equipped for the novelty of their existence - this myth is the closest I can get to describing the feeling that flooded over me in the witching hours of her ghostly sermon. I had either been teleported, transcended, or exterminated, and yet the sounds bathing my confused and sonically crucified form whispered everything I needed to hear.
Like Lilith herself resurrected, Crescendoll captured our souls like a black-cloaked thief in the night. The absolutely expert offering of her carefully crafted set put us in a fever dream like none I've ever experienced. What do you call a haunting that you don't want to end? I didn't know if i had achieved salvation or if I needed an exorcism, and I was content with either fate. The hellfire queen of gutter techno had done it again. Even if the entrance fee was eternal damnation, I gladly etched my name in blood on the dotted line. For a life absent of her talent, is one worth sacrificing. To hell with redemption, Crescendoll is the fucking answer.