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DANCE DIARIES 6: FIRE ISLAND & BUC
It was sometime last Spring that I left the message on Buc's answering
machine, asking about his upcoming playdates for "the season" on Fire
Island. And of course I got his standard outgoing message. "This is Buc,"
he would begin, with that hard emphasis on his name. The first few times I
ever called him, I remember being intimidated by that greeting. He sounded
so tough, even as he apologized for his prolonged delays in getting back to
people. But once I got to know him, I actually looked forward to calling
and hearing that reassuringly familiar opening. And I always got to hear it
because Buc adamantly resisted email and the internet. And in my
experience, he never picked up the phone.
The evening after leaving my message I came home to one of Buc's long
rambling voicemails, one that had to be carried over to a second call when
my machine finally cut him off. He explained that he would be playing a tea
dance at the Ice Palace in Cherry Grove over one holiday weekend and an
afternoon party (which he had been playing for many years) the day after
"the big beach party" in the Pines. He indicated they would be very
different parties, with very different venues and crowds. And so if I ended
up coming, I should make my choice accordingly.
I had never been to Fire Island, and I had a lot of mixed feelings about
doing so. But I knew that Susan Morabito would likely be playing most of
the big weekends. And that Michael Fierman was not playing nearly as much
as he used to. And to me Fire Island was all about the classics, so I
wanted to pick the week when I could hear the greatest number of my favorite
old school dj's. I confirmed my hunch that the "big beach party" was the
Pines Party that had replaced the GMHC Morning Party. I had heard a
recording of Robbie Leslie's Pines Party 2000 performance and thought it was
quite wonderful. And I discovered that Pines Party 2001 would be dj'd by
Warren Gluck, who I thought had just given one of those performances of a
lifetime at the Saint-at-Large Black Party. I sent Robbie Leslie an email
asking if he would be playing in 2001. He sent back an email indicating
probably not, but he strongly encouraged me to go.
I decided I would do so and immediately booked the flight. Then, after
reviewing the "accommodations" listings in the gay travel guides at A
Different Light bookstore, I booked a room at the Cherry Grove Beach Hotel.
It sounded unpretentious, and I discovered that other than very expensive
private house rentals, there were not a lot of commercial lodgings in gay
Fire Island. I also saw where the hotel was connected to the Ice Palace,
which I knew as not only a famous disco from the 1970s, but also as the
place where Buc told me he had played a very rousing and successful closing
party to the previous summer's Fire Island season. It all seemed perfect.
As a marginal Jew, I had never been to Israel. But as a devoted gay dance
partier, I would at last make my pilgrimage to the gay Promised Land.
Buc had given me a phone number of the organization I needed to call in
order to get tickets to his party. I called, and it was a non-profit group
in the City. The guy who answered the phone was very polite, but explained
that the party was a private benefit and only hosts - major donors to the
charity - could get tickets. I said I was a friend of Buc's and that Buc
had told me to call. The guy took down my information and said they would
need to check with Buc and get back to me. After not hearing anything for
about a week or so, I called back and told my story to a different (and also
very friendly) guy, who said he didn't know anything about it. But he
suggested that I call Buc and ask him to directly call the foundation and
request that I be allowed to buy tickets.
When I called Buc's machine the next morning, the message said he was in DC,
but to leave word and he would get back. My message went something like
this: "Hey, Buc, this is kind of embarrassing. Here I am at 44 still
trying to wrangle tickets to gay dance parties where I suspect I am really
not wanted. But why quit now." Then I quickly explained my situation and
asked if he could help.
That same day I got a voicemail from Buc in DC. I was comforted by his
hearty laugh, and he said he was amused at my predicament. Then he told me
who to call and assured me it would be no problem getting tickets. "It's
really quite simple," he said. "When I am the dj, they let my friends come
to the party. And if they don't, then guess what? I don't play. Why, you
ask? Because I can...."
The next day I got my tickets. And that was that.
