Saturday night in Wynwood felt like God peeled our cap back, palmed our brain, and dunked it in a vat of freezing acid. Not the kind that corrodes to the bone. The kind that makes you trip your face off.
And by 11:38 p.m. our skull was so flooded with feedback we gave up on normal verbal communication and just dove headlong into the collective screaming melee of a trillion neurons firing.
That's when we found ourselves in Dorsch Gallery's dark backyard. A tide of bass rolled. This was heavy gravity. If properly harnessed, it could sink ships and eat airplanes. It could floss its electrons with human souls. It's purpose is your very loss of reason. Otto Von Schirach welcomed us all to the Bermuda Triangle and ripped into a short set that had a crowd of 50 ready to crash and burn into the infinite purity of the here and now. Which is all a stupid way of saying the show was fuckin awesome and people seemed to like it.
Otto, Jesus, and The Mask
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Some old lady with a scarf told a New York looking German accountant type in a blazer "That was amazing" and then stood rapt in zenlike soaring. We knocked her over, grabbed our bike, and jumped back into the sea of resonating schizodia.
Damn. That was fun.