Music is a powerful thing. It can help us fall in love, inspire us to athletic feats, and prompt white men to move their creaky Caucasian hips. But for one group of tourists, their dedication to seeing a DJ downtown during Ultra weekend led to a nightmarish ordeal outside Club Space. Despite already having $45 tickets, they say they were forced to wait for two hours, beg half a dozen bouncers, and -- yes, really -- buy pants out of some dude's trunk to get into the chichi club.
"It was the most ridiculous experience I've had at a club in my entire life," says Matt, a New Yorker who sent an angry complaint to Space after the incident. (He spoke to New Times on the condition that his last name be withheld.)
A Space rep did not respond to a request for comment.
Matt says he and four friends met in Miami last month for ten straight days of uhntz-uhntz-ing. They were prepared to enjoy both Ultra and a post-festival Datsik concert at Space. They wore shorts and casual tops to the fest but called Space ahead of time to ensure their attire wouldn't cause them any trouble at the door.
But when they showed up at the club around 1 a.m., the bouncer immediately told them to take a hike. "No shorts," he said. Instead, he pointed toward an alley down the block. "But you can buy some pants over there."
Matt and his two male friends nervously made their way down the dark passageway, where a mustached man in his mid-40s stood next to an open car trunk. Inside were dozens of pairs of not-so-new-looking pants. "Thirty dollars," he said. Matt talked him down to $20, picked out a baggy pair of Dockers with the name "Jong" written in marker inside, sniffed them, and slipped them over his shorts.
When the buddies again tried to get into Space, however, another bouncer pointed at the tank top that Matt's friend had on. When they explained they had just risked a mugging to buy pants from a man in an alley, the bouncer waved them through -- until he noticed their CamelBak water pouches.
"I explained that they were empty, that our hotel was 18 miles away, and that we'd pay to check them inside," Matt says. "Instead, this 'roid-head's ego made him kick us off the line." The group was herded into yet another line with the promise they'd soon be inside. But when they reached the front around 2:45 a.m., Matt says, another bouncer asked, "What are you going to do for me?"
"We had already spent nearly $500 on the tickets, the taxi, and the pants," Matt says. "So I pulled out a $10. He just laughed in my face."
But Matt says he didn't let Space poop on his party. Instead, the group used the last of its cash to catch a cab to Wet Willie's on South Beach, where, instead of seeing Datsik, they got sick on alcoholic slushies.
As soon as he was back in New York, Matt dashed off an angry email to the club, but he hasn't received a response.
"What blows is that every single employee at Club Space acted like they were out for themselves, trying to hustle us for extra money," he says. "Even New York clubs are more chill than that."
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