***
As I always like to do, I arrived in New York City a few days before the
main event. That allows me to exalt once again in the wonderful sensations
that only New York City can provide. And it gives me time for the only form
of shopping I truly adore - hitting the record stores, specifically
Heartbeat.
Friday afternoon my dancing buddy and I joined the other clearly
identifiable revelers at a jam-packed Penn Station. New York had just had
an excruciating heat wave, and I had never experienced that sensation of the
City just completely disgorging its population for a summer weekend. It
seemed everyone who could flee was doing so. But I heard that a summer
storm was headed our way. Sure enough, when we disembarked from the train
it was raining. And by the time the ferry started heading out over the bay,
it was a full on downpour with thunder and lightening. I insisted on
sitting in the front of the boat facing forward, so I could turn my back on
civilization as we headed out to the Island. But when we reached the dock
at Cherry Grove, I found we got more than I bargained for. The power in
town had just gone completely out. So my dancing buddy and I did the only
logical thing - we headed straight for the nearest bar, where we drank as
fast we could before the beer got warm.
Cherry Grove was in a state of chaos. We were cold and wet. Nothing was
working, and everyone was running around carrying flickering candles. And
the bar was filled with a motley crew of heavy drinking older gay men and
lesbians, laughing in that way that people do when they have had a few too
many. The whole Fire Island experience was just not getting off to a good
start at all. We weren't sure what to do. Then we overhead somebody say,
"I hear they have power in the Pines." And when on further inquiry we
learned that there might also be a tea dance in the Pines, I figured,
"Bingo!" Moreover, my purchase of a host package of tickets to Buc's party
entitled us to attend a private welcome party at what sounded like an
exclusive Pines residence. My dancing buddy needed to stay in the Grove to
meet his boyfriend, who was coming out on the last ferry. So we decided
that I would go to the Pines and we would meet up in front of the Pavilion
at a designated hour.
I enjoyed my first water taxi just like a kid on his maiden voyage to
Disneyland. As the boat sped out into the ocean, the trip to Fire Island
seemed full of renewed promise. But as we started coming into the Pines
Harbor, I found myself feeling a growing anxiety. Oceanfront mansions,
yachts, a meatrack of wall-to-wall muscleboys. My long-romanticized
Jerusalem suddenly appeared to be nothing more than another gay Babylon
devoted to Youth, Money and Sex. Not that Babylon doesn't have its good
points. It was just not at all what I had expected. Or come for.
As it turned out, the tea dance had just ended, and the crowd was moving
over en masse to the Pavilion for cocktails. This became my introductory
lesson to the fine distinctions between "high tea" and "low tea." Meanwhile,
armies of young men were pushing wagons loaded to capacity with very
expensive foods from the gourmet cantina. The whole scene was just too much
for me. So I crossed over to the ocean side, walked along the sand dunes
and listened to the Sea. I stayed there for well over an hour until it was
time to meet up with my friends back at the Pavilion. "You let David go to
the Pines alone!" was apparently the scolding my dancing buddy received from
his boyfriend. In any case I was in no mood to brave the exclusive "host
welcome party" and we returned to the Grove. Where the lights had returned.
Despite the setbacks, I remained hopeful for the weekend. I had come for
the music and at the Pines Harbor I found a flyer announcing that in
addition to the parties I already knew about (Gluck on Saturday night; Buc
on Sunday; Susan Tuesday night), Michael Fierman and Robbie Leslie would
both be playing t-dances. I was stunned. Here I was, my first trip to Fire
Island, and I was going to get to hear all five of the dj's I considered the
founders of the modern gay dance Circuit.
And sure enough, Saturday night things started to turn around. Michael
Fierman played one of the most incredible 3-hour sets of tea dance music I
have ever heard. There was scarcely a crowd for the first hour, but by the
final hour the scene inside the restaurant/bar was near pandemonium. All
hands were waving in the air. People were dancing atop chairs and couches.
It was, quite simply, a Disco Riot. I was in heaven. And that night was
more of the same. It was Playful Warren Gluck, as opposed to the Maestro
Warren Gluck from the Black Party. And playful worked for me, seeing as how
I was in a 16-year old girl's silver sparkled stretch bikini, trying to
dance while balancing an enormous disco ball on my head. Fortunately, we
left around 3 in the morning, so we could get some sleep. And be ready for
Buc's party the next day.
