A Night at Spinning Wildfire: The Last Sunset
Words: Faith Thurnwald
Photos: Katy Chan Dye & Jesswar
Starts the same, another dusty Saturday. Late, tipsy and still smoking when we get to entry. So we delay away; and chat outside the door. We meet a bass player from one of the bands, and he reminds us that people in their early 20’s are way cooler than us. This isn’t news, just an ever-impending reality. However I’ve always been more than equipped at avoiding reality, but I digress. We enter with a loud exclamation – from yours truly – that our names are on the door, but it’s only ID checking time and I jumped the gun I – as I so often do – felt like a proper dickhead.
We grab a beer upon entry and head into the Venue. With a last minute venue change, Spinning Wildfire has done a sick job at bumping in, within a mere few hours. We move into the venue and the dance floors buzzing. We crowd around as House of Alexander dancers perform, and their energy erupts over everyone.
Dancing Water’s the first band I cease to miss – thankfully – they’re self-described as ‘neo sol mixed with blak rage’, and I ask you, what could be more fucking funky? They’re set list follows that of their description: beginning on some slow soul, that makes me want to sip a martini in a dark room, and finishing on pure rage, making me want to throw bricks through unsuspecting windows, to the tune of kill all colonizers. Dancing Water’s lead singer preaches revolution, what does a revolution look like to you they ask? Anarchy or amity. Their recalls for revolution certainly ignite my inner anarchist, and I go take it out on a beer.
This years Spinning Wildfire event runs on a non-for-profit basis, with all proceedings going to Sisters Inside and Para Foundation. It’s been a two year hiatus since Spinning Wildfires last event, a collective run for BIPOC, by BIPOC. This year they hosts 60 artists, so it would be quite impossible for me to touch on each and everyone, but I wish I could touch them all.
We explore the rest of the venue, downstairs is decked with art, a piece by Helen Ifeagwu catches my eye, two female figures stand strong in a futuristic sci-fi scene, armor clad and dystopian. Like my evenings spent alone, woman meets machine, as they defy societal shackles for their freedom and autonomy.
We leave Warehouse Twenty Five for the after party – not in a hotel lobby. But before all that, another drink is in order. I order a filthy little dirty little, sluty little martini and shock the bar staff with the stuff that can come outta my mouth, asking if the drink comes with the bartender’s phone number – so enough of that and moving onto the next venue…
We make it to the after party briefly. We drink, we dance, you know the drill. We call it a night at a relatively reasonable hour (3:00am?) and pile into a taxi to annoy another undeserving driver. I bring home a man of the same vain: undeserving.
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