By Ashley Zimmerman
By Dana Krangel
By John Hood
By Ashley Zimmerman
By David Von Bader
By Sayre Berman
By Steve Brennan
By Ashley Zimmerman
Something Indie Air. It's a fact: The local indie-rock community really came alive in '05. Warhorse bands like the Freakin' Hott and Catalonia further refined their sound, newbies like Awesome New Republic and Baby Calendar emerged from the suddenly fertile Miami scene, and DJ nights like Crush, Flaunt, and Headquarters were packed to the chain-smoking gills. Score one for forward-thinking music fans. Our prediction for '06 is backlash: as an underground trend segues into a pop phenomenon and becomes less about the music and more about the accessories, keep a sharp stick ready for the clueless indiots who dilute the scene pool.
Signing Bonus. Finally! Proof that all those underpaid gigs at the Poor House and Respectables were worth it. This year saw several long-standing, hard-working locals get signed to reputable indie labels with national distribution. Broward's the Numb Ones took the step onto rock-revering Cleopatra Records out of L.A. Former rodeo legend John Ralston was picked up by Vagrant, home to old friend and admirer Chris Carrabba. From the streets of Fort Lauderdale, rapper Mike West jumped onboard new label Boy Boy Entertainment out of Atlanta, while white-hot R&B songbird Na'sha's debut, My Story, is being distributed by a branch of Sony/BMG. Residents know that South Florida is brimming with talent. Now the rest of the country gets to hear it too.
Hollywouldn't. In 2004, it was Frankel's fatwa on West Palm's Clematis Street that got our goat; in 05, Hollywood Mayor Mara "Vigilante" Guilianti gave the kiss of death to the last nightlife holdouts on Hollywood Boulevard. Well-loved dance club Sonar was forced to close its doors due to Madam Mayor's anti-DJ, yuppie-baiting ordinance, and the budding noise-hop scene at Club M was neutered like a feisty eunuch. As our public servants continue to terminate the youth culture that keeps local arts fresh, ready yourself for an onslaught of crappy cover bands, O'Hara's knockoffs, and the SUV-lovin', six-figure-makin', vacation-condo-buyin' stiffs that demand them.
Sunshine Daydream. With the year-round pristine weather (minus a Cat 4 or two every October) and plenty of open spaces, it's no wonder South Florida is fast becoming a premier locale for major outdoor festivals. Party caravans like Vans Warped Tour, Ozzfest, and Anger Management all passed through the area, but more important is the increasing number of home-grown festivals that are stepping up in size and scope. Miami's eclectic Bang! Festival did well its first time out, and in its third year, Sunrise's Langerado matured into a multiday, national-caliber event. Watch for an even bigger, better version in '06, as well as the inaugural Global Gathering going down at Bicentennial Park.
VMAimless. This August, as Broward's housing market bubbled like Kanye's ego and Hurricane Katrina skirted Florida like George W. through a news conference, MTV's Video Music Awards kept America's perception of South Florida perfectly shallow and glitz-errific. Thanks to intense civic marketing and cozy deals between the city and network execs, Miami is becoming Latino Las Vegas, with South Beach and Pitbull subbing for the Strip and Don Rickles. Gambling comes in the form of the iffy VMAs themselves: who's gonna win, who's gonna show some ass, who's gonna get shot? Suge Knight, of course, was this year's inside bet.
Jack in the Saddle. Before the acquiring of bling and our clamor for glamour, locals reveled in the ramshackle, barefoot funk of Old Florida: Sundays fishing off the pier (get 'er done now before the condos come), cruising lazily on your brother's sailboat, drinking domestic beers, taking in the life aquatic as only a grateful Floridian can. No one embodies that disappearing lifestyle better than head Parrot Head, Palm Beach millionaire singer/songwriter/novelist/friend to the manatees, Jimmy Buffett. When Buffett appeared onstage with mellow manchild Jack Johnson at an August concert in Boca Raton, the elder anointed the younger as the new minstrel to the sun-bronzed masses. In Johnson, the latest generation of Florida beach bums has a new troubadour.
Hard Rock on a Roll. Last year's version of this list found us bemoaning the dawn of the Seminole Hard Rock dynasty; we worried that the corporate-run, Indian-owned entertainment complex in West Broward would siphon partiers away from downtown Fort Lauderdale. Well, we were half right. Today, the two co-exist, catering to different crowds while remaining individually successful. The Seminole also stepped up its game significantly by opening the 5,000-plus-seat Hard Rock Live concert venue. Most bands booked have been of the Branson, Missouri/County Fair variety, but scheduled appearances by Death Cab for Cutie (unfortunately canceled by Wilma) and Tiesto (ditto) proved that the mega-strip-mall can attract real talent. As the place ages, it somehow seems to get more sophisticated, sort of like a fine wine. In a sprawling, neon-and-concrete bottle.
Radio Daze. This year, the nation filled up on Daddy Yankee's ubiquitous single "Gasolina," and the reggaeton revolution found a home in American pop culture. Spanglish format, reggaeton radio stations popped up in markets from Denver to Dallas to L.A. Locally, that translated to the February switchover by longstanding rockers Zeta 94.9 to Mega 94.9 and their new motto "Latino and proud!" Former Zeta listeners, brain-damaged by prolonged exposure to the station's Creed-heavy "Rock Blocks," reacted with a venomous online petition. Corporate radio honchos maintained cooler heads and simply switched the former dance music station Party 93.1 to 93 Rock, retaining Zeta's "active rock" playlist almost verbatim. Why do we care? We don't know. Corporate radio still sucks.
Microphones, Paintbrushes, Codpieces. Our favorite trend of 2005 was the intriguing interscene promiscuity between the visual arts and music. New Art School's ongoing rock-versus-art events take an innovative approach to the art-music mashup, booking a wide variety of local bands and hanging tons of local art on the grimy walls of Churchill's. The recent Bad Paste poster art/performance art show (I mean, what else do you call a grown man dirty-dancing in a red spandex unitard?) brought the two together in a loud, drunken orgy in Fort Lauderdale. Back in May, the fourth incarnation of Showtel presented another forward-thinking mix of art styles in West Palm. And the New York Dolls rocking Miami Beach for ArtBasel might be the ultimate rock 'n' roll collision of image and sound.
Kilmo Betta Blues. The fact that one of South Florida's hardest-working, hardest-partying musical instigators hit the half-century mark this year is a minor miracle. When Carl "Kilmo" Pacillo, longtime Lauderdale resident, ripping bassist, friend to musicians the state over, and owner of Alligator Alley turned 50, the call to celebrate was issued. What ensued was a blurry, three-day bacchanal of booze, music, and smoked meat. When we finally left the Alley around 3:30 a.m. sometime that weekend, Kilmo was plugging in his bass and getting ready to funk shit up. Now that's an example we can all admire in the new year.