Buc had told me to be sure to come to his party early. But not that he
needed to. My favorite parts of a dance party are frequently the beginning
and the end. I have never felt any need to arrive socially late. To the
contrary, if one of my favorite artists is at the turntables, I like,
whenever possible, to hear the first and final notes.
And in Buc's case it was much more than that. For Buc, in a way that was
not true of anyone else I had ever met on the gay dance party scene, had
become a friend. I am not sure how that happened. I am pretty shy to begin
with. And then I have a tendency to put people I admire on a pedestal,
which tends to become an obstacle to intimacy. But I think what happened in
Buc's case was that he decided he liked me. And while he had a very healthy
ego and pride, he wasn't much interested in being on any pedestal. And so
in his very forthright manner, starting when I met him at the Palm Springs
White Party in 1999, he instead offered what, for me, is that most wonderful
and elusive of gifts: genuine adult male friendship.
We were among the first to arrive at Buc's party. It was at Jim Pepper's
huge compound. And I had to go exploring to find Buc. But when I did, I
was greeted by that wonderful huge smile. And that salutation I often get
from guys who genuinely like me. I've never had a nickname, but what guys
do is combine my first and last name into one word. "Hi, Davidkarnes!"
boomed Buc. And there he was. The Music Man, swaying to the beat of his
own tunes. Happy as a clam. Even though almost nobody was there yet. And
the weather was being most uncooperative. But it was Buc's party. And he
was having a time of it.
I must confess the party was a bit of a disappointment for me. The music
was lush and gorgeous and filled with layered beauty one rarely hears on the
Circuit. It would have been perfect for a lazy and sultry Fire Island sunny
afternoon. But it was cold and rainy. And quite apart from that, I was
distracted by my own personal issues relating to Fire Island, my friends, a
lot of stuff that had nothing to do with the music or the party. I usually
try to always say goodbye to my favorite dj's. But while I stayed to the
end of the party, I think I only made the most cursory of farewells to Buc.
Buc's party had been the centerpiece of my first visit to Fire Island, but I
remember feeling in a funk when it was over.
***
The next 48 hours of my Fire Island visit - Sunday night, Monday, Tuesday
afternoon - remain a blur. Robbie Leslie's tea dance was also sabotaged by
the weather. But Robbie made the most of it, playing "Here Comes the Rain
Again" at the most appropriate moment. Other than that, what I mostly
remember is constantly walking back and forth between the Ocean and the Bay
in the Pines, trying to get a sense of the place. Trying to connect. But
failing. I was enchanted by the trees, the absence of cars, and that
incredible system of suspended wooden walkways. But the "community" seemed
to me like one of those rich gated Southern California housing developments
transported to a rustic pine tree setting. "Rolling Hills Estates meets
Lake Arrowhead, with a twist of Laguna Beach," as they might say at a
Hollywood pitch meeting. I just couldn't see the attraction. And
compounding matters was my decision to re-read Andrew Holleran's "Dancer
From the Dance." I had read it when first published in 1978, but had found
it very upsetting, although I never really remembered why. Now I remembered.
I happen to think Holleran is our best contemporary gay writer, and the book
a work of genius. Nonetheless, this celebrated classic of gay fiction
essentially used its protagonist, Malone, to chronicle the empty shallowness
and superficiality of urban gay life. I was absolutely astounded to read
the verdict in the final pages: Malone was "in the end a circuit queen." I
had no idea we even had that expression in 1978. But there it was, in black
and white. And here I was on Fire Island more than 20 years later. And it
seemed like nothing had changed at all.
