When it’s a place like Spectrum, it feels vaguely like “the end of an era.” The parties could be as loud and shallow as any other but they were special too. I’m not sure if the death of Spectrum is a symptom of that change but I know that it’s sad when things close. I looked up at them, literally, because they stood two feet taller than everyone in in heels that were taller than wine bottles.Įveryone knows Brooklyn is changing. They hugged each other like a squad, conspired like schoolgirls and cleared a path wherever they went. The drag queens were most beautiful people in the room. You didn’t have to be on drugs to appreciate whatever 4/4 beat was maiming your earbuds. The music was loud and repetitive - as it should be. They bounced, jumped, swayed and tried not to repeat the same move too many times in a row. If makeup was worn, it had to make a statement. Hair was arranged in buns, knots and braided coils.
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The Spectrum had no dress code but if you showed up in Banana Republic outfit, you would be shunned. It was easier to hold it or piss outside, which most people did. There was a bathroom in the back but the line took five hours. The bathroom in the front was disgusting and it didn’t have a door. As soon as their cigarette was dwindling, they lit another. Smoking was allowed inside so everyone did it.
The back room had sunken couches, disembodied mannequin torsos and bashed-in disco balls hanging from the rafters. Spectrum after 1am was not a place for the sober. The drinks were overpriced but people paid anyway. Instead of a bar, there was a table cordoned off by speakers with plastic cups and an ice bucket. There was stage, a stripper pole and a dozen lights that beamed lasers in your eyes. The whole place looked like a seedy dance studio, the set of some porno version of Flashdance. The ceiling was black and the walls were lined with mirrors. If you didn’t shut it right away, someone would yell at you. That’s what you opened to get to the party. Behind the door guy, there was a door that looked like a closet. They just took your cash, stuffed it in a box and drew an “X” on your wrist. The Spectrum was legitimately not legit because they didn’t check IDs. It felt like we were watching the best Show & Tell ever. Everyone circled around them and clapped. It was always themed something campy like “oil spill,” “snake skin” or “gold.” I once saw dueling Dolly Parton’s perform in the middle of the room. Entrance was $10 for queer ladies, $15 for queer guys and $50 for str8 cys dudes. It was the monthly “LEZ dance party” and it had the most punk pay scale. The parties were wild and Dagger was king. There were music shows (Cloud Soundz), performances (Mama Said Sparkle!) and readings (Dick-tionary).Īfter midnight, you couldn’t move without stepping on someone’s platforms. Everyone went at night, when lights went off, the cover went up and the DJs took over. There were self-defense classes, disco yoga and queer pilates but nobody I knew went during the day. It looked like every other building in East Williamsburg.įounded by Gage of the Boone and Nicolas Gorham, Spectrum promoted itself as a community space for queer artists, musicians and performers. I guess it could be called “underground” since if you were walking by it, you wouldn’t know it was there.
Someone said, “Are you going?” and two hours later we were there, looking around a windowless room, trying to decide whether it was good.