Miami Beach city officials had a less cheery take on matters at the time, publicly decrying the increasing crime and spread of boarded-up buildings as that decade wore on, but one man's urban squalor is another's bohemia-in-the-making. Lured by cheap rent, blue skies, and the kind of permissive atmosphere that occurs when local police are too preoccupied with actual robberies to worry about quality-of-life issues, all manner of creative freaks flocked to South Beach, in the process fashioning a genuinely offbeat scene of interesting artists, musicians, and slumming fashionistas. The end result was a nightlife with little need or desire for velvet ropes and clipboard-wielding door divas -- the Beach's sketchy post-Mariel reputation acted as an efficient method of self-selection.
If you need an easy marker for this period's apex, try the 1992 New York magazine cover story trumpeting the new SoHo in the Sun, a reminder that the area's appeal was once based on something beyond VIP room celebrity sightings (though the thong-clad Rollerblading models probably didn't hurt, either).
Eight years on plenty of four-letter words come to mind when describing South Beach's cultural milieu, and SoHo isn't one of them.
According to a recent Mayor's Economic Council study, 1999 saw almost four million tourists bunking in the Beach's hotels, the catalyst for the economic prosperity that the City of Miami Beach has experienced in recent years, contributing more than $11 billion to the area's economy. That's great news if you're a restaurateur or a tchotchke merchant, but as the recent closing of the Alliance Cinema underscores, the enshrinement of tourism is a death knell for any cutting-edge arts scene. One can only imagine what thoughts are now running through the head of James Quinlan, the plucky promoter responsible in the Eighties for bringing acts as disparate as the Butthole Surfers, David Byrne, King Sunny Ade, and Sonic Youth to the Cameo Theater (now remodeled into the defunkified crobar). Currently the director of Miami Beach's Office of Arts, Culture, and Entertainment, Quinlan's recent musical projects have involved booking edgy outfits such as the Lovin' Spoonful to rock the Lincoln Road Mall.
At age 39 Brook Dorsch certainly is looking a bit more respectable than in his slam-dancing days. As he sits in the back yard of his newly relocated Dorsch Gallery -- now inside a sprawling Wynwood warehouse complex at 151 NW 24th St. -- he readily admits he's traded in his safety-pin-studded tuxedo jacket for a pair of sleek Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. I tell people the D and G stand for Dorsch Gallery, he says with a sheepish laugh as he slides the shades atop his head. His soundtrack of choice has shifted too, from the guitar thrash of the Germs to the outré jazz of Don Byron and the chilled electronic beats of Pole. Still he's held on to one important lesson from witnessing firsthand South Beach's dramatic transformation: Don't rent.
"Yeah, buying this has broken me," he sighs with a pleased smile, motioning to the gallery behind him. But it's something I've always wanted to do. After eight years in a slightly cramped Coral Gables space, the Dorsch Gallery finally has all the room it needs.
It's a purchase that seems to have come just in time. Both real estate speculators and the local media are beating the drum for the area's development, sending prices on even the most dilapidated buildings soaring; El Nuevo Herald's front-page headline two Sundays ago screamed "Downtown challenges South Beach," trotting out the familiar SoHo comparison and using pictures of Club Space (a nightclub favoring dance-floor brawls and the same tired trance acts as Washington Avenue's joints) and the Estefan-owned Bongos (the Cuban-exile answer to Planet Hollywood) to illustrate this glorious arts renaissance.
Meanwhile the past few months have already seen a flurry of activity at the Dorsch Gallery, only some of it centered around visual art. To accompany an August opening, legendary New York City avant-jazz tenor saxman Arthur Doyle ventured down for a concert, only to find himself in danger of being one-upped by Miami's own Rat Bastard. Postset a visibly exhausted Doyle wiped the sweat from his brow and settled into a chair in the audience. An appreciative look showed on his face as Rat began conducting an impromptu assemblage of a dozen horn players, percussionists, keyboardists, and violinists. In lieu of a conductor's wand, Rat would flail his arms wildly at a particular player and then leap into the air -- all in the service of trying to physically summon forth a transcendent racket from the gathered group. Even Doyle, famed for his own visceral paint-peeling workouts, looked impressed. It was the kind of jazz performance you're not likely to find over at the Beach's decidedly more genteel Van Dyke Café. Which is precisely the point.