I figured I had another opportunity to salvage my Fire Island visit with
Susan Morabito's Tuesday night party at the Pavilion. Susan often has a
very classical three-act dramatic approach to her performances. In this
case, the first act was a very spirited warm up with a lot of rousing
disco-flavored house classics. Her middle act was filled with a lot of
current hits and crowd-pleasers. But her third act is usually the wild
card. And that night Susan decided to take the crowd on an extended down
trip that I found quite beautiful. It was the kind of journey that I wanted
from Fire Island. And I had planned it as my one night of being out dancing
until dawn. My dancing buddy had to get back to the city, so he caught the
first ferry back to the mainland (his boyfriend had returned on Sunday). So
starting around 5:30 am I was for the first time alone on Fire Island. Just
me and the other hard core dancers, and Susan playing a deep morning groove
as the sun was rising.
Around 6:00 a.m. Susan surprised us all by suddenly announcing that she was
being required to shut the party down. I was totally amazed. I had noticed
they had closed the bar, even though there was a good-sized number of people
still dancing in the club. And it had seemed to me that the party was just
at a point where Susan might be ready to suddenly brighten the floor with
some Fire Island morning music classics. But to my horror, the music
suddenly stopped. I was at my first all night party at the Pavilion, which
I considered the last remaining Mother Ship of the classical all-night gay
dance party in general, and of the morning music tradition in particular.
But when all was said and done, it was just another for-profit club, whose
policy was to close up shop once the bar revenue dwindled and the staff
anxious to get home.
At one point early in the party I noticed that Buc was visiting with Susan
in the booth. But I didn't think any more of it. When the party was over,
I felt lonely and sad and retreated to a far bench in the courtyard outside
the Pavilion. From there I watched the various dancers exit. Some to go
back to their rentals. Some to await the next ferry. Some just high with no
destination at all. I must have been sitting there for a good 45 minutes
when all of a sudden Buc came out. He came down the stairs, chatted with
some friends, and then came over and sat down next to me.
We chatted. He said that some dj's were getting together at somebody's
house, but that he was instead going to go over to a friend's place for
morning coffee. I asked if I could be his date, and, as an answer, he gave
me one of his big glorious smiles. A couple of other people he knew joined
us and we journeyed to one of the far ends of Fire Island Pines. After a
few false starts we found the house of his friend.
Buc's friend was a 50-ish gay man, who said he had inherited the house many
years before when his lover died. The sun was finally fully out and shining
brightly into every room. And every room was filled with the most wonderful
bouquets of fresh flowers. We all drank coffee and ate some light snacks
and talked about nothing. And it was really quite wonderful. I remember
voicing some of my more distressing impressions of Fire Island Pines. And I
remember our host, who seemed a very kind and gentle man, giving me the
sweetest smile. A smile that said, "I understand what you're saying; but
there is more to the story than that; you need to push yourself to see
beyond it." I remember telling our host how beautiful I found his home. And
I remember specifically telling him that I felt his home had a most
wonderful spirit that I couldn't quite describe. At which point he looked
me straight in the eye and said, "It's not the house. It's the spirit of
all of the wonderful people who come here and pass through. Just like you.
And that's why you're always a guest in my home. Stop by anytime you come
to Fire Island."
Buc was a center of attention, and so I kept my distance during the coffee.
But after a couple of hours or so, Buc said it was time for him to leave.
And then he came over to me and asked if I would like to go for a walk. I
said sure.
I thought I had crossed back and forth over every walk way in the Pines at
least three or four times. But Buc somehow managed to take me into some
nooks and crannies and dead ends that I had missed. And they were the most
incredible places. What Buc showed me were homes that had the most
beautiful gardens. Japanese gardens. Ponds with lily pads. Rich flower
beds. The master work of gay men using their incredible talents to combine
Art with Nature. Buc loved nature, and he loved to photograph it. He told
me on a couple of different occasions that he was very proud of his
photography and wanted to do exhibits and be considered a serious
photographer. And he told me that his photographs were almost always of
nature, rarely of people. I had obtained some music sets from him which
featured (as cover art) some of the most gorgeous of his photographs. They
were almost always of flowers. In the fullest of bloom.
