Winter Music Conference provides funky break . . . after spring break

As is tradition of last year's belligerent introspection on the Miami spring break a-flairs trip I had, I thought I'd take some time to recap what occurred this year in Miami at the Winter Music Conference. Now, I know this is a band town, and as expected, The Reader did a full feature on the South By Southwest conference in Texas. Well, in contrast to this, the Winter Music Conference is the largest annual convergence of record label owners, producers, artists and DJs within the electronic music industry. The Reader mentioned nothing of the WMC in their paper, so I'll fill you in on some of the happenings . . .

Opting to extend my spring break, since the conference was a week after UNO's designated week, I found myself in Miami, with the roar of the beach beckoning from the balcony of my condo. But I was not found to be frolicking on the beach or sipping cocktails in a nightclub.

No, rather I was hunched over, eyes fixated on my laptop situated on the low-lighted kitchen table as I conjured a seven-page fill-in of a midterm exam essay about the differences between high and low culture. But I was low and all I wanted to do was get high to the music.

My study session was temporarily halted as I headed to a gig at which I was slated to perform. This was the Scion and imeem.com Break Thru Emerging Artist Tour showcase of DJs around the country, and after winning this pseudo DJ popularity contest, I was sent to Miami to represent Omaha. Evidently, the only thing I broke through to was five people in the hotel lobby-turned-night-club as I showed up for my gig at 3 a.m. But eager to celebrate my first Miami drink, I went to the bartender, who had remnants of mojitos plastered to her white shirt with her thong crudely sticking up above her waistline and low-rise jeans. At the time I didn't know that with an acquired wrist band I could get free drinks, so I obliviously ordered a Red Bull and vodka. Wondering if her sagging pants were going to pop out at any moment via a hip-hop video booty-wagging stint, I watched her interpret my drink order with a modest plastic cup, ice, a bit of charcoal-filtered, headache-inducing Skol vodka, topped off with Red Bull. The price for such a masterpiece? Well, all I could think of was the Alaskan king crab I could have had as I passed the requested $16.50 to her.

I then proceeded back to my condo via a $13 cab ride, only to fall asleep half way through a typed sentence, trying to finish my midterm paper. As the next night rolled around, my first stop would be a stop at the Got Soul Therapy party at Dek 23 to see Osunlade, a Yoruban priest with a wooden stick through his nose, perform his techy, afro-latin selections to a lower-chakra shaking crowd. Just then I caught eye of a soul queen. The type with long legs, brown skin, curly hair and a slight shake that reminds you of a beautiful woman you'd see on the cover of a Motown record. She was an Afro soul queen. But not wanting to be distracted from my music-networking quest, I averted my eyes and headed to my next destination that would nearly change my life . . . The Shelter part.

As 2:30 a.m. rolled around, I was making my way into a baby-powder-pouring, black, white and latino dancing frenzy of more than 400 people screaming and flailing their arms to the soulful and tribal sounds of a big, black and shirtless figure known as Timmy Regisford. The energy was amazing. The jazz-hat-wearing, dancing brother stepped up and twirled off bar seating as I stood in line for a drink. Fro-hawked Euro's jumped up and down in zeal at a chance to see their favorite NYC DJ. And I had to play like a Slim Jim on the dance floor to weave my way to the front. And as I was dancing, shaking and taking in the energy, someone came up behind me to tuck in the tag sticking out of my shirt. I turn to pleasantly see the aforementioned Afro soul queen. So we danced, we yelled over the music and exchanged flirty glances. She even invited me to come visit in Chicago. It was great.

Just then, Regisford played "Days Like This" by Shaun Escoffery. No one really knows this song in Omaha, but it's an underground soulful house classic. And whenever I play it in Omaha, my friends and I circle up, dancing and sing the lyrics, "I love days like this, I love days like this . . . Here comes the sun." Only it's a much different experience when you hear more than 400 people singing the song in unison as the DJ turns down the volume on the chorus line. Amazing. With the night complete, I then stumbled out of the venue at 5 a.m. and headed to bed, via a $13.50 cab ride.

The next day: headache! I got drunk in Miami the night before: mistake No. 1. Normally getting drunk in and of itself is not a mistake in my book, but when you're in Miami with $9 bottles of Corona it's a mistake. Mistake No. 2? I didn't get my Afro soul queen's phone number.

And while this was only the first two days in Miami, you can imagine how the remainder of my five-day trip transpired . . .

DJ sets to the sunrise, walking in the ghetto searching for a taxicab, standing in line to get into a club for an hour (to which I was on the guest list for), getting interviewed by the Miami Herald and private pool parties with massage tables. Each day turned to night, each party to delight.

I'll end my Miami recap here. You can check out the rest of the craziness via the pictures I took by going to the gallery section at Omahanightlife.com.