Buc made me see Fire Island in a way that I never otherwise would have. He
was fearless. He would just open the gate to the most expensive private
estates, and we would tromp on in, as he pointed out this tree and that
flower bed. "We'll just say, 'Oh, guess we got the wrong house' in case we
run into anybody," he explained, with a shrug. But we didn't run into a
soul. Toward the end of the tour he took me to a very large modern house on
an enormous lot. "And this is where Michael Fierman and his crew stayed
every summer up until this year," he explained. He showed me the pool area,
recounted some of the great parties that had taken place there, and then
exclaimed, "But oh my God, with all that glass, it got so unbelievably hot
in that house during the summer. It could really be unbearable!"
And then my tour was over. Buc said he needed to pack up, and asked if I
wanted to walk him back to the Pepper compound. I said sure. And then we
went back to his room and for the next couple of hours talked intensely and
non-stop. About music, of course.
I am obsessed with dance music, but rarely have anybody to talk to about it.
And so Buc was my perfect partner, because he was a great conversationalist
who knew everything about music. Or at least all of the music about which I
cared. And Buc was always completely engaged, especially that morning.
When I said I was getting into 80s music, he wanted specifics. And when I
said Erasure and the Pet Shop Boys, he wanted to know which songs, which
mixes. When I said I was mostly buying classic disco, he grilled me.
"Which records?" I said I had fallen in love with Suzi Lane's "Harmony."
"Oh, that incredible pink LP where she has her arms draped around herself?"
Yes, I confirmed, and he beamed with approval. When I said that through the
influence of Robbie Leslie's tape club I was getting particularly hooked on
70's disco/soul, he again pressed for specifics. Hodges, James & Smith got
a complete vote of approval. And when I told him that I was especially
smitten with one of Robbie's compilations that included a rare extended mix
of Diana Ross' "I Ain't Been Licked Yet," Buc perked up. "I love that
record...Extended mix...I would very much like to hear that!" And I told him
I would make him a copy. Best of all, when I told him I would be dj'ing my
first party (for a friend's opening of her backyard patio in LA), he didn't
say a word. He just smiled ever so warmly with a grin that said, without
being the list bit campy: "You, go girl!"
Just as Buc always wanted my opinions, he was always very candid and
straightforward about expressing his own. About music. About other dj's.
About the Circuit. More than any other dj I followed, it was always my
sense that Buc was the most uncompromising. I know that dj's have to please
the crowd. But it always seemed to me that Buc only played music he really
believed in. And he always had very strong beliefs. And he expected me to
have my own, even when we differed. He would agree with me, for example,
that almost all dj's were fools in not realizing that Sylvester's "Don't
Stop" and "Can't Stop Dancing" are much better records than "Do You Wanna
Funk?" But then he would go on to sternly advise that "I Who Have Nothing"
was nonetheless Sylvester's best. And when I hinted that I was having a
hard time getting into the whole "Body & Soul" thing that he so adored, he
seemed sympathetic. He told me specifically which compilations to get. And
insisted that I check out "Body & Soul" the next time I was in New York on a
Sunday night, reeling off a whole of list of dj's he admired who were
connected to that scene. "You know, the best dj's are not all gay," he
admonished with raised eyebrows.
Emboldened by our discussion of "Body & Soul," I took the opportunity to
talk about House music, and confessed the fact that when I first
rediscovered dance music in the early 90's, and identified myself with High
Energy, I actually thought "House was the enemy." I named some house styles
in particular to which I had objected. "That music's not House," Buc
scoffed, "it's just obnoxious." And then I recounted how I had slowly moved
beyond my "High Energy" identity. Under Leslie I was becoming a student of
classic disco. And from Fierman I had learned Progressive sounds. And I
explained that it was Buc's music and parties that had shown me the
incredible beauty and uplifting spirit of House, and made me realize how
wonderfully it could be integrated with other styles that I liked. "I'm
really glad to hear that," he said, with a very soft smile.
That morning on Fire Island was one of only a few occasions where I got to
spend a large amount of time with Buc. But each of those occasions was an
incredibly special experience - an opportunity to discuss the canon with one
of its high priests. And in particular with a priest who was so gracious,
had such integrity and treated me like an equal. It was very much part of
Buc's magic that when I was with him he made me feel like I was the most
important person in the world. "No, I think I am going to stay put, I am
here with my friend Davidkarnes," he said in response to more than one of
that morning's phone callers, who were inviting him to visit at some
undoubtedly fabulous house in the Pines. And each time he gave me a smile
as he said it. And when I was with Buc in those situations I always felt
like I was a safe protected cub in a den in which his magnificent presence
and spirit just filled the room. "I know all these other dj's are also
Leos," he told me that morning, "but I am a real Leo, a real Lion." And he
was right. Because if he liked you, even his roar made you feel good and
safe. All warm and fuzzy with the King of the Forest.
Finally, Buc said he really needed to pack. His ferry was leaving in just a
couple of hours. He was so gracious and gentle in letting me know it was
time for me to go. And so we hugged and said goodbye.
But I couldn't get Buc off my mind. Our time together -- talking, visiting
with his friend, sharing in the gorgeous beauty of Fire Island -- had deeply
moved me. I had bought a disposable camera in the Grove in order to get
some photographs of me in my Pines Party regalia for my 2001 year-end
Holiday card. The prior year I had sent out a scandalous card and wanted to
maintain the tradition. My dancing buddy's boyfriend had snapped quite a
few pictures of me in advance of the Saturday night party, but I knew I had
some frames left. So I returned to the Grove, grabbed my camera, and headed
back to the Pines.
I retraced the steps of my tour with Buc and took pictures of the key
places. Mostly of flowers. When I was down to my last few frames I
realized that it was only minutes away from the departure of Buc's ferry.
And so I decided to go down to the Pines Harbor and see him off. There was
a large crowd of people leaving (I think many people had stayed for Susan's
party). And so it was easy to keep myself hidden in the throng. That way
I, like a commando paparazzo, could surprise Buc with a no-notice snapshot.
At long last I saw Buc heading toward the waiting area, carrying his bags
and records. A lot of people knew him and said hello. And just as I was
about to take his picture, a shirtless tattooed guy with his own camera
seemed to have the same idea. But I decided that was my moment. I tapped
Buc from behind, and as he was looking back over his shoulder, I bellowed,
"Buc, what a photo opportunity!" and received one of those wonderful smiles,
just as I snapped the picture. "I enjoyed our morning together,
Davidkarnes!" he laughed loudly. And this time we really said goodbye.
I had one more day on Fire Island, and it was so pleasant. The sun was now
fully out, and my half-day with Buc and his friends had changed my entire
attitude toward the place. When I was in LA I had told a major A-list
circuit boy that I was going to spend 6 days on Fire Island. "That is
probably a couple of days too many," he glibly responded. But he couldn't
have been more wrong. It was only in those last two days - after the
parties had ended - that I got to really feel the magic of the place.
Then the hour came to head home. This time around I picked a seat on the
ferry so that I could face backwards. I wanted to savor every last moment
as I watched Fire Island fade into the sea, resisting until the last
possible moment my destination - the mainland and workaday world. But as we
left the dock I realized that I had miscalculated. I was facing the wrong
way. My back was to the island. I consider switching positions. Then I
decided it was just as well. Time to leave it all behind. My Fire Island
journey was over.
When I got back to LA I had my roll of film developed. I found that my
nature pictures came out very average and uninspired. But my picture of Buc
was very special. His face and spirit filled the frame. But it turned out
that the picture was actually the last one on the roll, and not only was it
over-exposed on that bright sunny day, but the whole right side of it was
burned. I decided that for Christmas I would try to get it cropped and
re-developed so that I could send it to Buc as a gift.
During the fall I traded a couple of voicemails with Buc. For well over a
year he had been trying to locate the negative of a picture taken from the
dj booth of his "Sweet 16" GMHC Fire Island Morning Party in 1998. I had
seen a copy of that picture and very much wanted to blow it up poster-size
so I could frame it on my living room wall. Around late September Buc left
word on my machine that he had at last found it and wanted to know what size
I needed and how much I was willing to spend on the print. Meanwhile, I had
sent him a cd of my Robbie Leslie recording with Diana Ross's "I Ain't Been
Licked Yet." As expected, he loved it. But the cd I sent didn't have track
markings, and so in his message he asked if I could make another cd with
just that one song. I tried a couple of times, but couldn't get the
equipment to work. I left Buc a message some time in October that I wasn't
having much luck, but would keep at it.
And that was my last contact with Buc. I am on the "partylist" email
distribution, and I remember thinking about Buc when I saw the listing for
him playing the Toronto Leather ball in late November. He told me several
times that he really liked playing for the older leather crowd. He had
loved the time he played Jito Garcia's "Magnitude" party in San Francisco.
And he said that he always used to love playing at the old Probe in LA
because it was filled with what he considered the most stellar collection of
"big manly men."
Meanwhile, because of "September 11" among other reasons, the party that was
supposed to be my first dj gig was canceled. And so I decided to make a cd
set instead. I called it "the Recovery Party" and made the decision that I
would devote it to classic disco. All year Robbie Leslie's tape club had
been introducing me to new songs from that era. And I was especially
influenced from recordings I heard of Robbie's first and last performance at
the old 12 West club in New York City. I came to believe that the crucial
period spanned by those performances - 1979 through the end of 1980, the
years when I had first come out and discovered the dancefloor - was somehow
very important in integrating the 70's disco/soul sound with a new
Euro-influenced sensibility. And in my cd set - particularly the middle of
it - I very much wanted to pay tribute to that era and that music. Making
mix tapes, however, is hard for me, seeing as how I don't know how to count,
much less match, the beats. Every dj has told me that the basic techniques
of mixing are really quite easy. And every dj has resorted to the same
metaphor in making the point: "It's just like riding a bicycle; as soon as
you get the hang of it, you never forget." But I have never gotten that
hang, so my project became very all-consuming.
In December it was announced that my company was being sold. I am a lawyer,
so that meant a lot of work. Between the cd set and my job, I was very
preoccupied. But just before Christmas I went to my local West Hollywood
photo shop to develop my Holiday card and my re-done photo of Buc. The
Holiday card came out great. But Buc's print came out badly. The cropping
was fine. But because the picture was over-exposed, the lab
over-compensated by making it very dark. All the shine and sparkle from
Buc's face disappeared. So I took it back for a second time. And the
result was the same. And now Christmas was past and New Year's right around
the corner. So I went back to the shop and explained the whole saga, my
whole trip to Fire Island, the importance of this photo, and why it needed
to be right and bright. The guy at the counter smiled and said he would see
what he could do. My picture should be ready right after the first of the
year.
For New Year's I had decided to just go to one party - Susan Morabito and
Eddie X at the Mayan. The Mayan is my favorite venue in Los Angeles, and I
actually liked the idea of the big party not being on New Year's Eve itself.
And I was also very excited that I had persuaded a couple of gay women to
join me. When I came out in San Francisco I always danced and partied in
gender-mixed groups, and I have always thought that mix makes parties more
fun. But these women had not been to a major gay male circuit party, and I
was very apprehensive. "Will there be any women there?" they asked. "The
dj," I said. But they ended up having an incredible time. As did I.
The next day was New Year's eve. I had asked my one good friend from work
to come over in the afternoon to listen to part of my "Recovery Party." She
was my LA music buddy who had "co-produced" my "Disco Saves" contingent at
San Francisco Gay Pride 2000. And even though her tastes tended more toward
rap and hip-hop, I had great respect for her admiration of all good music.
I decided that if she gave the "Recovery Party" her stamp of approval, it
would be ready to "go to print." I played for her the last two segments -
the down-trip, which I considered the most important - and she loved it. So
that was that. I was so content, and so tired, that I went to bed around
10:30, awakened only briefly by the horns and sirens at midnight.
New Year's Day seemed very inexplicably spiritual to me. I mostly stayed at
home. And I spent several hours going through my music collection and for
the first time ever "weeding it out." I must have picked out at least 50
12" records, all purchased in the last couple of years, most with 135+ BPMs,
that I realized I just truly didn't want. I am a collector and am very
compulsive about my collection. And in the past whenever I have wanted to
improve it, I go out and try to find more good music. But this time I
realized that the best way to improve my collection was not to add to it,
but rather to discard. To get rid of the music I didn't really believe in.
Consistent with my "Recovery Party," I determined that my record collection
should only consist of music that liberated, that healed, that inspired. It
was like pruning a rose bush or thinning out a flower bed.
And as for flower beds, my New Year's Day was also dominated by the most
extraordinary display of flowers I have ever had in my home. I only get
fresh cut flowers when family or good friends are coming over, and so I had
selected a very verdant display on the day that my lesbian friends arrived.
And they, like I, were absolutely amazed at how intensely the blooms opened
as soon as the stems were cut and they landed in fresh water. By the next
day, when my music buddy joined me, the flowers were even more intense, like
nothing either of us had ever seen. And I remember thinking, that last day
of the year, that if Buc was there, he would have taken a picture.
***
After New Year's it was back to the grind. And at lunch on Wednesday I went
to the shop to see if the latest version of Buc's photograph had come out
any better. To my incredible surprise and delight, I discovered that it had
turned out perfectly. Finally, the photograph captured the beauty of Buc's
spirit, as well as that fine summer day when the sun finally decided to come
out full force and warm up Fire Island Pines just as it should be warmed.
I had already hunted down the right frame for my present, and so Thursday
morning I brought it into work for mailing. Buc was the only person to whom
I had not yet sent my Holiday card, so I enclosed one of those as well. And
then I wrote him a note, wishing him a Happy New Year, enclosing the
playlist to my Recovery Party (which I couldn't wait for him to hear), and
assuring him that I was still working on getting him the Diana Ross single.
"We Ain't Licked Yet!" I promised.
But just as I was about to seal the package I noticed that under the glass
there was a very noticeable dent in the middle of the photograph. I
couldn't believe it. I had been through so much with this picture, and I
didn't understand how it could have gotten there. And I so wanted it to be
perfect. I was so frustrated that I considered just sending it off. But
then I thought, no, I had a second print at home. After all of this time,
what difference could one more day make. And then I went to lunch.
When I returned from lunch I had an "urgent" message alerting me to news
"regarding a friend." And that's when I found out that Buc had passed on
New Year's Eve. He had died on that very afternoon while me and my friend
had been lost in wonderment at the beauty of flowers and music. Nature and
Art.
Everyone insists that the New York skyline is forever changed, a break that
cannot be mended. I understand the sentiment, but I have not been able to
fully relate. The Empire State and Chrysler Buildings, the Statute of
Liberty -- that is my New York skyline. And they remain.
But in my own private firmament of the heavens -- my celestial skyline --
where great spirits spin the tunes that keep us all in balance, and keep the
earth connected to the stars, there is indeed now a void. One that I don't
think can ever be filled. That is how I feel about Buc's passing.
I am sorry to say that I have, of necessity, fortified my heart over the
past decade or so. The Entertainment Industry. West Hollywood. The gay
Circuit scene. These are not arenas for the sensitive or soft-hearted. And
over the past several years I have often thought I might actually be
forgetting how to cry. I of course know that tears come naturally to the
young, but I had come to believe that by middle age, if you don't use the
plumbing, the pipes just kind of rust over.
These past few days I discovered I was wrong.
Crying, it seems, even for adults, is just like riding a bicycle.
And life is really very basic. Buc was our Music Man. Our Lion. One of
the Founders.
But he was also my friend. And he played beautiful, wonderful music. And
treated me with tenderness and respect.
I am going to miss him terribly.
The only way I can even hope to make it right is to renew more than ever my
commitment to all that is best in our Music and our Party. And that is how
I shall try to heal the loss. And honor that most wonderful of men.
That shall be my Resolution for 2002.
.....................David Karnes, Los Angeles
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